A Writer's Mind : Bubble wrap to warped bubbles...

I’m having an enforced break from writing at the moment – just one of those times in your life when events take over, gather pace and then suddenly time is limited and what’s not absolutely necessary suffers.

Which has led me to ask the question... Is my writing absolutely necessary to me? Right now, even as I type these words my mind is filled with the things I NEED to do today – like figure out how to shoehorn the stuff from our house into a smaller one when we move in a few weeks. And wondering just how many storage boxes I’ll need. And if I really need to buy those double width sstttrrronnnggg ones or if the cheaper ones will do. No, I need the double strength ones for all my books. Oh God – my books! Where will I put them?

But amidst all the mayhem, there are two things that have become clear. One – I’m glad of the break. I was weary. And I mean totally weary. Of rejection. Of the process. Of just about everything to do with writing. So a break, a real one, though sort of forced upon me has been really welcome and very much what my writing life needed. I see that now.

And Two. When the time is right, I will return to it. I miss it. I miss being in touch with my virtual writing pals. I miss writing my blog. I miss reading other blogs. I miss the support that is now out there via the internet and something which I think I was beginning to take for granted.

A few weeks ago, when this personal process started and life got too busy for writing, I remember panicking a little because I wasn’t particularly upset. As I said I was weary. But last night I felt the tingle again. You know the one you get when you wander in your head and suddenly there’s a scene from your future work unfolding in your brain? I was packing glasses at the time. Mind numbing bubble wrap stuff, but I was also multitasking and watching my latest TV guilty pleasure – Law & Order, Special Victims Unit. See there’s this detective in it, a character by the name of Stabler, an actor by the name of Chris Meloni. Anyway, he was on the TV but he was also playing lead hero role in my new scene... And God, he looked good.

So folks you heard it here first. When the next book is written and the film rights being auctioned – whoever gets me Chris Meloni to play the lead gets the gig.

As always I’ve got a trusty notebook nearby. And though I know I won’t get to read through it properly, or start a new work until the new year and I’m missing out on Nanowrimo this year – I’m still excited. It’s the tingle you see. Nothing at all to do with boring bubble wrap. Or politicians using bubble wrap, or a poison sandwich wrapped in bubble wrap, or a psycho snapping the tiny bubbles from a square piece in the pocket of his duffle coat as he stalks his prey, or even wierd shaped alien bearing bubbles.

Oh yes, my writing life, I have missed you and you are ABSOLUTELY necessary to me...

Quickfire Questions with best-selling author Kate Long

Kate Long is the best selling author of The Bad Mother’s Handbook, published by Picador in 2004. The book was serialized on Radio 4, nominated for a British Book Award and made into an ITV drama starring Catherine Tate. Her other novels include Swallowing Grandma, Queen Mum, The Daughter Game and A Mother’s Guide to Cheating. Kate has had short stories published in Woman's Own, Woman and Home, The Sunday Express magazine and the Sunday Night Book Club anthology. She lives in Shropshire with her husband and two sons.

Which 3 writers, living or dead, would you invite to dinner?

I think it would have to be a selection of novelists who ignited my interest in reading as a child – say, A M Lightner (Star Dog), Joan G Robinson (When Marnie Was There), Elizabeth Goudge (The Little White Horse). I’d like to thank them for getting me started.

What's your favourite writing snack?

At the moment it’s chocolate raisins, but next week I’ll have moved on to something else. I’m very snack-fickle.

Longhand or computer?

Longhand for night time notes and for editing; straight onto screen for first drafts. How did we ever write before “find and replace”?

Win Booker prize or land Hollywood film deal?

I have to go with what looks least unlikely, which would be the film deal. There exists somewhere a pilot comedy show of The Bad Mother’s Handbook produced by ABC, but it never became a series. Perhaps one day it’ll be discovered and re-commissioned. I did scoop genuine Hollywood star Rob Pattinson for the British tv version, though.

Tabloid or broadsheet?

The Today Programme on Radio 4.

Independent bookshop or Amazon?

Each has their place but I’m a huge fan of the independents, not least because they’re SO supportive of local authors. My local BookShrop is fantastic at putting on events where writers and readers can meet each other, and it’s always fun and informative whether you’re the one speaking or you’re in the audience. Plus the everyday service is friendly and personal. We’re really blessed with great independents in Shropshire, actually.

Hacker or adder? (in terms of editing)

Both, as the occasion requires. Also wholesale scene shifter, restorer, compulsive fiddler.

Plotter or panter? [ie do you plan out all your work first or write by the seat of your pants?]

Obsessive plotter. I daren’t start without my timelines, all carefully drawn out with significant dates, my characters’ family trees and back-story.

Leave on a cliffhanger or tell all?

I like to do a bit of both. As a novelist you’ve taken the reader with you for three hundred-plus pages on the promise of some sort of resolution, so you have to offer a degree of satisfaction. Then again, when I’m reading fiction I like to be able to do some of the work myself, and be given room to fill in blanks and possibilities. That process draws you in and is much more emotionally involving. I hate a book which gives you absolutely everything on a plate.

You really must read…

Johannes Cabal the Necromancer by Jonathan L Howard. Such an inventive world, such lovely dark humour.

I get most excited by…

A seed of an idea beginning to split open and unfurl, the first flash of green poking through the soil. That’s the point at which I know a story’s beginning to tell itself, and I need to start getting notes down.

If I wasn’t a writer I would...

Work in conservation. I love field studies and animal tracking, cataloguing, mapping and taking photographic records. I also enjoy environmental campaigning. I am a thorn in my local planning department’s side.

An author should never…

Give in to mid-stage panic. Everyone gets at least one crisis part way through a long project, but the trick is to keep your head down and push on through. You can always perform radical prose surgery at a later date. Almost everything’s salvageable in some form.

Kate's website is here

Pictures paint a thousand words

When I was re-drafting my YA novel Dark Ride, I spent a very enjoyable day wandering round a rundown seaside town on the south coast. It turned out to be freakily similar to the fictional one in my book, despite the fact that I'd never been there before. Anyway, I took a ton of photos that day and when I got back, I plastered them all over a gigantic cork board in my study, which I propped up behind my desk. I also put tickets and postcards on it... anything that helped evoke a sense of that place.

I called it my ‘story board’ and was very pleased with it indeed. It really helped me at times when I felt I was losing my way with the plot. I looked at the images and could almost hear seagulls squawking and feel salty wind on my face.

I’m writing something completely different now, a dystopian novel set in the near future so filling my story board was much more of a challenge. I knew I wanted old Victorian warehouses and pictures of urban decay and for the former, I took a day trip to the much-loved Northern town where I went to university a zillion years ago.

Well, I had a rubbish day. I was trying to go on a walk along the canal that was advertised as showing the city’s industrial heritage in all its glory. It turned out to have large sections that were closed off and I ended up wandering round a ring road studded with B&Qs and builders merchants before being taken past a massage parlour to rejoin the route. At this point I realised it was completely isolated and after 20 years of living in London, my instincts told me this lonely tow path walk was not for me.

In the end, I found some good images much closer to home, in Shoreditch.

I’ve re-made my board, which is now propped in front of me as I write. I’m not sure it has quite the same punch as the original but feel confident it’s going to help all the same.

Having spent further time faffing about getting the exact right notebook, it’s beginning to dawn on me that the time has come to stop procrastinating AND DO SOME BLOODY WRITING!

But before I do, I’m really interested to know what practical things other writers do to get their creative juices flowing. Do you use pictures, like me? Maybe you even draw pictures?
Do you take a walk around locations that may appear in the book? And what about music? I had a playlist on my iPod that also helped me when inspiration was running low.
On the other hand, maybe you just allow your imagination to take flight without the need for props.
However you do it, I’d love to know...

National Novel Writing Month - Day Five

Join the madness!

When I first heard of NaNoWriMo - six years ago now - I thought it was one of those 'new fangled fads' that my Nan always swore computers would be.  Little could I imagine that six years later I'd have two WINNER certificates and the NaNo Mad/Fadness would be triplicated by a gazillion (maths not my strong point.  I'm more wordy, me) and that most of the world's writing population now sign up to this annual word-fest.  Oh, and I'd still be doing it.
Every year I adopt the Ostrich position and pretend it isn't there.  If I don't open up any e-mails from the Office of Letters and Light (That's the NaNoWriMo People's HQ) then they might go away.   They might even go away so much they cease to exist.  But they don't.  I can't even delete the e-mails because of the 'pull'.  And when I find (pffft!) five minutes to have a quick read, I remember how exhilarating it all is, and how exciting it will all be and what a fabulous way to unite writers the world over the whole thing is, and how much Twitter will be over-capacity (or under, depending on how well the word-count's going I guess) for the month of November.
And by August at the latest, I'm hooked, lined, sunk and signed up for a  repeat performance. Again.

This is one deadline that can't be postponed.  It doesn't matter how many Open Evenings our school has in November (one, but even so - it IS hairy and stressy, which is also how I LOOK every November... actually make that most days...) and it doesn't matter how many daughter's birthdays fall within the same month (again, just the one, but ... come ON... children's parties are bad enough as it is, especially with them turning.... okay, okay then, seventeen this year, but they still need a cake, right? And presents and stuff?) there is just NO escaping the fact that if you don't get your 1,666 words done one day, there will be a catch-up of *consults calculator.  No, really*  3332 words to do the following day.  And once you've done it a couple of times that week, the easiest thing in the world  is to just give up.  Stop. Become the Ostrich again and pretend it didn't matter in the first place, nobody will notice if you suddenly go all quiet and your word count isn't moving; it's just another 'thing' you didn't do.

It made me feel positively sick with self-pity.    Like the tortoise watching the hare flying off whilst I lolled about under a tree pretending I was going to be a spectator all along.  Letting down the only person that mattered in my race.  Me.

Which is actually what happened my first couple of years.  I think I made it to the 5,000 mark on years one and two.  Year three I got as far as 12,000 and I still like to read it back, and still try to convince myself I might even get round to finishing it one day.  And years four and five (2008 and last year) I got my WINNER certificate.  Very proud.  In fact the feeling I got when I managed to hit the 50,000 mark was actually unexpected.  I don't really *do*excited dances around the room (unless I'm very drunk and Gloria Gaynor is helping me Survive) but last year I could have drowned in tears of my own self-congratulations.  And I don't care how many know about it.  It might also have helped save my sanity because last year, on the 6th November I was involved in a head-on car collision and I still don't know what I'd've done without my NaNo novel to 'switch off' to, keep up with and take my mind off of mangled wreckages and cut and bruised body parts.  TMI?
So I kind of see NaNoWriMo now as a sort of salvation.  It has become my friend.  The one, true friend who allows my creative ideas to flow, unfettered, uncorrected (although I'm still too anally retentive NOT to edit as I go along... sheesh) and unconditionally.  Well, with maybe the one, little condition, that I get to FIFTY THOUSAND WORDS in 30 days!
Seriously, if a lazy-arse like me can do it, then anybody can!
...

p.s. It doesn't even matter that it's the 5th of November and you haven't given it a thought and there's all manner of fireworks to be letting off and "oooooh-ing" over tonight, just shift some grey matter, clip those fingernails and fill up two sheets of A4.  Your creative sinuses will thank you for it... and don't sweat it too much - think of it as warming up for next year!

It's a syn

Can you hear the difference between a circle and a square? Can you see the birdsong? Can you feel a whisper?

I can't but I wish I could.

Recently when researching ideas for a new novel I found myself reading one of Susan Blackmore's books on consciousness. The characters in my partially written story have some wacky ideas on the subject and I needed to catch up with their thinking. Now, one of the wonderful things that happens when you research a piece of fiction is that you get sidetracked into new and sometimes inspirational topics. In this case I was drawn to a description of synaesthesia. People with this fascinating superpower can do the things I listed above.

I'd be interested to know if any readers of Strictly Writing experience these phenomena, and just how they work for you. The most common form is where letters and numbers are always seen as coloured. I'm envious because I'm sure it would make it easier to come up with metaphors and other fresh ways of conveying concrete experience to the reader.

About 1 in every 200 adults are synaesthetes. It is especially prevalent in poets, writers and artists - that's also why I'm jealous.

Many young children have synaethesia but the effects disappear with age, along with so many other attributes like the ability to play and creativity (in many people, but not us, oh no, not us).

Apparently many synaesthetes hide their ability, but now is your chance to come out. And does it help you as a writer?

Cry Me A River

On Sunday night, the kids and I, like millions more, settled down at 8pm to watch the X Factor.


Less typically, we were dressed respectively as Voldomort, a werewolf and Frankenstein's monster as we'd spent the evening trick or treating.

Sadly, as we traipsed our sorry route through the village begging for sweets, it bucketed it down, so our face paint and fake blood pooled unattractively under our chins.


Fortunately, we had amassed two carrier bags full of fun sized Milky Ways to cheer our spirits, as we sat, steaming, glued to the set.


Far removed were the poor contestants who looked like they could well do with some chocolate.


For the uninitiated, the X Factor is a talent show which culminates in a weekly public vote to decide who will remain to fight another day and who will be kicked off the show.
Brutally, the contestants are lined up like christians waiting for the lions to be released, while the public cheer and jeer.

Then, one by one, the survivors' names are read out until only two acts remain. These are the losers who will have to howl their way through another number before being subjected to the final judgment by Simon Cowell and his mates.


Imagine Herrod asking the crowd between Jesus and Barrabus and you're not far wrong.


This week, the losers were a girl band in very high heels and a funky young hipster who sounds like she smokes forty a day.
As they waited for the axe to fall they wept bitter tears with the world watching.

And the question on any normal sane person's lips must surely be...why would anyone put themselves through that?
Why would a person bare themselves to the thumbs up or thumbs down, time after time?


And I understand the incredulity, but, as a writer, I've got to admit that I get it.


As soon as any of us scribbers put pen to paper we begin the rejection courtship dance.


First, there's our inner critic. The one that tells us we are rubbish wiht every word we write.

Next comes 'feedback' from trusted readers, writers groups or mentors. It's a very rare day when they smile at us and declare ' you've a Booker winner on your hands.'

At some stage we release our work and try to secure an agent. Cue letter upon letter thanking us for our submission but actually, it's not for them.

And if you thought getting an agent was the end of the merry jig, think again. Enter a raft of publishers, all gushsing with praise, but on reflection, they won't be buying your book, they just don't love it enough.

Finally, the writer gets a deal. Yay. Salad days. Except...the editor isn't too keen on the title/the ending/the sub plot.

But there it is, at last, a book. A real book. You've done it. No more rejection.

WRONG.

It's only just begun...sales figures disappointing, the supermarkets not too sure. Then some bastard pans you on Amazon.


But you know what? Despite all the knockbacks, I love it. I choose to put myself and my work out there so I have to take the pain. If you can't, you're dead in the water and this game aint for you.
Same as the contestants on the X Factor, today their heart s breaking but tomorrow they'll be back in the saddle.

Cos that's what we do...now pass the Maltezers.

Photo call

My grandma was one of the most photogenic people that ever existed. She was no famous actress or model, but whether she was in the local photo parlour in her 20s or being snapped with a disposable camera in her 70s, she looked effortlessly beautiful.

Unfortunately grandma did not pass on this trait to me. When my book got accepted by a publisher, I realised with trepidation that I would need some publicity photos, and that this was going to be rather a challenge.

I dread having my photo taken for several reasons:

1. I'm not very skilled at applying make-up. I've never really worked out how not to look like a square 12-year-old raiding her mum's cosmetics in an attempt to fit in with the cool kids, and ending up bogwashed for daring to think she could look good.

2. Although I have some nice clothes these days, they only look nice up to the point at which I put them on. The other day I went into town and was about to be kind to the spaced-out homeless person wandering around M&S to keep warm, before realising it was actually a mirror.

3. If I smile, I look like a hamster that doesn't quite know what's going on.

4. If I don't smile, I look like Kathy Bates in Misery.

So – what to do? I didn't fancy going to a professional photographer, because my only experience of photographers was the bossy ones that bark orders at weddings, and one of my many weaknesses is that I don't respond at all well to being told what to do. Plus no matter how professional the photographer might be, I would still be me, with gormless moon-face, bad make-up, uncool outfit and DIY non-haircut.

The next option was to use some existing nice photos from my younger days. Or rather, this wasn't an option, because people simply don't tend to bother snapping pics of me – whether they fear for the life of their camera lens or whether I'm completely invisible, I'm not sure.

(I don't think I'm just being paranoid here – this state of affairs subsequently became apparent at my book launch, which escaped being recorded for posterity altogether. I even made a point of giving a family member my camera and asking him to take some pictures of me for my website. How many did he take? None, that's how many. I don't mean 'none that I liked' or 'none that came out well', I mean literally not a single one.)

The saying goes – if you want something doing properly, do it yourself. In my life, this is usually modified to 'if you want something doing at all, do it yourself.' So several months before publication, I worked out how to use the timer on my bog-standard camera, bunged on some slap and a vaguely presentable shirt, and took lots of pictures of... ME!

The good thing about taking your own photo is that no one is looking. You don't have to feel like a complete idiot. If you want to try a 'serious academic' one, you can. You can chuck on a bit more make-up or change your hair without keeping anyone waiting. And you can just press delete when your 'pouty Nigella' effort turns out like one of the plasticine pigs off Shaun the Sheep.

The other good thing is that there's no one to get bored while you reject 99.9% of the pictures. Eventually, I got an OK set of photos that I could just about tolerate. I downloaded them onto my brand new laptop and got as far as putting one on my website.

Then the brand new laptop died. Toshiba immediately replaced it, but the pics were gone. I've made several attempts since, but to no avail. I am not photogenic.

At least grandma gave me some of her intelligence – that's something to fall back on, I suppose.