MINE, ALL MINE

‘Second Novelitis’ is hard.

First, because you’ve left Novel One in edit mode and it takes time to make the transition back to creative mode. Second, because you’ve (probably) faced a whole heap of rejection and lost much of your starry-eyed innocence and hope. Third, because Novel One’s been a steep learning curve in terms of the craft of writing and suddenly you're self-conscious about every idea, every word, every turn of the plot. Is it ‘good’ enough? Is it ‘right?’ It’s hard to focus in on the emerging energy of a new story and new characters when your anxious writerly antennae are swivelling to pick up imaginary critiques from the outside world. I’ve been stuck in this rut for about a year after First Novel. True, life threw in some blows too, which didn’t help. But now, please raise a glass (not an eyebrow) because – taa-daaah!!! I’m writing again.

Two events have brought this into being. The first is NaNoWriMo. In a moment of sanity, I suggested to a friend that we do a private NaNo. She had 40,000 words to edit, I had that much – and much more – to write. We agreed to set daily targets, to call each other each night and to meet once a week. Thanks to this, I’ve got back into the daily habit of writing.

The second is something invaluable that the above friend said, bless her:

The first draft is for you.
The second draft is for your reader.

What a liberating thing. I’d been approaching my second novel as if it were not mine, if you see what I mean. I was continually squinting at it, trying to imagine how it might look to the outside world of agents, critiquers, publishers. It didn’t belong to me.

I realised that I needed to take ownership of my writing again. To write the story that pleases my soul, warms my heart. To just go for it and let it be what it wants to become. To be private with it, to hold it close, and allow it to come into being.

Next year, hopefully, I will be moving into the second half of the quote. I will look at my work objectively, editorially, critically. I will think about what the reader wants and I will work on my draft until it satisfies this criterion. But until then, I give myself free rein to write the way I want to.

Remember that Fawlty Towers episode where Basil manages, against all the odds, to win money on a horse? Even though he had to pay a recalcitrant guest for breaking her newly-bought pot? He handed her the money for it, and was left with a large wodge of notes. ‘What’s that?’ she asked. Basil’s face assumed a rare, satisfied smile. ‘This?’ he said, drawing the notes to his lips. ‘This is mine.’

I know how he feels.

Forsooth! Thy Dialogue Doth Not Worke

The issue of accuracy in historical fiction is one I'm often asked about. Does the word 'fiction' give a writer licence to ignore historical detail where the story demands it, or should the story be moulded to fit within the known facts, perhaps with a resulting lack of drama?

When people talk about historical inaccuracy, they are usually thinking of outright anachronisms – medieval serfs scrubbing germs off potatoes, or a Tudor apothecary doing CPR. Often, however, it's not that black and white. If I wrote a full exploration of historical accuracy in fiction it would be somewhat too long for a blog post, so I'm going to concentrate today on dialogue – an aspect where getting it 'right' can actively thwart your chances of creating a novel that works.

Let's take an extreme example, and say your book is set in Roman Britain. Are you seriously going to have your Roman characters talking in Latin? What about your heroic underdogs from various Celtic tribes? The likelihood of a significant number of modern readers been well-versed in each of these languages is slim, to say the least. Historical accuracy, in this instance, would prevent the novel ever reaching an audience. Even in the event of someone desperately wanting to read in Latin and Iceni, they would never get the chance because no publisher in their right mind would take it on.

Less extreme dialogue issues crop up for other historical periods – in my first book, set in 18th-century Chester, I had to consider a regional dialect that even people in other parts of the country at the time wouldn't have understood. An exact rendering of the way people spoke would at best slow down the flow of the story and at worst leave readers wondering what on earth was going on. More generally, using thees and thous, forsooths and do-not-yous – although perhaps perfectly accurate to the time your novel is set – can now look clichéd and forced.

On the other hand, to have characters speaking in an identifiably modern voice is equally unsatisfying (although it can be done successfully for comic effect). Dialogue needs to meet the reader's expectations of what is 'historical' without annoying them or making them flick back to a glossary every few lines.

My way of doing historical dialogue is to let myself go completely overboard in the first draft. I don't care how archaic or regional the dialogue sounds – I put whatever instinctively feels right, and at that stage, no one is going to read it anyway. I just bung in as many unusual words and colourful slang as I feel like – it's fun! Later, during the editing process, I replace many of the obscure terms but keep the sentence structure. This is like excavating the bare bones of the speech patterns, so that the dialogue is accessible but still clearly not of our own time.

On occasions, however, a word not in modern use is the perfect word for a character to use, and in these instances I am all for including it. Usually it's possible to make the meaning clear from the context, and most readers are intelligent enough to work it out. (And if not, well... there's not much you can do for some people!)

Writing historical dialogue is not about being historically correct but about using sleight of hand to create an illusion. You have to find the balance that makes the dialogue unobtrusive, so that it fits in so well – it's just so obviously how the characters would speak - that it doesn't even excite comment on whether or not it's accurate. And with that, forsooth, 'tis time for me to ende this blogge-poste and let thee wende forth thy merrie waye.

My Top Writing Tips

1) Don’t save good ideas for “later on”. When I first started writing novels, I would hold onto my darlings, such as an original metaphor. But in time I realized, that if get your best bits of inspiration down straightaway, more will follow. So if you imagine a really exciting scene between your MCs, or have thought up a highly relevant, amusing joke, run with them then and there. This is one more way of making sure that every chapter sparkles, not just the first and last and climatic ones. In other words, don’t let the quality of your work wax and wane – aim for it all to be the best it can.

2) Don’t be scared of adverbs. I recently battled over the use of ‘reluctantly’. I told myself it was lazy, that really I should show the character’s feelings about having to go down and answer the door in the middle of doing her homework.
Nessie tossed her pen on the table and went downstairs – um, no, makes her sound ratty.
Nessie sighed and went downstairs – um, not too bad but she’s already done a bit of sighing.
Nessie stuck her fingers in her ears and carried on with her homework – um, no because then the doorbell will have to be run more frantically/she will have to be called down more loudly, and really it’s not that sort of scene.
Reluctantly Nessie left her homework and went downstairs – perfect.

3) Probably not something many of you need telling, but when I first started out I got it into my head that my prose and dialogue had to be written ‘properly’, that I couldn’t possibly put down abbreviations and contemporary references and slang and ungrammatical sentences. I now realize that is not the case at all - especially with my current commerical teen book. I guess what I’m saying is, don’t be afraid to write how people speak - where necessary.

4) Kill the Thesaurus. Honestly – it’s just for occasional use. Like a large Havana cigar, treat it as a luxury, one that can give intense pleasure (when you actually find the right word) but, in excess will kill all your hard work. Keep your vocabulary simple. Avoid the exotic.

5) Vary your word structure, especially if you are writing in the first person, otherwise the word ‘I’ will jump out at the reader. If you read widely, you will no doubt instinctively use a variety of conjunctions and vary the position of your clauses. I was very aware of word structure the first time I wrote a novel in the first person, but have noticed, after consciously tracking and changing the position of the different parts of my sentences, a book later the whole process comes much more naturally. So, some things can be self-taught.

6) Finally, over time you’ll learn which advice to take on board and which to ignore. One of the ones I now pay less attention to concerns the throwing down of the first draft. Yes, I throw mine down, but then I’ll hone a day’s work, edit it and polish, before moving on. Doesn’t mean to say I won’t rewrite it all at the end, it’s simply the way I work and one reason I am failing miserably at Nano! Embrace your own foibles. Do what works for you.


Well, folks, I could go on and on. But I won’t. I’ll open up the floor. What can you teach us all?

FLASH!

Am totally and completely immersed in new project.
Like a new love affair.
Not much room for anything else.
Hence no inspiration for today’s post.
Lay on my bed (Works for Rod?)
Thought of posting first chapter of new WIP?
Then thought against it.
Decided to post a flash fiction piece so you would have something to read.
Something sensible.
And not disjointed like this drivel.
Challenge was to write a story in less than 250 words using the word ‘skinny.’
I love flashing.
(Don’t be rude)
This one is called “Skinny Genes”


I peer around the curtain. Sarah, who should be out there now, giggles and wobbles on her platforms. She’s been on the Veuve. I point her in the right direction and off she trots.

Showtime. My dresser is a rotund motherly figure who looks nothing like my own mother. Her greying hair holds a medley of spare clips on one side. A pin cushion sits on her ample bosom.
‘Have you eaten?’ she asks, her eyes locking mine.
I shrug.
‘You need to eat. Here.’ She offers a sandwich with a creamy mixture that smells fishy. Tuna, sweetcorn and mayo I decide, ignoring the saliva gathering in my mouth. I stare at it, then wait. Tiny little maggots, white wriggly ones appear in the oily filling. I push it away.
‘You’ll get brittle bones and never be able to have children,’ she shakes her head.
I laugh as she pulls the corset stays, tight, like she’s making a point.

My pony walk perfect, I head down the runway. Flashbulbs. My mother smiles from the first row, though not at me. She looks good, her natural skinny genes aided and abetted by Harley Street’s scalpels. The swarovski crystals on my corset glitter like a mirror ball. I am dazzled. As my mind fills with flesh eating maggots, I seek her out again. Mum? Mummy? She stands up as I fall down. The last thing I see before blackout is her white skinny jeans.

Lying on the bed

That’s where I do my thinking. And sometimes going for walks. Lying-on-the-bed-time is what I lack these days. It’s midday on Thursday and I’m “working” at home. This morning I put together some sample reports for a customer and then, to reward myself, I went to lie on the bed. But that only lasted five minutes because I had to get up and rush into the study and write to you.

I’m going to post about me. That’s scary. I normally hide behind attempts at humour – a spoof guide to writing course attendees, or a fake guest blog by a writer’s husband. But it’s the twilight of the year and time for reflection, so perhaps you’ll indulge me.

This has been one of the worst years; probably the worst since my divorce. A tough year for many. Here’s my balance sheet.

2009 Liabilities
Mum died in May.
Have hardly written a word of fiction for months.
My business died slowly (redundancies, and an office lease left hanging round my neck).
The house nearly died too and was infested with builders for twelve weeks.
Have hardly written a word of fiction for months.
I worried incessantly about the economy (my economy).

2009 Assets
Finished second novel.
Zach started rowing at school.
When the business crashed, Jess offered to support me in writing, said she wanted to push me off the clifftop.
I got on the shortlist for the Bridport.
Have two new ideas for next novel.
Business has picked up a bit now.
My eyes are so level, I don’t even care about agent rejections – I smile when I hear the flump of an SAE landing in the hall.

To summarise a year in review: just as I had accepted my fate, resigned myself to a life as a full-time writer, stood ready to take the jump at the edge of that cliff, my work turned around. For the next few months I’m snowed. Isn’t it ironic?

The question is, should I try to write through the next few months (I don’t believe I have the muscle for it) or should I set my writing aside?

That’s why I need to lie on the bed.

When I lie on the bed ideas start flooding.

Nothing Beats Time - Guest Blog by Tania Hershman

Heard the one about leaving something new aside, so you can come back to it with fresh eyes? Sounds sensible. Do I do it? Of course not. But I've learned my lesson.

A little background: the shock of Salt offering to publish my story collection was so great that for two years I hadn't written anything longer than 500 words. I wrote 100 flash stories, which isn't terrible since quite a few were published. But the book came out a year ago and, after being focussed on selling, selling, selling, I missed working on something longer. I write flash stories in one sitting, the process is as “flash” as the product.

Finally, I wrote a 1000-word story. I was excited to have something “long” (yes, you may snicker). I was so in love with the voice and the language, I thought it was great. I gave it to my writing group for critique, they spotted places where more information was needed but didn't give any “big picture” comments. So I thought, wow, that was quick: a finished story, and swiftly dispatched it to several competitions.

Then I wrote another “long” story, a whopping 1400 words, and it felt different. It upset me to write it, and the group were extremely enthusiastic. I knew this one expressed something that had been inside me for a long time. The voice in my head said, “That other one needs work.” I ignored it. I'd sent it out, hadn't I? It was done.

Well, the first story got nowhere in two competitions. The voice said, “Told you. It's missing something.” But I didn't know what. Suddenly I saw that I'd tied the ending in neatly with the beginning, but, actually, there was no middle. And I began to realise that I had set it up to be a certain kind of story and just hadn't delivered. This is something I learned from Robert McKee's excellent guide to screenplay writing, Story. He says: Take Jaws. The setup promises that the shark and the policeman will meet. If they didn't the viewer would feel cheated. He says: Know what kind of story you are telling. If you set something up as a comedy and then it becomes a bloody crime thriller, the viewer will feel disappointed.

I'd set up my story, without knowing it, as a ghost story. But then I hadn't followed through. I'd missed the part with the ghost! I couldn't see this when I wrote it. I thought it was about families. I could only coo over it, rather than stand back and say, Hang on, wait...?

So, I deleted 500 words. I killed my baby. Then I breathed a sigh of relief because I could see clearly that half way through is where I'd let go, where I'd cheated. This week, I started writing again from the half-way point, and it went in an entirely different direction. It's now 1200 words, and not finished. Who knows where it will end up?

I'm embarassed I sent it out, not to mention annoyed about the competition fees. It won't get anywhere. It shouldn't get anywhere. It's not my writing group's fault. It's my fault for being too hasty. Time, ladies and gentlemen. Nothing beats it. Leave it in that proverbial drawer, if only for a few weeks or months, and you – and your bank account - will be very glad you did.

Tania Hershman (www.taniahershman.com) is a former science journalist now living in Bristol after spending 15 years in Jerusalem, Israel. Commended by the judges of the 2009 Orange Award for New Writers, her short story collection, The White Road and Other Stories (www.thewhiteroadandotherstories.com), is published by Salt. Her short stories have been published in print and online and broadcast on BBC Radio 4. Tania is Grand Prize winner of the Binnacle's 2009 Ultra Short Competition and European regional winner of the 2008 Commonwealth Broadcasting Association's short story competition. She is the founder and editor of The Short Review, (www.theshortreview.com), a site dedicated to reviewing short story collections. Tania blogs at TaniaWrites (www.titaniawrites.blogspot.com).

Salt Publishing would like to offer Strictly Writing readers a special 30% discount off Tania's book. If interested, go to this page: http://www.saltpublishing.com/books/smf/9781844714759.htm. Then just enter in the discount code GM18py7n.

A not-so silent scream

I know you will be hardly able to contain yourself but...here’s another instalment from the coal face of NaNoWriMo. What more is there left to say, I hear you cry. It’s a fair point, well made.

I digress, but how on earth do those daily bloggers do it?
I mean I like being part of the Strictly crew and posting every couple of weeks on a subject that I’m interested in, and hopefully, others will find interesting too.

But blogging every two minutes? What do they talk about? The state of the nation? The state of their cupboards?

Either way, I’m not convinced anyone wants to read what I’ve got to say more frequently than they empty their dishwasher.
Belle Du Jour, may be the obvious exception to the rule, but for most of us, life just aint that titillating.

Anyhow, back to NaNo.
All was going well: word count on track, plot skipping along, structure holding up.

Then bam.

This week has been hit with a classic case of life getting in the way of art.
Of course, for most of us writers, this is part and parcel of the life. A contracted novel takes me a year and during those long twelve months any number of catastrophes happen that suck me away from my desk. What I normally do is make up the hours later. Like a civil servant on flexi-time, I operate a system of borrowing and pay back. True, this often requires a 24/7 commitment close to dead line, but I factor that in.

The trouble with writing, or attempting to write, a novel in a month, is that you’re already flat out with no room for manoeuvre. Buying and selling time in these circumstances is a bit like carbon trading – a great idea in principle, but we’ll still end up in the shit.

You can imagine, then, the nightmare of waking up with a stinking head cold mid week. No chance of sipping Lemsip and surfing the information on Swine Flu. Instead, shoulder to the grind stone, with a chapter to knock out. Thank God, that by Friday, the mists were clearing and I could sweep away the carpet of snotty tissues that had amassed at my feet.

By this point I was way behind, but was lulled into a false sense of security by the fact that I had the weekend ahead of me. I could, I told myself, make up the difference.

Then tragedy struck. I came downstairs and found a plethora of email in my box. Among them, a witty string of mails from the Strictly crew about a certain attractive actor. Inappropriate things were bandied about and, me being me, I couldn’t resist sending a response that I could not repeat here. Suffice it to say, it contained the words ‘dirty’, ‘vampire’ and ‘bite me’.

All a terrific hoot until I checked my sent box and discovered I had mailed it, not to the guys on Strictly, but to the parents of my son’s under 11s football squad.

I am so mortified I have spent the weekend, not writing, but alternately squirming and drinking.
The match on Sunday was cancelled, apparently due to the rain, but my mind is racing...
Today I must get back on track. I must write like the wind. And I must try not to send my children’s Headmaster a photograph of myself maked.