Number Two's

Everybody needs somebody

 

I've noticed that my writing seems to blossom when I introduce the ‘other half’ to the story. The Buddy. Best Friend. Foil. Muse. Whatever. The Wise to my MC Morecame, the Dec to my Ant, the Jerry to my Tom. The Pauper to my Prince and soforth.
In a bid to try and be semi-professional about this post, I tried Googling “Great Literary Foils” and it started to confuse me, so the above ‘double acts’ will have to suffice I’m afraid. I will think of more as this blethers on, I’m sure. Oh, here we go…
Elizabeth Bennett had Charlotte (apparently, that’s what Google said. I don’t really remember much about her, but if you showed me a clip of the recent TV dramatisation I’d probably point and nod a lot) and Pip had his Mr Drummble (I think).
*Google has now left the building*

More contemporarily, Rachel had Darcy in “Something Borrowed” by Emily Giffin and then, rather brilliantly, Rachel became Darcy’s foil in the sequel ‘Something Blue’ – I say “brilliantly” because Darcy was such a prize bitch of a character, it was impossible to see how anyone would be able to ‘warm’ to her as an MC. But it worked. And there’s a film being made as we speak.

Anyway… (I’m not Ms Giffin’s publicity agent, honest).

In my first book, “Labrats” (NOT coming to any bookstore than I’m aware of) my MC’s ‘other half’ was her four year old daughter, who got her through the monumental break up with the husband/father quite unintentionally. And it’s only now, looking back on it, that I can see this is what happened. The little girl’s presence perfectly balances the hideousness of the broken marriage and her innocence only serves to highlight the betrayal of her father with his mistress.

In the second, “Life, Lopsided”, the slightly manic, slightly OCD main character’s personality traits are mellowed by her best friend/colleague’s level-headedness and normality. And it’s this relationship that ultimately ‘saves’ the MC and her desperation to find balance in her otherwise…well, lopsided world.

“Double History” is my favourite by far – my first foray into teenage fiction – and the one that is still Out There (with agents, yes, even as we speak!). Main character, Maddie is an angry, bolshie, Gordon Brown-hating teenager who’s been reduced to living in an ex council house after her dad’s been made redundant and she is thoroughly peed off with everything. Enter Amber, the refreshingly funny *almost* airhead who fancies anything with a pulse and believes she can contact the dead – in particular the ghost who’s living in Maddie’s new (old) house. I do *heart* Amber!

In my current teenage WIP, “Grounded”, the misunderstood, chocolate-munching, bullied MC, Becca is at odds with the rest of the world (including her mother and step-father) and it is her best friend, Liberty who is the guiding light and calming influence in what is currently a very miserable situation for Becca (she’s been ‘grounded’ electronically and has to cope with no mobile, internet, iPod, etc). So, Liberty becomes her balance.

And how else to perfectly even out a story but with characters that strike harmonious chords in what would otherwise be such a distorted situation? It’s only by reflecting on how I’ve been inadvertently making this ‘happen’ that I realise I’m still learning the whole craft of how writing really works, and how well it can work when it’s properly produced.
It’s the Yin-Yang principle, isn’t it? Top-heavy cakes and arguments rarely go down well, do they? And I’m beginning to see that it’s the overall equilibrium of things that really makes a reader go ‘aahhhhhh…’ (not in a Long John Silver way, I mean, more like the Bisto kids).

Oh...and where would “Romeo and Juliet” have been (really) without the Maid. I forget her name (did she have one?) but she was Juliet’s real BF, wasn’t she? She kept the sense of what was ‘Right and Proper’ amongst the tumultuousness of the lover’s hot-headed romance. See – I knew I’d come up with another one!

November's Strictly Writing Competiton Winner: "You Can See France From Here" by Kay Seeley

YOU CAN SEE FRANCE FROM HERE

"I’ve lost the use of my legs, not my effing brain," my father yelled, his bony fingers snatching the keys from the desk. Propelling himself towards the corridor in the direction of our rooms, he yelled at me, "Come on Betty, move your fat arse." 

My heart sank even as the colour rose to my cheeks. Mouthing a silent "Sorry" to the Receptionist, I picked up our suitcases and staggered after him. Jeez, I thought, what on earth sort of holiday is this going to be? Although I already knew the answer.

"I’ll bang on the wall when I want you," he said, swinging his chair round as I put his case on the bed.

"I’ll pop back in half-an-hour," I said, not wanting him to call the shots on our first day.

"What a shit-hole," he said. "I’ve seen more comfortable doss-houses."

I shook my head and retreated. I had lived all my life in fear of my father. Meanness shrouded him like a cloak and spitefulness came more naturally to him than breathing. The phone call from the nursing home, where he had lived since my mother died, well, more accurately, gave up living, had not come as any surprise to me.

"You’ll have to make other arrangements," the Matron told me. "We’ve given him plenty of warnings and second-chances, but as you know many of our staff are young girls. We take verbal abuse very seriously. I’m afraid he’ll have to go."

Despair rose inside me. "He’s an old man," I said. "Surely you can make some suitable arrangements for him."

"I’m sorry. He’s upset the other residents too. We can’t have him here any longer. Perhaps he could come and stay with you…"
I shuddered at the thought. Of course she was right. If anyone, seeing the wheelchair, thought him frail they were in for a rude awakening. Arthritis may have crippled him but it had not lessened his power to put the fear of God into anyone who displeased him.

"It may take some time," I said, meekly.

"End of the week," she said, and put the phone down. Hence the holiday on the Isle of Wight. I thought it would at least give me time to make other arrangements for him.

"It will be an adventure," I told him. "A chance to re-visit the places where you spent your childhood."

"An adventure? Well, anything’s got to better than stagnating in this smelly rat-hole."

So I booked us into The Lobster Pot. A small hotel on the front at Sandown.
My heart lifted when I saw the hotel. It looked warm and welcoming. Colourful hanging baskets, overflowing with pink and red geraniums adorned the white-washed walls. Half-barrel planters on the terraces brimmed with ballerina fuchsias and pelagoniums and on the blue-painted window sills, boxes of bright pink begonias beamed at us. The overall effect was a symphony of red, white and blue.

The smell of roasting meat greeted us as we entered, bringing a rush of saliva to my mouth. If the cooking smells were anything to go by, at least we’d be well fed.
Dinner on the first night went without incident and I began to think that perhaps he’d mellowed over the years. Perhaps, if it came to it, I could have him at home with me. I lived alone, Mum had managed him, why shouldn’t I? My cheerful optimism didn’t last long.

Every morning, as the pale sunlight crept over the windowsill in the small dining room, he’d manoeuvre his chair to block the gangway. Then he’d make a big fuss as people tried to squeeze past. I could see the flash of satisfaction in his eyes as people offered their apologies. I cringed as he loudly criticised whatever was put in front of him, pushing the plate away, like a petulant child. I’m not sure which was most embarrassing, watching him eat or listening to him whining that it was inedible.

Once we got outside things improved. I pushed him along the promenade, overlooking the bay.

"We used to come here every year, when I was a child," he said, with that smile that was so rare I didn’t recognise it. "Did I tell you how I won the raft race every year, youngest competitor too. And I could outswim boys much older than me. Outrun them too."

I had heard all his stories and grown up with his exploits even as they had grown over the years, expanding with every telling. Now, I thought, he had little left but the memories.

"'Course it’s all different now," he said. "Milk-sops and mummy’s boys, computer games and television. No spirit of adventure, young lads today. Not like in our day. My Dad used to beat me with a strap. Wouldn’t do these kids any harm to feel a bit of leather across their backsides."

The first three days the weather disappointed, with pearl grey skies threatening rain. Still, every day I drove out to one of the resort towns, parked and settled him in his chair for long bracing walks along the sea-front promenades. My hands numbed, turning blue as I pushed the chair against the bitter blast and my eyes watered, but he was impervious to my discomfort. I’d gaze enviously at the holidaymakers huddled in the warmth of their cars parked on the front. He’d take a warming swig from his silver hip flask. Things generally improved after that.

On the fourth day the weather improved and our walks became more enjoyable. He talked about his holidays as a child, running down to the beach everyday, chasing butterflies and calling to seagulls as they swooped and dived for the bread he threw for them a long time ago under a summer sky. Sailing, rafting and canoeing, he re-lived them all; the toughest and bravest adventurer on the sea. But after a while the reminiscences only served to remind him of his deteriorating condition and the meanness returned.

"Changed beyond recognition," he moaned. "Trashy commercialism and opportunistic rubbish," he’d say as we walked along past amusement arcades, with their flashing neon lights and the constant crash of money dropping through the slot machines. The smell of hot-dogs and onions mingled with doughnuts and candy floss and I wished we could stop just for a while to breathe in the lively vibrant atmosphere. I thrilled to the hurdy-gurdy music of the rides and the calls of the stall-holders and bingo-callers. If only things were different, I thought, what a lovely holiday we could have.

"Shit-holes. Everywhere’s turned into a shit-hole," he’d announce and my stomach would curl in turmoil lest I incur his further displeasure by tarrying too long. He wasn’t above using his cane to hurry me along.

We stopped in a small café on the pier at Ryde for a cup of tea. I wheeled him to a window where he could look out and watch the sailboats. At the counter, waiting to be served, I recognised the man stood in front of me from the hotel. A bear of a man with silver grey hair and a matching beard, he turned and smiled as I joined the queue behind him. Early fifties but fit, he was. I bet he works out, I thought.

"Hi, You're staying at the Lobster Pot too, aren’t you? How are you enjoying your holiday?"

"Better now the weather’s improved," I said, mortified at the memory of his daily embarrassment, trying to squeeze past Father’s wheelchair.

"My name's Jim. Jim Baxter." He held out his hand.
His hand enveloped mine, a soft warmth that spread through me like melting butter.

My heart raced. "Betty," I said, "Betty Carraway."

"Your father is it?" he nodded towards the window where father sat glaring at us.
I nodded, unable to summon my voice from its hiding place.

"Well, have a nice day," he said, turning away with his cup of tea and strawberry scone. I couldn’t help but notice how tanned his face was and the way his blue eyes twinkled.

Father became surly after the tea incident. Nothing pleased him. Then he developed chest pains and insisted that I sit with him, reading to him to calm his shattered nerves. "Not that you give a damn," he sneered accusingly. "Things will be different when I come to live with you," he said. "There’ll have to be changes."

On our last day we went to St. Catherine’s point. The sun shone and the day was warm.

"You can see France from here," Father said, as we drove into the car park at the bottom of a steep hill. I manhandled him into his chair, making sure he wore his cap against the sun. I pushed him up to the front where we stopped to look out across the English Channel. At the foot of the cliffs the sea eddied and flowed into rock pools filled with seaweed where children netted crabs. Families played on the beach in the bright sunshine, laughing and splashing in the rolling waves, jumping over the white foam as it broke against the shore. It looked so happy and normal that I felt a pang of regret, my chest heaving for what might have been.

"Can’t see France from here, stupid. Get us up to the top of the hill."
I turned the chair and pushed it across the car park. Just as I was taking a breath, ready to begin the long slog up the hill, I felt a presence at my side. It was Jim, materialised from nowhere, carrying a rucksack.

"Can I help?" he said

"No you can piss off," father replied. "She can manage."

Jim laughed, his gaze travelling appreciatively over my ample frame. His lips parted in a grin exposing perfect white teeth. I felt a tingle down my spine.

"It’s no trouble," he said and pushed the chair quickly up the hill as if it was nothing at all. He was wearing khaki shorts and light brown walking boots and I stared wistfully at the hairs on his muscular, tanned legs, turned golden by the sun.

At the top of the hill he swung the chair onto a concrete plinth marking the viewpoint. "Glorious view," he said looking straight into my eyes.
The breeze tousled his hair. He held my gaze far longer than was prudent and I could feel my skin reddening.

"Can’t see a bloody thing," Father said.

Reluctantly, I turned to look out across the sea. "Over there, isn’t that it?" I pointed at a slight darkening on the horizon.

"Don’t be so bloody daft woman, there’s nothing there."

I could feel the irritation rising at the sound of Father’s voice. If it hadn’t been for the pounding in my ears I’d have sworn that my heart had stopped beating.
Jim shook his head. "Well, I’ll love and leave you," he said. "Have a nice day. Might see you later?" his eyebrows rose and I nodded, holding my breath in case father saw but he was fiddling in his blanket, searching for his binoculars.

Jim squeezed my arm before turning away and striding out along the black tarmac that snaked its way across the fields.

"Bloody waste of time," Father said, scanning the horizon with his binoculars. "Can’t see sod all."

The sun broke out from behind a cloud as I swung the chair onto the road, facing back the way we had come. It warmed my face. At the top of the incline the chair slipped from my grasp. I stood, rooted to the spot as it started its descent, rapidly gathering speed. It was half-way down before he realised his solitary state, but any protest he made was lost in the breeze that rustled through the long grass, until he met the lorry coming around the bend at the bottom of the hill.

Thus he started on his greatest adventure and I started on mine.

Shout, shout, let it all out

Recently I've been thinking a lot about voice.

In particular, the voice of characters very different
to our own.

I'll admit from the outset that this is something I do a lot in my own writing. Book one had many scenes from the point of view of a child being groomed by a potential abuser. Book two a trafficked child. Book three had several asian characters. Book four has some african characters and a young person coming to terms with his homosexuality.

And in the WIP, I am absolutely loving the creation of a twelve year old fundemental christian surivalist.

That's why I choose to work this way, of course. Cos I like it.

Inhabiting and bringing forth for the reader, the world of someone other, is, for me, the best part about writing.

Frankly, if I stuck to what I am - a loud northerner with a fat arse, I'd soon get bored. And I think my readers would too.

However, I am aware that there is a debate to be had about tackling other-voices. That it can be seen as patronising. That there is a certain arrogance attached to assuming you are in a position to be able to conjure a different race, religion or sexuality to your own.

Maybe that's right. Certainly there is always an arrogance attached to writing. You make stuff up and you type it. You think it's pretty good so you try to sell it.
However, I'm not sure I accept that there is any more arrogance in my attempts to capture a, say, scottish character, or a black character, then there would be a character from the court of Henry Tudor.
I am afterall, not any of those things.

From the outset, I should say that what I try not to do is offer the definitive experience. I do not say my muslim woman speaks for or is representative of all muslim women.
Her story arc will themeatically follow the rest of the book.

Second, I try very hard to be credible and authentic, without tying myself in knots. I don't simply pepper my character with interesting details from another culture, or throw the odd foreign word into their speech. I do try to do as much research as possible and use that research wisely.
However, I'm most definitely not trying to write a factual piece, so I will, for the sake of my story, deviate if necessary. I absolutely refuse to slavishly follow that research. This is my character and I will shape them.

Last, and most important for me, is what I'm looking for in a character. I'm not introducing them for freshness or a bit of colour to my story. I'm seeking out fundemental truths of what it means to be human. The commonality of our existence. So my twelve year old survivalist may be very different to my son and his mates on some levels, but on others they are one and the same. Burgeoning independence and sexuality, sibling rivalry, boredom. This is what makes my character's world turn. Just like every other twelve year old.

So, although it's a minefield, I'm pretty sure I'll keep writing in other-voices. I'll tread the tightrope for the exhilaration it gives me. If people think me patronising or arrogant, then so be it.

To paraphrase the rather lovely Elizabeth Gilbert. My job is to write and put it out there. Let others be the judge of whether it works or not.

Two for one

I’m currently working on the first of a two books series*

Yes, I am still cartwheeling at least four times a day. [Not literally. These are mental cartwheels. I don’t like to think of the orthopaedic consequences if I attempted a real one]

So yes, it’s all great etc, but it still has to be written and I’m realising how much of challenge it is to pull this off.

I started off by thinking about books I love with a sequel and why I love them. Unfortunately, I couldn’t put my finger on why any of them worked exactly. ‘They just do,’ said my stubborn reader's brain. So then I decided to ask online and got some very helpful advice. The tip that seems to come up again and again is the importance of having characters people really care about. I realised straight away that this was the common element in all the stories I’ve loved, from Katniss Everdeen in the Hunger Games, to Jackson Brodie in Kate Atkinson’s books to... many more I can't think of right now.

I guess every story is a journey, and if you want readers to take one to the end of one book, let alone feel like going further, they have to seriously give a damn about the characters they’re travelling with. This for me has been the single most useful piece of advice so far.

But then there’s the whole structure thing. I not only have to plant some threads that will be picked up and woven into something bigger in part two, but I have to think about three story arcs [yes, that’s three]. There’s the one for the first book, the one for the second book, and then there’s the one for the story overall. If you’re going slightly cross-eyed at that, you’re not alone.

My editor tells me it can be the devil’s own job to sort things out in a second book, like wishing you hadn’t killed someone off, or making them an orphan when they need a cuple of parents later on. ‘Much better,’ she said blithely, ‘to have a good idea of the story in book two when you write the first one.’ Easy, right? Trouble is, my pesky characters have a habit of acting in unexpected ways.

So I got Googling on story structures and found a diagram that appealed to my geeky side here. I had to print off two of them and stuck them side by side on a large piece of paper. Then I drew a rough arc over the top of both that represented the overall story.

At the very least it gives me something to concentrate on when my eyes start revolving round in my head. I think it’s helping.
But if anyone out there has any further tips on carrying a story over two books, I’d love to hear them.

*I realised there isn’t even a decent term for a book and a sequel. Series implies more than two. Something like’ trilogy’ is needed, but as I saw suggested online ‘bilogy’ doesn’t quite do it. Any suggestions on that too?

You earn how much?

A one-liner from www.thisismoney.co.uk really got my back up recently - Not only did I feel it was hugely misleading, but it seemed to suggest all novelists enjoy a luxurious life of Riley:

"Novels are seemingly the business to be in if you want to join the rich list."

Really? And where do you get your facts from? This article on the top ten highest earning women in the UK seems to suggest that novel writing is more lucrative than being a WAG. A bit of a generlisation, don't you think? Granted JK Rowling is the highest earning femle in the UK, with Barbara Bradford Taylor coming in at number three. Number two was the Queen. So the journalist has probably looked at the top three and decided that all novel writers, from the self-published to the mid-listers, have gold plated teeth and indoor swimming pools.

Under the Barbara Bradford Taylor entry it states: "Her £174m wealth might seem minimal compared to the likes of J K Rowling, however that still means that two of the highest earning women in the UK are novelists – the other is the Queen. Barbara Taylor Bradford made her money from her 25 best-selling novels which have sold more than 82m copies worldwide and have been translated into 40 languages. She hasn't denied the estimates that she earns $24m a year so it's no surprise she's on the list."

And at number ten is Cheryl Tweedy whose book deal is worth a reported £5m. And did she even write a word of it? Not on your Brown Ale!

What stood out was one (male) commentator who said:

"It is lamentable that none of these are scientists or engineers who have made their fortune by manufacturing or software. Women have always, in my experience, the ability and brains to develop much needed new technology. Their ability to advance socially acceptable literature and performing arts is beyond doubt. I wonder what is holding our talented women from developing careers in area of technology? As an aside, the best engineering student in my class was a woman. She was of the highest calibre."

So is novel writing really the business to be in if you want to blow your nose on
a £50 note? No, definitely not. Anyone who earns over £30,000 from novels alone per annum, please drop by.

Bargain Basement

I'm a member of a book club. It's not the discussion group kind, and it's not the postal kind where they lure you with free hardbacks and then make you buy expensive stuff you don't want for the rest of your life. And when I say 'club', I don't mean anything exclusive (obviously, as they let me join.)

This book club takes place in an enormous warehouse run by a company that buys remaindered stock from publishers for absolute peanuts and flogs it on to discount bookshops. Once a month, they open the doors to everyone who has paid the princely subscription fee of £2 a year, and we can choose from thousands of titles of every genre at a bargain 20% of the cover price.

As a writer, I really ought to disapprove of this. The experience of wandering for hours among shelves of unwanted books ought to be depressing. The amount of hard work, time and emotional investment that has gone into writing them all is enormous, let alone the persistence that got them published. And yet they sit unloved in this last chance saloon, where someone might or might not think they are worth a quid.

Not surprisingly, the place is teeming with celebrity biographies – vast quantities of Ashley Cole's My Defence sat there for months before presumably being pulped – but the famous mingle with the not-so-famous and much of the stock is by writers I identify with as people who put in the hard graft and went through the slushpile. In a particularly poignant moment, I saw a stack of books that had all been signed by the author – and still no one had bought them. Sometimes I spot books by writers I know, and have occasionally rescued copies just to give them a good home.

It would be easy to become despondent and think it's really not worth trying to add to this book mountain. What's the point of spending years crafting a story only for it to end up as a disposable commodity that someone will only buy because it's cheap enough to give to the charity shop if they don't like it?

In addition, none of those thousands of authors will make any money from books bought here. It's not exactly fair trade. The publisher recoups a small amount on their remainders but the poor soul shivering in a garret, eating Aldi Instant Mash and breathing on their ink to stop it freezing, won't be sailing off on a luxury yacht any time soon.

So, as a writer, I really shouldn't approve. On the other hand... I'm also a reader, and this makes the place an absolute paradise. When getting purchase-happy and chucking anything with a nice cover onto my trolley, I've discovered some brilliant authors I might never otherwise have heard of. I've found obscure stuff that would never make it to the local library, and tried out many a book that I wouldn't usually have bothered with. This 'last chance saloon' has been a first chance for me to become a fan of certain writers... and I've gone on to buy their new books.

If I discovered a pile of my own books, I wouldn't therefore be too disheartened. I would rather they were read than destroyed, and they might even reach someone who would appreciate the next one... that's if I resisted the temptation to buy them all and bring them back home!

Quickfire Questions with agent Catherine Pellegrino

Catherine Pellegrino joined Rogers, Coleridge & White agency in February 2007. She represents children’s and young adult writers and her client list includes Roderick Gordon and Brian Williams (Tunnels published by Chicken House), Pearl Morrison (The Wind Tamer and The Wave Traveller both published by Bloomsbury), Ceci Jenkinson and Steve Feasey.

The author I wish I’d ‘discovered’ most is…..

So many – David Almond, Haruki Murakami, Kate Atkinson, Lorrie Moore…

Left on a cliffhanger or told all?

It depends how quickly the sequel is available ie whether I can swing an early copy or occasionally a manuscript or whether (in the case of Stieg Larsson) a foreign edition in a language I can read is already available.

The perfect book deal is…

With the right editor who completely gets the book and shares the author’s vision, the right support team (increasingly crucial in this polarised market) who can market and sell the book effectively and an advance that neither undermines or overwhelms, in practical or creative terms the author in his/her endeavours as a writer. And of course a good contract with favourable terms.

You really must read…

What I talk about when I talk about running by Haruki Murakami – a book as much about writing as running and one brimming with humanity.

I get most excited by…

Reading an unsolicited partial which makes the hairs on my neck stand up on end.

My biggest tip for a writer is..

Endurance and patience

My pet hate in a submission package is…

An overlong covering letter with a marketing plan

Favourite desktop snack

One that doesn’t give me food poisoning. I was so caught up with something a while back that I ate something which was clearly dodgy and within the hour thought it was my last.

Best thing about my job is…

Working with wonderful people, writers, colleagues and publishing people and meeting the International book community at book fairs.


Email or phone?

I try and blend both. I think both have their uses.


The hardest part of my job is…

Managing expectations


The most common mistake I see is…

In submissions we receive for children’s literature, writers who write down to their audience.

If I didn’t work in the literary business I would be...

A landscape gardener or a synchronised swimmer