I Don't Like Mondays...

How are you this Monday? Did your alarm go off and you couldn't quite believe the night had disappeared? Did you open your curtains and think, shit, that's the Summer gone then, as a murky September scene greeted you?

If that's the case, then grab a coffee and read on. Maybe I'll be able to inspire you into starting your week with the vigour of of an X Factor contestant getting through to boot camp...or at least convince you not to top yourself with a tea spoon.

Why are you so bloody perky I hear you cry. Aren't you meant to be weeping over your cornflakes over the state of the publishing industry?

To be honest, I probably should be but I'm in full on Pollyanna mode because last week my editor finally signed off on book five. I cannot tell you how great this made me feel. I mean, it's always fab when you get to the end of the editing process and the work is done. But this time the usual sense of release is coupled by an enormous sense of relief.

This dear readers has not been an easy book. I'd heard all about the difficult second albumn syndrome but hadn't been affected. Who could have guessed I'd come so unstuck on book five!!!!! Surely by now I could do this malarky with my eyes shut?

Well let me tell you my eyes were wide open when I had to do a flippin' great re-write. Yes re-write. It would be disingenuous to call it an edit. This was big. Major heart surgery. And it had to be done to a tight deadline. You see the book is called Twenty Twelve and is set during the London Olympics, so not suprisingly, the sales and marketing dudes want it in the shops by next April/May. That'll teach me to come up with the old high concept book. I thought I was being clever but it turns out I was just making a rod for my own back.

Actually, the whole thing made me realise that there are many myths out there doing the rounds that I can dispell in one fell swoop.

1. Editors no longer edit. Wrong, wrong, wrong diddly wrong wrong.

2. Publishers don't care about the quality of high concept, highly commercial work. Sorry, but that's a bunch of crap.

3. Commercial writers stick to a formula and can do it in their sleep. Nice try but no cigar.

Anyhow, I dug deep and got the re-write done. And my ed is....drum roll please...very happy with it.

Now I have a clear path ahead of me. I can do exactly what I want. I can start book six which is due to be subbed in July 2012, or I can tackle on of the other projects that have been calling me. Or I could do bugger all for a couple of weeks. Life don't get much sweeter than this.

So I'm going to raise a cuppa to you all out there and hope that some of this great feeling is contagious. Happy Monday.

Vive La Revolution

On a writing site the other day, I saw a thread entitled, 'The Pubishing Industry is dead.'

Out of sheer nosiness, I clicked on and found a thinly veiled advertisement by a self publishing company. Nothing new there, but what was interesting were the responses, which broadly said, 'yeah' and 'right on brother'.

It reminded me of the SWP meetings I attended in my youth, where middles class students who had never worked a day in their lives would give their heart felt support for the workers of Nicaragua. From the safety of the pub, natch. Actually, as the daughter of a real life miner I had kudos beyond measure, which I profited from whenever possible, in the shape of pints of lager.

But back to self publishing...

I have to say my feelings on the topic are much like my feelings on vegetarianism and jogging. It's fine for other people, but personally I wouldn't do it.

It isn't the latent snobbery of the traditionally published that makes me say this. No. Frankly it's fear. Cold, hard, indesputable fear.

I have had three books out there on the shelves of WH Smiths. I have a contract for three more. Yet, I can honestly say, hand on heart, that I have never ever been able to read any of my own work and nod in satisfaction. Without exception, I am entirely unable to assess any of my projects objectively. In truth, I always think they are shit.

Before I even type the first word, I send a synopsis to my agent. If he says he likes my idea, I go ahead, though I remain convinced I won't pull it off.

Once the book's finished, I remain utterly unconvinced and sub it to my editor expecting a polite email turning it down.

How then, could I conceive of publishing my work without both my agent and editor telling me it's good enough? I tip my hat to those that have the confidence, but this writer is too much of a yellow belly.

Speaking of editors, how could I conceive of publsihing anything without the invaluable input of the editorial team? I know it's a fashionable myth that these days they do nothing to books. But it is just that. A myth. Every writer I know has a period where their book swings back and forth, wending through structural edits, line edits, copy edits. All my books have benefited immeasurably from the proccess. Look in any acknowledgement at the back of a book and you'll find the author giving humble thanks to their editing team. It's genuine gratitude, I think. If we were only grateful for them having bought our work, we'd more likely throw a high five to Bob In Marketing and Sales.

And that's another hurdle, for me at least: sales. I could no more walk into a book shop and ask them to stock my latest, than I could drink six liters of water a day ( or whatever the water experts say is 'a good thing'). How could I compete with that nice Bob In Marketing and Sales who knows all the buyers and can offer a discount on a BOGOF? The very thought makes me shudder.

I am neither salesman, nor publicist, nor PR guru.

I am just someone who makes stuff up and writes it down.

So I think I'll stick with traditional publishing. I suspect that, like Mark Twain, rumours of its demise have been greatly exagerated, and it will blunder along for some time yet.

No doubt I'm wrong, and when the revolution arrives, I shall be left behind in a pool of real ink...

The end is nigh

Honestly, if I hear one more time that the end is nigh, I might kill myself.

I'm serious. I don't know about you lot, but this writer can't move for articles by literary authors or broadsheet columnists ( often both ) declaring that the publishing industry is in the final stages of terminal decline.
Books, they weep, have had their day. Boo Hoo.

I was doing an interview on Monday for a fairly commercial radio station, when this came up. Now how these things usually go, is that sandwiched between the traffic news and Chain Reaction by Dianna Ross, I'm asked, by a DJ who hasn't read any of my books, a. where I get my ideas from and b. is Lilly Valentine based on me.
Everyone knows where they are with this stuff.

But no. On Monday I was asked, in tones last reserved for the death of Princess Di, whether book discounting would ultimately lead to end of creativity as publishers focussed more and more on the big sellers.

Look, I know where he was going. Of course the current tiny profit margins on books mean vast quantities have to be shifted and some of the more serious books are never going to have that broad appeal...but come on, dude, do the lovely listeners care on their way to the office?
What they know is that they can get books cheaply and who am I to deny them that.

When I was a kid I had about twenty paperbacks on a shelf in my bedroom. This was about nineteen more than most of my mates. Books were bloody expensive. A luxury. Is it really for me to suggest we go back to that? Not on bloody national radio it's not.

Then there's the e-reader. Apparently this isn't a smart new gadget, but the destroyer of fiction as we know it.
Writers all over the internet are clutching a copy of their favourite novel to their bosom and declaring their undying love for the very paper it's printed on.
I often wonder if at the advent of the stone tablet some travelling minstrel was telling anyone that would listen that writing stories down was the spawn of the devil. That humankind would no longer need or want stories in this new fangled way.

Now I too, wonder if I'll ever get along with a Kindle, but I'm sharp enough to know that this is because of my AGE. My kids will no doubt embrace it like all the other technology I can't quite get to grips with.
Like most other ten year olds, my children are hardwired to love stories. They read voraciously, everything from Harry Potter to Alex Rider. They insist I read to them every night.
The other day I told them about e-readers and their reaction was simply 'cool'. Loads of books at your finger tips. Good one.

Now I don't want to come across as some sort of Pollyanna. I'm as aware as anyone that times are hard and that the publishing industry is having a tough time. We writers are on the cusp of some big changes.
I guess I just don't see it as necessarily a bad thing.
Humans have spun yarns since the dawn of time and I'm convinced that will continue.
How it will happen, I don't yet know, but I'll be buggered if I'm going to waste energy worrying about it.

Ready, Steady Go

As some of you know, I’ve been toying with taking part in the National Novel Writing Month challenge.

The arguments for and against NaNoWriMo, have raged both here, elsewhere on the net and in real life. I won’t rehearse them, not only because I don’t want to bore you all, but because, frankly, I haven’t yet decided what I think...typical.

What I do know, however, is that I am going to do it.

There are a number of folk who have questioned my decision, in a way, not lacking bluntness and force.

Never mind the cogent theories that NaNo is no way to write a thoughtful book, completely counter intuitive to the very craft of writing...no, they just wonder why someone already making a living from writing would bloody bother.

I see where they’re coming from. I am extraordinarily lucky in that what I write, has to date at any rate, has been published.

Now, I’m not one of those who thinks you’re not a writer until you are published. I feel a writer is what a writer does and if someone is good enough to pay you for it then, fabuloso, icing and cake etc.
But once you are published, writing takes a very different place in your life than it did previously. For me, I wrote my first book for fun, never imagining anyone would ever see it. I enjoyed every second of it.
Then something wonderful happened and I got an agent. He sold it and I got a three book deal. Since then I have been in a whirlwind of writing the next book, editing the last, publicising the one before that. It’s very full on.

If this sounds like a whinge – it’s not. I wake up most days hardly able to believe this has happened to me. I make stuff up. I write it down. Some one pays me. How cool is that!

However it does mean that I have to be very professional in what I do. I have a responsibility to my editor and she has high expectations of me. Quite rightly so, given the thousands of aspiring writers who would swap places with me tomorrow.

There are also the expectations of the readership to consider. I’m not one of those writers who ‘just writes for myself’. Yes, I write books I’d like to read, but I’m not so self absorbed that I’m unable to be objective. When readers email or write to me to tell me what they loved about a book, I’m unlikely to think, well thanks very much but fuck you. I listen and learn. The views of those not in the publishing industry are often, I find, the most telling. I certainly take them on board.

So I think what I’m saying is that I am going to treat NaNo as a holiday.

The book I’m about to write isn’t for my readership, or my publishers. It’s not part of any contract, there is no-one waiting to read and edit it. No-one is planning its cover. Indeed I fully expect it to be rubbish and put it under my bed.

Perhaps, then, as a number of my friends and family have said, it is an absolute waste of my time. Time I could spend writing another ‘proper’ book.

Perhaps they’re right. Perhaps I’ll give up by next week. Who knows?

But in the meantime, I’ve signed on the dotted line and if you too are doing NaNo, come and be my buddy. My username is Damaged.

Let’s do this thing.

Just For the Hell of It

On November 1st thousands of people around the world sit down to begin writing a book.

Actually, I’m pretty sure that folk do that every day of the year. What a thought. Someone, somewhere sat at their computer this morning and began the first line of the first chapter of what might be the next Da Vinci Code. Okay, let’s not start that one again.

Anyhow, November 1st is different to all those other days when random people begin writing random books ( which may or may not become best sellers) because it’s official.

November is National Novel Writing Month or NaNoWriMo as it’s become known. The idea is that over 100,000 writers sign up on nanowrimo.org and begin work on November 1st. They then write like whirling dirvishes until Midnight on November 30th, by which time they will have 50,000 words.

The website is already buzzing with positive slogans and advice. 'Win or lose, you rock for even trying.' The forums are alive with members sharing previous NaNo war stories. In fact if you look closely you soon realise that many posters have done this whole thing not once but several times before.

My cynical other half wonders why they bother. If their previous attempts have proved unsuccessful why are they simply repeating the experience? Doing more of what didn’t work last time isn’t likey to bring results, he argues.

An author mate of mine hates the whole business. She feels the very notion of NaNo devalues writing. The idea that books can be banged out in this way, is, she feels, deluded at best. Learning the craft of writing, she says, takes time. A lot of time.

NaNo says it is for those who have been scared away from writing by the time and effort involved, as that were a bad thing.
This sort of exercise smacks too much of cutting corners, of trying to get to the end result without putting in the hard graft.

I know she’s right...and yet.

There’s something contagious about NaNo. The enthusiasm, the optimism, the sheer joy of writing. There’s no talk of the state of the publishing industry or reductions in author advances, barely a mention of agents and editors. Instead writers ask for opinions on their outlines. They trade characters and story lines – I’ll give you my villain for a sub plot idea.
Yes, some of it is naive. An almost teen-like cleaving to the notion of what writing a book is all about. And yes, I’ll warrant there are some who couldn’t write their way out of a paper bag, let alone put together a story anyone would want to read.

But something still calls to me. The thought that for just one month I can write something for which there is no contract and no deadline looming is terribly appealing. I could write science fiction or bodice ripping historical fiction. I could write a children’s book or the story of a man finding hidden messages in Italian masterpieces...stop it...
You get my point though, the possibilities are endless.

So maybe this year I’ll join all the other hopefuls and spend November writing just for the hell of it. Anyone with me?

United We Stand

Last Friday I blogged about the criticism aimed at Dan Brown’s latest novel, The Lost Symbol.

The debate my post sparked was lively and enjoyable. I, for one, love nothing better than discussing the craft of writing with other writers.

But what became clear to me as the day wore on was that writers appear to fall into two camps. Those who believe that story is all and those that feel the style of a piece is what makes it sing.

To be fair, I’m sure most of us would say we aim for both...a riveting plot, well told.
But when the chips are down we tend to place more importance on one or the other. Do we want to be recognised for the sheer beauty of our prose or the excitement our story lines engender?

For me it is always the later. I write thrillers and more than anything else they must ...er...thrill. If they don’t, they fail.

Now this doesn’t mean I don’t put a lot of effort into my work. Far from it. I agonise for weeks over the structure, trying each permutation to see which more successfully ramps up the tension than another. I try to create characters that best tell my story and carry the reader with them. These are my conduits to the public and nothing they say or do will be irrelevant to what I am trying to achieve.
Finally, I keep my writing spare. I avoid long descriptions or digressions. This takes will power. Of course I want to frolic off, telling my readership all sorts of interesting asides, but this would be pure indulgence on my part.

Before I wrote full time I was a trial lawyer. I spent over ten years hanging out in court rooms. Over time it became obvious to me who the best solicitors and barristers were. The ones who won more cases than they lost. I’m proud to say I fell into that camp.
How did we do it? We kept things simple. We focussed on the best part of our argument and never let the jury/judge lose sight of it. And we were always in forward motion.

I attempt, whenever possible to bring these rules of communication to my writing. I remind myself that they work.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying this is how everyone should write. There are many scribblers out there who prefer a more languid pace. And there are readers who like it too. Sometimes that is exactly what I am in the mood for and I love nothing better than savouring a delightful sentence.

Personally, I think there is room for both story led and style focussed fiction on the book shop shelves. And everything in between. I think the publishing industry remains healthier when it commissions a mixture.

Finally, I wish writers would give each other a break and stop trying to rubbish one another work. When I was a solicitor I never heard the tax bods saying the PI guys ‘couldn’t lawyer.’ The family experts didn’t lord it over the defence advocates. We accepted that we each did a different job, that each needed an entirely divergent skill set.
As a writer, I see it in exactly the same way.

Humbug

Can there be anyone in the world who has missed the hoo-ha surrounding the release of Dan Brown's latest novel, The Lost Symbol.

Booksellers across the land have been inundated with advance orders and queries about this most awaited of books. Sales are set to outstrip his previous block buster, The Da Vince Code with a first print run of millions.

At a time when the economy is on its knees and the publishing industry is feeling the pain, you'd imagine a feel good story of this magnitude would be greeted with joyful relief.

Getting the public into shops or on line stores can only spell good news. If a punter pops into Smiths for a copy of The Lost Symbol the chances are pretty high that he will walk out with something else too, particularly with all the discounting and special offers around to tempt the innocent. And who has ever placed an order on Amazon for just one book?

It's not rocket science. The more books people buy, the better authors' advances, the more new books get picked up.

Yet Dan Brown's success has, in some quarters, been met with only derision and sneering.

Hundreds of column inches in the loftier press have been devoted to rubbishing his latest effort, in much the same way that DVC was rubbished. 'It's not very well written,' sniffed one radio four presenter to a patient and extraordinarily gracious Kate Mosse. Who are any of us to say what is good or not, was her response.

Of course, everyone is entitled to their opinion. If someone reads TLS and finds it not to their taste, well, you know, shit happens. I don't love a lot of books I read. But it is hardly worth the tirade of condemnation that is currently pouring from the self appointed arbiters of good taste.

And that's the point really. The wave of sniping from the chattering commentators says more about them than the book in question. They did the same to JKR and Meyers. It's as if they take their stand point against Dan Brown precisely because he is so popular. If they loath what the common man likes, it sets them apart. It makes them cleverer, better...

Good old fashioned snobbery. Don't you just love it.

But here's the thing. The opinions of a handful of journos who live in North London and are still bitter about not being able to send their kids to private school, are neither here nor there, but it's very easy to get sucked in.

Frequently, I hear writers bemoaning the commercial success of Brown et al. If only it weren't for Harry Potter, my own genius would have been discovered...

But we must not fall into this lazy trap. As writers who are still seeking a publisher or whose published works have not sold like Brown ( and frankly, none of us have), there is no room for flippant mockery of those who have cracked it.

We shouldn't focus on the 'lack of texture', or the 'one dimensional characters.' We shouldn't focus on what is wrong with these stories, but what is right with them.

Whether we like it or not, Brown, JKR, and Meyers have touched the hearts of millions. Their message has reached an audience the size of which is usually reserved for religious leaders and Brad Pitt.

A writer who believes they have nothing to learn from the most successful authors of this generation are deluded, or arrogant, or both. Frankly they deserve their failures.

So fellow scribblers, as TLS remains at the top of the best sellers list for longer than Summer Loving was number one, banish bitterness from your heart.

Pick up a copy and read it with an open mind. You don't have to love it. You don't even have to like it.

Just ask yourself; what is right with this story.

Scare tactics

I'm a good girl.

No, really, I am.

I eat my five a day, I read bedtime stories to my children and I call my Mother every day.

I like to think my reward will be an afterlife like George Best, but in the meantime I make sure I floss my teeth.

So what then, is a nice girl doing writing crime fiction?

It's a question I'm asked all the time. In fact, when I was doing the publicity stint for my second book, I was asked a variant of it in every one of the fifteen radio interviews I did.

And I suppose it does seem odd that I should choose to spend so much time dreaming up violent criminals and their brutal activities.

Why don't I shy away from imagining what goes on in the mind of a sociopath?

Why do I enjoy exploring the twisted logic of the damaged and the dangerous?

It seems strange, sick even...but it's not.

Hang on and give me a chance.

I believe that humans are instinctive thrill seekers. How else can you explain why my local gliding club has a waiting list? They're planes, with, like, no engines. Duh.

How else can you explain motorbikes, rollercoasters and ice skating? No need for any of it.

Yet we love it...or at least some of us do.

Me, I'm a bit of a wuss. I like being on my two feet. I don't like flying, skiing or riding horses. I don't like anything that goes faster than 30mph. To be honest I've never even driven on a motorway. Okay stop laughing now.

But I still need my fix of adrenaline, so what better way to get my kicks than to conjure a world of thrills and spills. A world of danger.

In the safe confines of the left field of my brain I can feel the dead weight of a gun, or the smell of fear on my victim. Hell, I can kill off the cast if I'm in a shitty mood.

And I'm not alone. Crime fiction has been and remains one of the most loved genres. From Agatha C to Mo Hayder, the book buying public have voted with their wallets and library cards.

Even in these cash strapped times, with the economy in free fall and the publishing industry suffering, crime fiction continues to sell.

When times are bad it seems, we still like to imagine a world where it could all be worse.

So that's my excuse and I'm sticking to it.

Now, can anyone think of a name for my new serial killer?

Learning the Hard Way

Yesterday I was surfing the net, as you do when, frankly, you ought to be writing book four.
In fact I’m addicted to the internet with all the ardour of a junky, or one of those saddos that spend twenty three and a half hours a day watching porn.
But I digress.

I have, of late, been having a crisis of confidence and so I did what I always do ( instead of the obvious which is to write the next book!) and began looking for a creative writing course.

This annoys my husband who points out, not unreasonably, that this is like bolting the stable door etc...
What popped up was astonishing. There are courses at colleges across the land. There are internet courses. There are even, for the full writerly experience, residential courses in misty, remote Shetland Islands.
Now, I’m always honest about the fact that before I wrote my first book I had never attended a creative writing course. To be fair, I was working as a lawyer at the time and had baby twins. Where was I going to fit in a few hours a week to discuss the misuse of adverbs?
But once Damaged Goods was sold and I was under contract to produce book two sharpish, the worry worm appeared. What if DG had been a fluke? What if those 90,000 words had simply fallen into a random, yet coincidentally, pleasing order? More importantly, how could I ensure that the next 90,000 wouldn’t disappoint even my Mum.
So I booked myself onto a course. I swallowed my doubts that the simple act of paying over a few hundred, hard earned quid could magically turn my work into art, and signed on the dotted line.
I won’t say where I went, but suffice it to say it is an establishment that is well thought of in the trade and the course was a sell out. I was excited.
Day one and I arrived wearing a rather fetching baker boy hat and carrying my WIP under my arm.
When I saw my fellow students my hopes for literary alchemy lessened. For a start there were thirty of us. How can you learn anything in a class that size? – are you listening Ed Balls - ?
A quick fire round of Q&A confirmed that no-one was a writer. Now I’m not one of those that thinks you have to be published to ‘be’ a writer, but you do have to take it seriously. You do have to think like a writer. At the very least you have to actually be writing something. This particular group of charming retired accountants, tax inspectors and civil servants were happy to chat and drink tea. But write? No, nothing at the moment.
Enter a nervous lady in muddy boots ( this was central London) who announced herself to be the teacher. Later she divulged she was a poet who had been suffering from writers’ block for five years. Hmmm. We spent the first session discussing font size.
Though it galls me to give up on anything, especially when I have paid up front, I didn’t go back. I simply couldn’t afford the time.
Now I'm at that point again. Perhaps a different course, a different teacher? I know folk who swear by them, adamant that their writing has evolved tenfold as a result. I’m tempted.

And yet something stops me. A niggle. These are businesses, set up alongside the publishing industry. They tap into the zeitgeist where everyone wants to be a writer. Now there’s nothing wrong with that. I totally get it. I want to be a writer. But is the way forward to pay someone to teach me? Or is it just to get on with the writing?

Head Count

At a recent book reading and signing I was asked an interesting question.

Frankly, any question is welcome over the sea of bemused faces that usually follow my reading an extract from my latest novel, which makes no sense out of context and has been expunged of all swearing, violence and spoilers. At that point someone asking the way to the loo is a godsend.
But I digress.

On this occasion there was not only a question but a thoughtful one: as a child had I had imaginary friends?
I conceded that indeed I had, being an only child, had many.
The rather fearsome, elderly lady asking – for these are generally the ones with the cojones to pipe up at such gatherings. And bedraggled CW teachers. But they often just want to moan about the state of the publishing industry, how it no longer nurtures true artistic talent.
But back to my lady. It was her theory that all writers had imaginary friends as children. That most lived in entirely imaginary worlds.

As adults, she advanced, we continue until we eventually feel compelled to write it all down.
Now I can’t speak for others, but this struck a chord with me.

As a kid I had armies of exciting playmates freewheeling in my head.
Together we would form pop groups, perform complicated dance routines and travel to far flung lands. Frequently Hawaii.

From time to time, we would quarrel and I’d be forced to cull. Fortunately, there were infinite new friends waiting to be born, all more engaging than their fallen comrades.
By puberty, when many put away childish things, I simply swapped my pigtailed pals for handsome teenaged boys. Naturally, all were desperate to kiss me.
By adulthood, I knew that my little dream world wasn’t entirely normal, that I should engage more fully with ‘real life’, make actual human friends.

I vowed to spend more time with flesh and blood friends. The trouble is of course, those friends are rarely vampires, or the President of the United States. They don’t suggest trips to the Amazon or invent ways to travel through time.
A few years ago, well into my thirties, a new ‘friend’ appeared. She was energetic, outspoken and funny. Great company. She lived in a world where terrible things happened to innocent people and her knack was to set everything right.
One night, I can’t say why, I wrote her down on a piece of A4. The rest is history.
Three books later, Lilly and I are still enjoying our time together. She gets stronger and deeper, more herself with every day. Sometimes we argue, sometimes I’m sick of her. But mostly we have fun.
Of course she’d better not get too cocky or I might throw her under a train.