All at Sea

Literally! I'm writing this in the mid Atlantic, where I'm on a press trip for the travel pages of www.dailymail.co.uk so intermittent posting for the next few days, but worth it in pursuit of a wonderful story!
In the meantime, I'm trying to think of literary associations with the sea...
Treasure Island
Moby Dick
Poems by John Masefield

Any ideas welcomed with interest.
Bye for now...

A Small Slice of Research Lite

I love a good bit of research to get me going with a book, whether it's set in the present or the past, whether it's fiction or non-fiction, digging around for information is a great stimulus of the creative juices.  Things that I unearth can often help in the development of character and certainly can influence the course of a plot. Because I love research so much, I'm really sensitive to the danger of piling all the knowledge that I've rootled out into my story.  Including something because you've gone to the trouble to find out about it isn't a good enough reason to run the risk of weighing down your narrative.

Just because I've made the cake, it doesn't mean I have to eat it all;  it's OK to have a slice and leave the rest in the tin for another time. It's the same with facts which you've uncovered.  Use some of them, to give authority to your work, to make it credible and help to bring it to life, but for goodness sake don't cram everything in as that's more like bulimia than writing and won't do you or your work in progress any good.

Breaking the Spell

As a writer, you're an illusionist: you create brave new worlds for your reader and go to great lengths to make them seem as real and as plausible as possible -- that is what writing good fiction is all about.

The subversive in me is interested in the effects of setting up an illusion only to destroy it with a kind of devastating sleight of hand.  It can be the most fantastic plotting device and leave your reader open-mouthed with astonishment. Sarah Waters is an absolute genius at this: without wanting to give too much away, in her novel Fingersmith she creates one reality only to whip the rug from under the reader's feet and reveal another, different one in a way that can leave you feeling a little giddy.

So here's a challenge for you: set a wheel turning  within a wheel -- as you're weaving one illusion, produce another like a string of bright silk handkerchiefs hidden up your sleeve. Fiction is bluffing anyway, but take it a step further and go for double bluff. It can be a circus trick: cue drumroll, cue fanfare...

The Laxative Powers of Catharsis?

Weirdly, my dictionary (a lovely old Chambers that my mum and dad gave me in 1989) defines catharsis as purgative medicine having the power of cleansing the bowels - they missed that bit out in my drama degree.  It does go on to say that it can also mean the purging of the effects of a pent-up emotion by bringing it to the surface of consciousness through drama -- much more Aristotelian.

In classical terms, catharsis is the central experience, the raison d'etre, of fiction. People read partly as an escape from their own world, but also in order to see it reflected back at them through the lens of the hero or heroine's heightened experience, so that they gain insight and understanding, but also a gratifying release of the tension you will have generated in your well crafted plot!

You can achieve this by putting your hero under incredible pressure so that they are obliged to change in order to meet the challenges you set them.  There must be a lot to lose, and also a lot to gain.  It's very gratifying to feel wrung out at the end of a book - just as physical exercise gets the endorphins flowing, so a good book should give your reader a great emotional workout - that's what you should be trying to achieve.

Literature, Lycanthropy and Howling at the Moon

I love Margaret Atwood when she is slightly off the wall. She once told someone I knew to bury the names of the people who frightened her in a hole in the garden, something I've considered doing myself, although it would have to be more of a pit in my case.

Here she is talking wolfishly about writing:

"All stories are about wolves. All worth repeating, that is. Anything else is sentimental drivel.... Think about it. There's escaping from the wolves, fighting the wolves, capturing the wolves, taming the wolves. Being thrown to the wolves, or throwing others to the wolves so the wolves will eat them instead of you. Running with the wolf pack. Turning into a wolf. Best of all, turning into the head wolf. No other decent stories exist.”

Perhaps what she means is the best fiction is about dealing with some kind of perceived threat, which is perhaps a bit of a theme for her as the gardening advice could be seen in that light too. I thought it would make an interesting subject as a writing exercise. Why not have a go at some literary lycanthropy yourself? Wolf in sheep's clothing, wolfsbane, wolfing something down – there are all manner of starting points and you might find that you have the germ of an interesting story. In any case, don't you think that writing sometimes feels like howling at the moon?

Writers' Block – Finding the Hidden Slipway of the Imagination

Am I suffering from writer's block just now? I don't think so. I hope not. It's just that I'm not entirely sure what story I want to tell and at the moment it feels as if the various component parts of my proposed novel are straining to get away from each other.

If that's a kind of writer's block, then this is my solution....

Before I start to write, I find it helps to put myself into something like a meditative state. You'd be forgiven for thinking that I was simply staring out of the window, but it's the beginning of a process of submersion which makes my pulse quicken with excitement and my thoughts flow. I don't breathe in a particular way, or chant, or focus on anything specific. I just allow myself to be. The only thing I need in order to achieve this is quietness.

If you are suffering from writer's block at the moment, here's a little exercise that you might like to try. I took the picture below when I was in Cornwall last week.

Think of it as the hidden slipway of the imagination. Picture yourself standing in the shade at the top of the steps, feel the grit of the concrete under your feet, imagine the salty, wiry grass and the scent of the ocean on the wind. Start to walk down, listening to the sound of your footsteps; perhaps you can hear a seagull wheeling overhead or the lumbering sound of a fishing boat's engine. When you move from the shade into the light, you can feel the warmth of the sun on your skin. You keep walking, down and down and down, beyond the steps, following the gentle incline into the sea. Spring hasn't reached here yet and the water is freezing. It laps your ankles, then your knees, your thighs and your waist. It is cold enough to deprive you of breath and for a moment you feel precarious, still earthbound, your feet scudding into rocks you cannot see, but then you take a deep breath and launch yourself and the cold stings your scalp and shocks your brain into action, but already you  have imagined all of this and as you start to float, to swim, you find that you are ready to write...

Now strike out from the shore and keep on going, until the tide turns and brings you home.

Free Range Writing

I'm having a break on the coast of Cornwall, so my posts (when I can manage them) are shorter than usual...

Here's a pic of some free range eggs, West Country style:

I like the chromatic echoes of brown and fawn and cream and palest blue, colours that are sympathetic yet subtly different. They share the same ( egg-like) spherical form although each one is distinct; they are pleasing in every way. The same qualities apply to good books, in which themes and plot lines should be harmoniously orchestrated, and characters well-realised and individual, yet at the same time inhabiting the same literary universe, or in this case, egg box.

However, unlike these irresistible eggs, your free range writing should be neither scrambled nor poached...

Here endeth the metaphor.

Normal Service Will Resume...

...but at the moment I'm hidden away in a remote spot without access to the internet - yes, such places still exist and the breathtakingly lovely Helford Estuary in southernmost Cornwall is one of them. It's an inspiring place in which to think and dream and I shall be back at my desk next week refreshed and inspired and ready to rock some thoughts about writing.

See you then.

Structural Editing Versus Copy Editing (Thank You Catherine Ryan Howard!)

I'm an avid fan of Catherine Ryan Howard's self publishing blog and read it regularly. I was intrigued by today's informative and thought-provoking post which was guest written by Robert Doran of Kazoo Independent Publishing Services and argues whether it is better to invest in a structural edit or a copy edit, when you are preparing to launch your book into the world.

His view, and that of many of the people who have left comments, seems to err on the side of paying for a copy edit on the grounds that you can learn how to address structural difficulties yourself, but my sense is that if the structure is all over the place, with the plot unravelling and the characters behaving inconsistently, readers aren't going to be seduced by the fact that all the commas are in the right places. The structure is the foundation on which your book is built and I think you need to be really sure that it is sound before you start tinkering with aspects of presentation, although of course it is important that grammar and punctuation are as good as you can make them.

It isn't necessary to spend a fortune buying these kind of services, you can always enlist the help of a critical friend. Reciprocal mentoring is a wonderful thing – you learn so much whether you are giving or receiving advice and it is illuminating (and cheap!) to do.

I've Just Killed My Darlings...

....because that's what they tell you to do when you are writing – cut the parts you like the best because you may be blind to their failings or including them for the wrong reasons.

The section I've eviscerated is the opening of my new novel:

The Watermill appeared to float in an inlet of green light, moored by a slender bridge to the canal embankment on one side, listing into the mill stream on the other. Minna propped the ladder against the wall of the house, steadying its base on the narrow walkway that ran from her front door to the tow path. The tangle of her little island garden seemed a long way below. She didn't look down, didn't make the slow plunge into the shade, into the twist and twine of the weeds, the woody creeper, the scuff of grass, into the greenness of it all. Instead, she shoved the secateurs into the pocket of her shorts, tested the lean of the ladder and climbed the first few rungs.

She blinked at the clarity of white and blue: white-rendered walls and the neglected, flaking, French blue of the shutters. The wisteria dripped down her window like rain and she fished the secateurs from her pocket and reached for the lowest bough, stretched beyond her reach, grasped the shoot, and then –

- there was a detonation: the soft shrapnel of feathers and talons, a grey whirring that sent her rearing back then snapping forward to save herself from falling. A bird exploded from the branches, the sheen of metal in its wings, and for a moment Minna's head was full of helicopter blades and sniper fire, the long lances of telegraph poles with their endless wires, the shattered apartments – she gripped the ladder – broken tarmac, the sound of boots running, a woman weeping, mortars reeling – she held the ladder till her fingers hurt – a woman screaming, a truck careering, the sound of running, of guns being primed.

She was panting, breathing for survival. The secateurs clattered to the ground. She rested her head against the rung, feeling the ridged coolness on her skin. This isn't me, she whispered, this frightened woman isn't me. She inched her way back down the ladder and stood on the narrow bridge, holding the iron hand rail, swallowing dry air.

I've sweated blood over it, tweaking and polishing endlessly, but my wise and insightful writing mentor thinks that I'm starting the book at the wrong point in the story and so these opening paragraphs (and quite a lot else besides) have to go. It's difficult medicine to take, bitter as aloes, but it would be far worse to continue steering my narrative in the wrong direction, so I'm going to do a handbrake turn and set to work again.

The moral of this little tale? When you're writing fiction, nothing is sacred except the story.