Filthy Lucre?

There’s been some talk recently in writing circles about money and its role in an artistic life, fuelled (at least in part) by Donal Ryan‘s recent interview in which he admitted he has had to resume work as a civil servant in order to pay his bills, despite being an award-winning, successful novelist. It’s something that every person who writes and makes money from it has to think about and deal with, and something that very few of us talk about.

Money money money money… Mo-ney! Photo credit: SJ O’Hart

Well. Very few people talk about money at the best of times. But writers and artists, somehow, talk about it even less; as though money somehow taints the integrity of artistic work, or we like people to think we can subsist on good wishes and sunbeams. (Note: we can’t. Pay us, please!)

So, I thought I might address the issue as it pertains to my own life, at least a little.

Firstly, the issue of money is not straightforward. The idea of ‘making a living’ is not monolithic. Different people have different needs, different outgoings, different commitments, and these vary depending on: your housing situation, whether or not you have children, whether or not you need a car, whether you are in ill health or need ongoing medical support, and a host of other things. It also depends on what ‘enough’ means to you. Some people aren’t comfortable without a substantial cushion in the bank account, while others are happy if they have a month’s rent/mortgage and bills banked in case of a rainy day.

I have a simple life. My husband and I don’t smoke, we rarely drink, we don’t go out much and we haven’t had a holiday since our honeymoon. Despite this we manage to have plenty of fun, but we don’t need to spend a lot of money to have the lifestyle we want. Our main expenditure is books and the baby – and, since we use cloth nappies for the latter, that’s not even a huge source of spending any more – so we can get by on one salary, by and large. I am privileged, and I admit as much, to be married to a person with a job, which pays him a reasonable if not huge salary, and that this person is (and has been) willing to help me financially as much as possible. I’m also privileged insofar as I am in full health, at least as far as I am currently aware, and I don’t have any long-term or recurring medical expenses.

Having said that, I worked all my life from the age of fifteen, in a variety of jobs both full- and part-time, and when in 2012 I took a chance and left a job to give writing a go, I supported my end of our household for almost three years out of the money I had saved. I was nearing the bottom of my financial barrel, admittedly, when I signed my book deal – and that was the saving grace for us. By Irish standards, it was generous; it certainly gave me, and our family (by then, of three) a bit of breathing room.

However, it was news to me, until recently, that advances to writers in Ireland can be so low, and I find it wrong, simply put, that sometimes book deals are signed where the author receives no advance at all. I’m not suggesting that the country ‘owes artists a living’ – but art is important, particularly during turbulent times, and it should be recognised that it is also a job, which deserves payment, recognition and respect. I also understand that writers often need to work at other things to make ends meet, and when the time comes for me, I will do so, too. My advance won’t last forever and I may never earn royalties on a word I write, so I’ve made backup plans. For the moment my time is amply spent trying to fulfil my publishing contract and parent my child, and when things change, so will I. Again, this is a privilege I am happy to acknowledge.

Very few writers will earn enough to live on; without my husband’s income I freely and gratefully admit I wouldn’t be where I am. However, those of us who do write or create things which are consumed, used and enjoyed by society in general deserve to be paid for that work. Writers should always receive advances from their publishers. Society should provide grants and bursaries for visual artists, and these should be ringfenced – not slashed – in times of crisis. People from disadvantaged backgrounds should be given even greater access to the communal pot of funding. Should, should, should – and I realise I have no power to bring any of this into being, or ensure it happens consistently, and I also realise that most people don’t create art for financial gain – but it boils down to this: we need to value artists, in all the ways it’s possible to value a person and their work. Without art and culture, everyone suffers.

It’s in everyone’s interest to ensure that people can create, that they’re given the space and time to make art, that they’re respected and supported and paid appropriately, depending on the situation. Even if I weren’t in the position of earning a ‘living’, such as it is, from writing, I’d believe this to be true. How about you?

Do you have any thoughts on the thorny issue of paying artists for their work, and how best to manage it? I’d love to know your opinions.

Singin’ the Same Ol’ Song

I wonder, sometimes, what people who don’t write, or want to write, or who don’t strive with every fibre to get their work published, think about people who do. Perhaps they imagine that the life of an aspiring writer is one of non-stop excitement and hobnobbing with the literary elite; they might think that things come easy, because the stories which make big headlines are always the spectacular, glittering ones, the ones which tell of huge book advances and fabulous launch parties and celebrity endorsements.

Photo Credit: Frederic Potet via Compfight cc

And, of course, perhaps they have more common sense. But still, I wonder.

Things have been quiet in my writing tower of late. I have distractions, other plans, unexpected life-branchings and plenty of quietly exciting stuff to be getting on with – but none of it has to do with writing. The only ‘development’ I’ve had in recent times has been another slew of rejections, which may give you the reason behind this post’s title.

For yes, my friends. I have been here before.

It doesn’t make things any easier or less eye-wateringly painful, nor any less disappointing, but at least it’s familiar territory. Not only that, but it’s territory I share with everyone else who has ever written, for even the most successful of us has known the dark sorrow of being told ‘No’.

Not for us. Not in the current market. Not quite what we’re looking for. Good, but not quite good enough. Beautifully written, but far too many problems with plot. Wonderful voice, but we really hate the protagonist. We weren’t quite on board with the pace of action – it’s too fast. Things move far too slowly. Too full of unlikeable characters.

Or – worst of all:

Just, no.

I have received so much feedback on my work to date that it has almost spun my head right off my shoulders. Some people who have read the things I’ve written have loved certain aspects, and other people have detested those very same things. For one reader my novel may crawl along like cold treacle; for another it zips by in a mind-muddling mess. Some readers love my fictional people and others would happily drop them over the nearest cliff. It’s hard to know what to do with all this editorial opinion. The only thing worse than being told why your work is being turned down, though, is to receive a simple rejection which doesn’t explain itself. Simply ‘No, thanks’, without any elaboration. It’s impossible to know what to do with that.

Writing is a process of learning, much like life, and I never expected to meet with universal approval when I started out. I knew I’d get knocked back, and that the knockbacks would vastly outnumber the successes. I’m not sure I expected to be left in such a spin by the reasons given, though; that has been harder to process than the actual rejections, in many ways. For how do I learn from this? How do I improve, how do I grow? How do I ensure I don’t keep making the same mistakes, if nobody can agree on what, exactly, these mistakes are in the first place? It’s a scary thing, to be left simply with a vague sense of not being good enough, like a nebulous vacuum at the centre of your creative being which sucks at your confidence like a black hole. If I could delineate the limits of my not-good-enoughness, draw its outline and understand where it begins and ends, sense its shape and size, it would not only be easier to handle, but far more useful for my future career.

There aren’t any secrets to being published. You do it by writing the best book you can, being brave enough to share it around, and hoping for the best. I read an interesting (if depressing) article this morning about a possible unconscious bias in favour of male authors over female, but I’m not sure I’d let that upset me too much in terms of children’s publishing. It may well be a factor in literary fiction circles, sadly (and wrongly), but there’s no reason to let that put you off. Plenty of women succeed marvellously; plenty of men do, too. Writing a good book is the only vital bit.

I have written a good book. It’s a book I love. My faith in it has never wavered, and I still love it now as much as I did when I put the first words on the page almost two years ago. I was brave enough to share it around, and it has met with a certain amount of success – which is the best feeling in the world. And I’m still hoping for the best in terms of its future. But it has been, and continues to be, a long and hard road. Keeping one’s enthusiasm going and ensuring that all hope is not lost is a continuous struggle, and trying to stay focused on the long-term goal is something I’m finding hard at the moment. Writing isn’t all about stupendous book deals and joyful release days and the popping of champagne corks; it’s mainly about lonely struggle, and the daily teeth-gritting ritual of checking your inbox to see whether someone else has decided your work isn’t up to scratch. I’m doing my best to learn, and grow, and use these experiences for the good, and I know it will benefit me one day.

Today is not that day. But it is coming.

Date with an Agent

The only problem with having amazing weekends is the Monday morning which follows them.

Image: sodahead.com

I am a tired lady this morning, but it’s definitely good tired.

This past Saturday, I was privileged to be one of seventy-five unagented writers invited to Dublin Castle to take part in a fantastic event called Date with an Agent, held in conjunction with Dublin Writers’ Festival. Not only did we have the chance to listen to a selection of guest speakers discuss all aspects of the publishing industry in Ireland and worldwide, but we also had the brain-boggling opportunity to meet an agent. In the flesh. One-to-one. For realz.

It was a scary prospect, in some ways: I did a lot of preparation in the run-up to the event, and while I didn’t necessarily use everything I’d prepared (we had ten minutes with the agent, which sounds like a lot, but it zipped past), it was good to have that ‘net’ of knowledge at the back of my mind. I knew I’d feel a little like a pygmy among giants, too, so I was expecting to sit in a corner and wibble gently for the day; however, I found myself talking to a wide variety of people, writers from all over the place with vastly differing life experience and literary interests and several generous, interesting and supportive industry professionals, all of whom couldn’t have been more welcoming.

It was – to use a word which annoys me, but which keeps cropping up in my written and spoken communication lately – awesome.

Chuck Hath Spoken.
Image: forums.marvelheroes.com

The agents who took part were: Simon Trewin of the WME Agency, Polly Nolan of the Greenhouse Literary Agency, Sallyanne Sweeney of Mulcahy Associates (whom I was lucky enough to meet), Madeleine Milburn of the Madeleine Milburn Literary, TV and Film Agency and Faith O’Grady of the Lisa Richards Agency. The day began with the agents introducing themselves and their agencies and discussing the sort of work they represent; then, they took questions from the audience, and every word they uttered was indispensable.

Ever the swot, I took about twenty pages of notes. I’m going to try to distil the wisdom here, but bear with me if it spills over a bit. Ready? Good.

Image: benuambassador.wordpress.com

In relation to beginning the submissions process, the agents were – unsurprisingly – united. Polly Nolan stressed the importance of being able to summarise your book in a single sentence, in which you should be able to identify what you’re writing, and who it’s for; Simon Trewin unambiguously advised aspiring novelists not to write to the market. Faith O’Grady made the useful point that if you, as the writer, have a good grasp of your genre and the ‘type’ of book you’re writing, it will help you when it comes time to revise your work, and Polly Nolan further advised us that no idea is wasted – you don’t need to put all your good ideas in one book. She also stressed the importance of the first five pages of your novel, and how they are vital for grabbing an agent’s – and a reader’s – attention; they can’t be neglected. Sallyanne Sweeney advised us to know our market, and to ready widely in our area, and Madeleine Milburn suggested practising our pitching by taking published books and writing pitches for them, in three or four sentences.

Sallyanne Sweeney discussed how personal taste does play a part in an agent’s decision as to whether to ask for more of a book, and agents will know editors’ tastes which will influence their thinking when it comes time to submit the book to publishers; if an idea has potential but it’s not for the agent to whom it’s been submitted, it is possible that the book will be passed to a different agent within the agency. She made it clear that an agent can’t represent a book they don’t love. Polly Nolan picked up on this by saying that you need an agent who’ll believe in and fight for your book, and they can only do that if they care about it. Simon Trewin mentioned that several editors and agents turned down Harry Potter, but that if it had been picked up and published for the ‘wrong’ reasons, half-heartedly, it may not have become the phenomenon which it turned out to be.

On the important question of who agents like to represent, Madeleine Milburn said that she looks for professional people, those who are social media-savvy, a person who is open to suggestions and who is ambitious. Sallyanne Sweeney made the point that it doesn’t necessarily take social media to establish a ‘brand’; some authors will find social media more relevant than others. Everything you do builds you as a writer, including the competitions you enter and the stories you publish; it all goes into honing your craft. Faith O’Grady likes people who are prolific, Polly Nolan those who are pragmatic and realistic, Sallyanne Sweeney those who bring determination and resilience to their work. Simon Trewin said he has found clients through newspaper articles, as has Sallyanne Sweeney, but that they’ve also been referred to him through literary consultancies like Inkwell. Polly Nolan has had clients referred to her by other authors, and has also found clients through the Greenhouse Funny Prize, of which she is a judge. Sallyanne Sweeney has found clients through personal approaches and referrals, but also through her slushpile, and she says that agents need to be proactive. Faith O’Grady has also approached public figures who seem to have a story to tell, and this has been fruitful for her in the past.

Image: writersliving.com

Phew. I’ve only managed to get through a fraction of the issues discussed, and this post needs to be wrapped up. I’ll revisit this topic tomorrow, maybe, if anyone would be interested in learning more? Let me know. Yet to be discussed are issues like pen names, public speaking, how to write an author biography, the Irish publishing scene, how things like advances and royalties work and – important for some, but not for me – how much money you can expect to earn as a writer.

I hope this has been of interest. If anyone has questions, hit me in the comments.

 

The Joy of Words

Well, last week had this in it.

Image: v8.en.memegenerator.net

For the unclickables among you, I’ll paraphrase the article I’ve linked to above: in essence, a new app is in development which allows people to read at speeds of up to 500 words per minute, mainly due to the fact that you don’t need to move your eyes at all. The app flashes the words in front of you, with one letter highlighted in red (apparently, just at the optimum point in the word for your brain to recognise and process it without even realising it’s doing so), and your eyes remain steady throughout. All you need to do is look at the red letter, and you read the word automatically.

Image: financialanalystwarrior.com

Yeah. I’m with yonder sceptical dog.

The article I’ve linked to has a trial run of the app (called Spritz), and you can see what I’m talking about for yourself. You can also give it a go, and see how it makes you feel. For me, when I got to the 500 words per minute section, I have to admit the letters were zipping by so fast that I did miss a word or two every so often; my brain put together the sense of the sentence, all the same, but it actually felt like more work, to me, than ‘ordinary’ reading. It also made me feel like I’d just stepped off one of these:

Image: zuzutop.com

More than that, though, it made me feel a bit sad. Has it come to this, that we’re living in a world where reading is seen as just another chore, something else to plough through at top speed so that we can get back to playing Candy Crush Saga?

I don’t know. Perhaps the app is intended for people who have to read long technical documents, or complicated legal rulings, or government papers, or something like that. I don’t deny the science behind it; certainly, it worked, exactly as it said it would. But it sucked every droplet of joy out of the act of reading, and I think that’s a retrograde step. There was no time to pause, to reflect, to luxuriate in a beautifully constructed sentence; there was no time to appreciate the skill with which the words were laced together. It was like sitting down before a gorgeous meal, prepared with love and care and painstaking effort, and just tipping the whole lot down your neck, oyster-fashion. Not only will you not enjoy the food, but you won’t enjoy the act of eating, either – the two are closely linked.

A lot like the joy of words, and the act of reading. Just in case you didn’t get the metaphor.

Then, I’m speaking as a person who reads quickly anyway, and who enjoys fluency with words. I’m aware that not everyone is like me, and perhaps this app will help some readers who find it hard to get through longer documents; if it’s useful to someone, then it’s to be welcomed, of course. But, to me, reading (for leisure, that is) should be a pleasant and immersive experience, taken at your own pace – whatever that pace may be. It should allow you time for thought and absorption, time to enjoy the words as well as the content.

Or, maybe it’s just my inner technophobe rising to the fore again.

Image: somedesignblog.com

Anyway.

As well as learning about Spritzing, last week was a word-filled one for me in other ways. I spent it glued to the computer going through ‘Emmeline’, making a concerted push to edit it, and repolish it, and finally reach a point where I can say: ‘Yes. This book is ready.’ It had already had five edits before I even began this process, but as late as Friday I was going through it and still seeing extraneous words, unclear descriptions, frankly stupid continuity errors and places where the dialogue could have been sharpened.

It just goes to show that an editor’s job is never done. However, a writer’s job is to get their work to a point where they can say they’ve done their best, and then let their words go. That, friends, is the challenge facing me this week.

Today is the day I start to submit ‘Emmeline.’

Quite.
Image: athenna.com

I am proud of my work, and I don’t think it’s wrong to say so. I am happy with ‘Emmeline’, I am glad to have written it, I love my characters and I think the story is enjoyable. Now, we’ll see what the publishing industry thinks of it, and I’ll report back to you when I have more information.

If you never hear from me again, you’ll know what happened.

 

 

Finding North

What happens when you feel like you’re on the wrong track?

Image: thinkingmomsrevolution.com

In the course of researching the market, checking out agents’ requirements, keeping on top of trends in the publishing industry and all those other vital things that anyone who desires a career in writing needs to do, I come across a lot of scary information. I read articles which decry the upswing in children’s stories featuring magic – ‘Harry Potter is so over, people!’ – and some which say there aren’t enough stories like that. I’ve sweated my way through blog posts complaining about exactly the sort of books I love to read – and, by extension, write – and industry diatribes against children’s books which feature some, or all, of the things I’m currently working on. I have had a children’s book in mind for years, one I just haven’t found quite the right voice for yet, which – apparently – is so old hat as to be laughable. Agents and publishers all seem to be searching for something which is new, which is fresh, which is different, but if what I think of as new and fresh and different is boring as dust to them, then what am I to do?

I haven’t written a new short story for quite some time, besides one which I entered into a competition a few weeks ago. I feel like I’ve lost touch, somewhat, with what the market is looking for in terms of short fiction – either I’m churning out cliché, or I’m just not fashionable any more in terms of the subjects and/or style I choose to use, or something else, something I can’t put my finger on, is wrong with my work. I went through a golden patch of success with my stories when I was completely new to writing them – they seemed to fit the moment, and the readers to whom I was sending them understood what I was getting at, and could get on board with what I wanted to achieve – but in recent months, they’ve fallen on cold, stony soil. I wouldn’t even worry about this – taste is a subjective and amorphous thing, everyone is looking for something different in a short story, there’s room for all sorts of creative work, and all that – except for the fact that when I read short stories now, particularly award-winning ones, I just don’t get them.

In the immortal words of Jordan Catalano – they ‘just don’t hold my attention.’

Image: notsuperhuman.com

I’m not for one split second trying to say that the short stories I’m reading aren’t good – clearly, they are, or they wouldn’t be winning awards – but what I mean is this: how have I become so out of touch with what’s required of a story that I can’t even read, and enjoy, an obviously well-crafted piece of work?

Of course, I believe it’s important to be true to your own voice and honest about what you feel when you’re writing a story. It’s pointless to write ‘to’ a market, because it changes so regularly. Having said that, it worries me that I don’t seem to be able to keep abreast of changes, and that the ideas I’m having are old, out of fashion, out of favour – unsellable, unlovable, dead in the water before they’ve even set sail.

Writing is a hard thing. Not only is it difficult, and time-consuming, and brain-consuming, to sit down and spend hours tapping away at a keyboard but it’s also hard on the soul to create something special and unique to you, something you love and want to share with the world, which then falls at the first hurdle. Writing fiction can be intensely personal; what you write says a lot about who you are. So, if what you write is out of touch, out of favour, unfashionable – or, if you believe it to be so – it can be a deep wound in a secret place, one which you carry with you but show to nobody. A person can’t help but be interested in what they love, and a writer will write what interests them, and what excites and motivates their creative brain. Creating a piece of work is an achievement in itself, of course, but realistically, spending months or years writing something which you love, which then goes on to sit on your desk gathering dust or which ping-pongs around from agent to agent for years without finding a home, is disheartening.

I don’t have an answer for all this. You can’t write to a market because by the time you’ve finished your book the market has changed, as markets are wont, and your carefully crafted story about canine vampires from outer space has been done to almost literal death. You can’t write to a market because that’s not being true to yourself as a writer, and it’s also a little cynical. Instead you write because you love it, and you love the stories you’re telling, and you write them as well as you can, and you try to improve your craft with every project you complete. All you can do is hope that, someday, the market and your talent and your idea and your submission will all align like planets in an intergalactic conjunction, and the magic will start to happen.

Sounds so easy, doesn’t it?

Image: ibnlive.in.com

All a person can do is keep the focus on their own personal North. Write what’s true, and what’s real, and – while remaining aware of trends – don’t let yourself be swayed by what other people expect. Write what you love, as well as you possibly can. And – maybe – take some time out and do some reading, or remove your head from your writing space altogether in order to let some new ideas come sweeping in. It’s worth a shot.

A Matter of Opinion

Monday is creaking itself into position once again, and another chain of days is about to start careering down the slippery slope we call a ‘week’. I hope you had a restful weekend and you’re primed and ready for it.

Good woman, Barbara.
Image: funkmysoul.gr

This past weekend was full of bad news. I’m trying not to even think about some of the news stories that made me sad, or angry, over the last few days – and there were many. I’m not ignoring the fact that things happened in the world which made my red mist descend, and which upset me greatly, but this blog post is all about the positive. Right? Right.

So, let’s not talk about the sad stuff. Not today.

In the spirit of focusing on the non-enraging, one of the more interesting stories over the weekend centred on the kerfuffle surrounding ‘The Cuckoo’s Calling‘, a book which was published to no great acclaim in April. Purporting to be the debut novel of a former soldier and military policeman named Robert Galbraith, the book was receiving good reviews, but had not sold in any huge numbers – reports vary between 500 and 1,500 copies sold – but those who had read it, by all accounts, liked it. Robert Galbraith, the mysterious author, had admitted to writing under a pseudonym to, I suppose, protect his former colleagues and avoid any sort of security issues surrounding his foray into crime writing, but that was far from being the biggest secret Mr. Galbraith was sitting on.

Over the weekend, ‘Mr Galbraith’ was unmasked. Not an ex-military police officer, nor even a man, ‘Galbraith’ is, in fact, J.K. Rowling.

The most interesting thing about the whole situation, I think, is the fact that the manuscript of ‘The Cuckoo’s Calling’ was, apparently, submitted to at least one publisher (under its pseudonym, of course), and was turned down as being ‘not marketable’; it didn’t stand out from the crowd enough, apparently. It wasn’t head and shoulders above any of the other promising submissions received, and so it wasn’t picked up. I have great respect for the editor of the publishing company who turned the book down purely on its merits, and who is now brave enough to admit it, and to give her reasons for her decision; she could have tried to wash her hands of responsibility, or pretend the decision to turn the book down was a tortuous one. She could have fawned all over J.K. Rowling. She could (horror of horrors!) have apologised for her decision. Instead, she simply explained how she felt the book was solid, decent, well written – but nothing amazing.

I thought this was remarkable. Not only because the editor in question is a brave and principled person, but because it made me feel a whole lot better about the rejections I get which are worded along much the same lines: ‘Thank you for your submission; your work is perfectly fine, but just not marketable in the current publishing climate’, or ‘Your work is not suitable for us – but our opinion is not exhaustive, so don’t give up.’ Whatever your opinion of ‘Harry Potter’ is – whether you believe the books are good, or not – it’s beyond question that J.K. Rowling is the publishing sensation of our time. Anything with her name on it is a foregone conclusion, in terms of publication. It turned out that ‘The Cuckoo’s Calling’ was eventually published by an imprint of the publisher who handled her book ‘The Casual Vacancy’ last year, but it seems that she submitted it to other publishers, just like any debut author – but found, apparently, little success. The book has received very positive feedback from readers, so it’s not necessarily that her work was not good; it just wasn’t good enough for a publisher to take a punt on it, particularly in the crowded crime/detective fiction market.

Image: en.wikipedia.org

This news story has given me a lot to think about, and no mistake. The first conclusion one could draw would be this: what’s the point of anyone trying to get a book published, as an unknown debut author, if a writer with the ability of J.K. Rowling can’t get picked up? Well – yes and no. That’s an insidious and dangerous way to think; it erodes hope and chips away at the future, and should be avoided. There are always exceptions; there are always chances worth jumping at. You’ve got to have faith in your own work, and keep on going with the submissions even if there seems to be no light on the horizon. Rowling herself was turned down by twelve publishers before she placed ‘Harry Potter’ with Bloomsbury. It can happen. People get published every day. They can’t all be world-defining geniuses. Sometimes, a submission will be good enough – not the best submission in the history of writing, but good enough for a particular agent or publisher, and that’s all you need.

So, instead of being disheartened by the saga of ‘The Cuckoo’s Calling’ (in hindsight, rather an apt title), I’m choosing to be encouraged by it. A submission is never going to hit the mark with everyone who reads it; not every publisher is going to like, or even tolerate, some of the work you produce – and that’s not a personal thing, despite how hard it can be to separate yourself from your creative work. It doesn’t mean that if you get knocked back by two, or five, or ten agents or publishers, that you should give up the search – there will, hopefully, be an appreciative ear out there for what you’re writing, and what a shame it would be to give up before you find it.

Of course, if every person to whom you submit your work says something along the lines of: ‘In our opinion, a novel about interstellar time-travelling leprechauns written in rhyming couplets which can, due to the fact you’ve written it in disappearing ink, only be read on the first Tuesday of every month in full moonlight is not exactly the most market-friendly thing; perhaps you should consider submitting something else, or reworking this entirely,’ then maybe it’s time to start thinking: it’s not them. It’s me.

Until then, keep the faith.

The Plunge? Taken!

We find ourselves on the rocks of Thursday once again. I trust you’re all well? Good, good.

So, this week, I finally got around to doing that thing I’ve been promising to do for, oh, the last six months, or so. I’m sure most of you had given up all hope that I’d ever make good on my word, and had probably come to the bitter realisation that sometimes, you just can’t believe a thing you read on the internet…

I never should have trusted her! Sniff!
Image: nature.com

Yeah, or not.

In any case, it might be of interest to you to know that this is the week in which I finally did it. After many months of waffling about it, I’ve at long last begun to make contact with agents. Literary agents. Actual literary agents. With connections in the publishing industry, and everything. So far, I’ve lived to tell the tale, but we’ll see how long that lasts.

You know, sometimes, how you can pay visits to really tall buildings – in places like America, I mean, because of course Ireland doesn’t have any *really* tall buildings, on account of how we’re all short and oppressed – and they have glass floors that you can walk on and look down hundreds of feet to the ground below?

Like this? *covers eyes*
Image: alexderavin.blogspot.com

When I tell you that I had to have a cup of strong coffee before I could even do a Google Image search for that picture, I’m not joking. I hate heights so much that even looking at that photograph is giving me vertigo. Standing on a kitchen chair is as high as I ever want to be off the ground – and even at that, sometimes, I get an attack of the wobbles.

And, my dears, that feeling of vertigo, and the sensation of ‘ooh, I think I might be out of my depth here,’ is now a permanent fixture in my life.

Pressing ‘send’ on an email which contains the first five pages, or the first three thousand words, or the first ten thousand words, or whatever the case may be, of a book over which you’ve (almost literally) sweated blood, is no easy thing to do. The email doesn’t just contain words, of course – it holds your hopes, and fears, and plans, and ambition. It contains everything in you which is good and admirable, and everything which is desperate and terrified, too. Every submission made is an hour, or two hours, or a day of preparation – writing a synopsis, crafting a cover letter, reading and re-reading and re-reading your opening chapters just in case there’s an error you’ve missed the last five thousand times you read it; it’s the hours spent researching the agency to which you’re submitting and making sure they have an interest in what you’re writing, as best you can; it’s the hours of self-talk, trying to convince yourself that this isn’t completely crazy and that you can actually go through with it.

So, you see. Not just a case of ‘whack it all together and let it go wherever it needs to.’

I’m trying not to look back over the emails I’ve already sent, because they’re sure to make me cringe. I’m trying to be positive, and hope that something in what I’ve sent will spark interest, somewhere; I’m aware, though, that what I’m doing is akin to trying to light a match somewhere on the deepest ocean floor. There are a lot of people trying to do what I’m doing – most of them with more to offer than I have – and it can be hard to keep dredging inside yourself, expecting there to be endless supplies of optimism and hope just waiting to be tapped; that, however, is what I have to do. Every time I sit to write a synopsis (because I do a new one each time I submit to an agent, in the interests of keeping the whole thing ‘fresh’ and relevant to each particular recipient), it gets harder to shake the feeling of boredom surrounding my novel – it all seems so old, and worn, and overdone. I’m telling myself that’s because I’ve read it so many times, and I’m clinging to the hope that this is the truth.

And, of course, I’ve only just begun the whole process. I still have the weeks and months of waiting for a reply to come yet. At least the waiting process will give me some time to build myself back up again, just in time to cope with the lovely, kind, well-meaning emails which will read something like: ‘Thank you for your submission – we can see you’ve worked very hard on it, but unfortunately, it’s not for us…’

And, the best bit of all? I’m not even halfway through my list of agencies, so this will be going on for some time yet. Someone pour me a whiskey…

‘Tomorrow… Is… Another day!’ Yes, Scarlett. Another day in which I have to turn around and do all this again! Yay?
Image: lesscakemorefrosting.com

 

Publish or Perish

My goodness, it’s cold this morning.

Almost as bad as this…
Image: fireballwhisky.com

It almost doesn’t matter, from my point of view, because what I’ll be doing today is printing out a hard copy of ‘Eldritch’ and going through it – line by line, word by word, syllable by syllable – with a pen. And, of course, I can retire to the coffee shop for this. Full of steam, condensation, and – crucially – other people, I’ll be able to stave off hypothermia in its kind embrace. Yay, say I, for coffee shops. Bastions of culture since the 1700s, and still going strong.

I don’t really want to look too closely at it, but it’s true that I also have before me a handwritten list of things that need to be done before the end of May. Most of them are competitions that I must enter; some are publications whose closing date for submissions is also the end of May. Then, of course, I have ‘Eldritch’, which needs to be gone and out of my mind by the end of May, too. It’s times like this I wish I had three brains. It’s really hard to divide attention between two or three projects and feel like you’re giving all of them your full attention, but I guess this is my lot. Deadlines don’t wait because you’re busy. Life doesn’t wait until you’re ready!

On the upside, my story, ‘Lord of the Land’, was published last night in the most recent issue of ‘Synaesthesia‘ magazine, and I was very happy to see it spring into life. This is the story I was telling you all about the other day, the one which I feel has more of me in it than most of the others I’ve written. Also, there’s a photo of me included at the end (brace yourselves); if you’ve always wondered what sort of head I have on me, well, wonder no more. I actually am a real life person, and not a shiny chrome android randomly hitting a keyboard, which may come as a relief to some of you. ‘Lord of the Land’ also has the dubious honour of being the last piece in my current clutch of ‘forthcoming’ publications for adults. I have one more story forthcoming for children, which will be published in about a week and a half, and after that, I’ll be all out for a while. Unless, of course, I manage to get some more stuff submitted, accepted and thrown out into the world. The cycle begins again.

This is the challenge, and the beauty, of writing, of course. You need to keep up the momentum. You can’t afford to stop once you’ve managed to build up even a small head of steam, and you start feeling the pressure of it quite quickly. It’s not unwelcome pressure, but it’s pressure nonetheless, and self-imposed at that – sometimes, that’s the worst kind. There are no easy answers, either, and no short cuts. I know what needs to be done – my head needs to bend to the grindstone, and no mistake. It’s lucky that I enjoy writing as much as I do, then; a shame, though, that pressure is the death of inspiration.

Maybe I’ll just start churning these out instead…
Image: romanceuniversity.org

In any case, those are the challenges (at least, the creative ones!) facing me this week, and for the rest of the month. Seven competitions and/or submission opportunities to enter, one little book to introduce to the potentially unwelcoming world, a children’s book conference to attend (which will be great fun, I hope), and desperate prayers that the stream of ideas and enthusiasm won’t dry up just yet to be said.

If all else fails, I’ll just go out and buy a copy of Dan Brown’s latest potboiler, which is being published today (as anyone into books will surely know); if he can do it, anyone can.

Not, of course, that I’m being sour-grapey, or anything…

Word-Babies

So, I got the news the other day that another story of mine has managed to find a home in an online literary magazine. I was, of course, gladdened at the news.

There may even have been a bit of this kind of thing going on:

Wahoo!
Image: catherinepowen.com

Strangely, though, this time around, getting the good news felt even more satisfying than ‘normal’ (it still feels strange to think of my life as a place where I know how it feels to be published – so bear with me!) It was as if I wasn’t just pleased that a story of mine was being published, but also that this particular story was being given a chance to go out into the world and (hopefully) be read. All the stories I’ve written mean something to me, of course, and I only submit the ones I really liked to write and which I feel have some merit as a readable piece, but this one… well. This one’s special.

The story is, I think, even more a part of me than any of the others. It has a basis in medieval romance, it features some of my favourite legendary characters – revivified and made my own, of course – and it allowed me, when writing it, not only to express myself through language but also to display some of what is closest to my heart. I think this story is far more than just 1500 words of text which I have written and drafted and redrafted and formed into something that holds water as a story; it’s me, in textual form. Writing it was instinctual, almost obvious – as soon as I got the spark of the idea behind this story, the words lined up obediently in my mind, waiting their turn to settle onto the page. Of course, I then had to hone and redraft and re-read and redraft some more, but essentially the story has stayed the same. Writing this story truly was one of those magical moments you read about, when you feel like all you’re doing is taking dictation from somewhere ‘else’, and the words are coming to you from a very deep place.

I know, for sure, that not all my story writing experiences will be this profound. That’s why this one stands out so much, and was so memorable.

At the same time, I wonder if it’s a bad thing to be so emotionally attached to a piece of work. If, for instance, this story had not met with editorial favour, and had been rejected out of hand, and had been scornfully thrown back in my face (not that this sort of thing really happens – everyone I’ve had a rejection from has been very nice, even apologetic, about it!), would it have been an emotional disaster for me? Would I have felt, even more keenly than usual, that it was me, and not my story, which was being rejected?

Writing is, of course, a very emotional and personal business. Everything you write, to a greater or lesser extent, is a manifestation of who you are. The story may not be based on your life – in fact, sometimes, it’s better to avoid autobiography at all costs! – but the writing of it, the images you choose, the settings, the time periods, the connections between your characters, the relationship dynamics, and so much more, all reveal a little about you, how you think, how you feel, and how you see the world. In that sense, then, all stories are ‘word-babies’ – precious, treasured and rare. But is it healthier to see them strictly as pieces of work, in the same way that a block-layer would view a wall he’s just built or an architect a building she’s designed? You do your work to the best of your ability, until you’re proud to stand over it and call it yours; you submit it wherever it’s going; you leave it behind you and move on to the next project, clear-minded and full of enthusiasm. You don’t send everything out on submission with your heart in your mouth, terrified that it’ll be rejected, and that it won’t find a home anywhere, and that people will think you’re ridiculous for even having written it. If every writer worked like that, nobody would submit anything, and we’d all be in hospital with nervous exhaustion.

I just can’t do it, Herbert! I can’t have another haiku rejected!
Image: criterion.com

So, I’m proud of all my stories, and all of them reflect an aspect of me, whether it’s a fear I have, or a dark imagining, or a childhood memory twisted into something that never was. All of them, I hope, also express something about the world – they have a larger comment to make on society or humanity or whatever it might be. This recently accepted story, though, my real and true ‘word-baby’, says more about me than it does about the world. It’s more my affectionate farewell to characters I’ve loved all my life than it is a larger cultural statement, and it’s probably closer to my heart than is healthy or advisable. I’m very glad it was accepted for publication, then, both from a health and a craft point of view; I hope, even if it had been rejected, though, that I’d have been able to pick myself up and start again with it. I hope I’ve learned enough, even at this stage on my writing journey, to know that a piece of work which means so much to me is worth fighting for.

What do you think? Should writing be about creating ‘work’, from which you can easily emotionally detach, or do you find that your writing is more a part of you, from which you hate to be parted? Or a bit of both, or neither? Do tell.

It’s the End of the Week as We Know It…

…and I feel (largely) fine!

This is despite the fact that – of course – my hubris has caught up with me again.

Ah, yes… she’s coming! I, Hubris, will throw this pie in her big silly face and show her who’s in charge around here!
Image: wordswewomenwrite.wordpress.com

I was supposed to start the querying process by the end of this week. You might remember I said so, in black and white, right here on this very blog. Putting things in writing here is sort of like creating a contract with myself, a means of shaming myself into doing stuff in a timely fashion. If I write it here, I have to follow through with it.

It works well, a lot of the time.

Not, however, when the book I want to query is undercooked, as ‘Eldritch’ definitely was – and, perhaps, still is. Although, I really hope not.

I’ve spent this week working through the book again, reading carefully, editing (6, 500 words fell beneath my ruthless blade!), fixing problems, keeping an eye out for things like ‘jumpy’ scenes – in other words, when reading something makes you feel like you’re listening to a CD skipping* – and something I tend to do a lot, I’ve noticed: writing unrealistic reactions.

What I mean by ‘writing unrealistic reactions’, of course, is having a character go completely nuts with rage when it’s, actually, a vast overreaction to the situation at that time, or say something which is logically unconnected to what’s gone before, or seem too calm when another character drops a bombshell of bad news on their head, or whatever it might be. I can’t really explain why I did this so often during the course of the book, particularly near the end, without even realising it; on this, most recent read-through, all these ‘clanging’ moments jumped out at me like samba dancers wearing neon headdresses, but up to this point I’d entirely missed them.

I think, somehow, it might go back to an age-old conflict in the world of fiction-writing: plot vs. character.

Take that, you bounder!
Image: nancylauzon.com

I’ve a feeling what happened was this, or something like it. On the first few drafts, I was too busy getting the plot of ‘Eldritch’ out onto the page, unravelled, exposed, explained, resolved and told to focus sufficiently on keeping my characters consistent. This, of course, is a silly, silly thing to do. A book should rest on the shoulders of its characters. They should drive it, they should shape and mould it, their reactions should be true to their personalities (because, yes, even fictional people have personalities!); in short, a collection of things happening is a story; characters living through that story makes a plot. But, at all times, a writer must be mindful that their characters are the focus. People don’t (generally) act wildly ‘out of character’, unless they have an excellent reason – so, why would it be different for a fictional person?

If this is forgotten, what we have are wooden-seeming characters, who move about jerkily like Thunderbird puppets, waiting for a string to be pulled before they can take any action. If we have prioritised story over character, then it’s natural that reactions will be unbelievable and ‘unreal’, unnatural, and clunky. And, of course, this is not something which will go unnoticed by a reader. It will scream out from the page, and make a reader very unhappy indeed, and may even lead to them (gasp) not finishing the book. That, of course, is a nightmare scenario. I know, as a reader myself, that what I look for in a story more than anything else is characters so real I feel I can reach into my book and touch them, characters with whom I can imagine having a conversation (or a beer, depending on the book), characters who are fully rounded, fully realised and true to themselves, and who act at all times in accordance with their personalities and the circumstances in which they find themselves. So, it upsets me that as a writer, I should fall into the trap of prioritising plot over people.

The only good thing in this situation is, of course, that I’ve spotted my mistakes now, and not three weeks after I’d started querying the manuscript. I also know that the draft of ‘Eldritch’ currently saved on my various computer files and disks is a better version of the book than that which existed two weeks, even one week, ago; after it’s settled for a few days in my mind, I’ll go back to it again and make sure it still holds water. It’s by no means a perfect book, but I dare to hope it’s reasonably good. In its own small way.

And then. And then it’ll be time to send it away into the big bad world. I hope it doesn’t come back until it’s encased within covers.

*I’ve just realised how many people reading this will now be thinking ‘What an old-fashioned fuddy duddy stick in the mud! CDs? I don’t even know what they are anymore.’ Well, sorry about that. I’m a troglodyte.