Readier, and Eddie R

After not getting a response from a certain record company, despite a second request for permission to use some song lyrics, I’ve had to rewrite one of my chapters. You’d think a small independent label would be only too pleased of some free publicity but apparently not. So, sod ’em. I’ll leave the name of the band in as it’s not their fault their permissions man CBA to respond to my mails.

It was only a 110-word rewrite but not having touched the chapter for a few years it was weird, and a little unnerving, getting the pen out again. I’m a great believer that a writer gets on a roll, that it just flows, and that once a particular creative episode has ended it is difficult, perhaps even impossible, to bring it back to life. I’d compare it to waking up during a nice dream, and trying to go back to sleep again so you can pick up where you left off.

That said, the little voice in my head, the one I thought I’d got rid of, reminded me of a couple of sub-plots that it wasn’t entirely happy with. Several of the chapters have multiple time-shifts, jumping back years, jumping forward again, and it’s important to get these right. It sounds easy enough, but it’s actually quite a hard skill to master. Films tend to use captions that say things like ‘Seven years earlier’, ‘fifteen years later’, or whatever, but it’s harder to pull off these shifts in prose. That, allied to the sub-plot not being quite right, and I knew I needed to look at it again. Fortunately, after a couple of hours of 228-word rewrite I’m happy that one of the last nagging doubts has been removed. I’m readier. Almost ready to roll.

On a completely different note, I usually couldn’t give a monkeys about the Oscars, I find the whole thing a bit nauseating and narcissistic, but as much as you can be pleased for someone you’ve never met, I was pleased to learn Eddie Redmayne had done the business yesterday evening. If you could tell how nice a person was just from looking at their face, and I’m quite sure you can’t, then I reckon Eddie R would be a pretty top bloke. I’ve not seen the film, and don’t intend to, but his performance opposite Clémence Poésy in Sebastian Foulks’ <i>Birdsong</i> was outstanding. I rarely eulogise over such things so that really is praise indeed coming from me. Out of all the films I’ve ever seen, the on-screen chemistry between Redmayne and Poésy was, to use a cliché, electric. Actually I’m not sure you can have electric chemistry, that seems to be conflating two sciences, but you know what I mean. I’d go as far as saying it’s the only time I’ve ever watched a film and believed that the actor and the actress were in love with each other. Maybe they were. If you’ve never seen it, it’s a must-watch.

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Praying for the Tory/UKIP dream ticket

Four years ago or so, a few chapters into my twenty-five chapter novel I foolishly predicted another hung parliament in the 2015 general election, with the Tories being coalesced – that might be a euphemism – by UKIP. As predictions go, I have to say it’s looking rather ‘good’ at the moment, but it could still all go wrong. If it does, I’ll have to rewrite the chapter, and then do a painstaking search through the rest of the manuscript to check for possible continuity errors. That would be a bit of pain in the backside to say the least, so I’m praying for a Tory/UKIP dream ticket come May.

If that means coming out of the EU, probably permanently damaging our economy; if that means picking/processing/packing labour shortages driving up the price of our home-grown crops; if that means kicking out lots of perfectly nice people including my old French mates in London, and my sweet Slovakian friend from uni…so be it. For no more rewrites, it’s a price worth paying.

If that means supporting the meanest nastiest domestic policies since 1930s Germany, including withdrawing benefits from obese people simply for being, well, a bit on the fat side; if that means painting ‘Pizza Night’ on the windows of these chubby new Jews where once others may have painted ‘Kristallnacht’…so be it. For no more rewrites, it’s a price worth paying.

Of course that might sound rather selfish on my part, and you could point out that phobia of people from mainland Europe is at best irrational, at worst racist. You could point out that if Mrs Thatch hadn’t sold off all the council houses in the 80s, then local councils would be able to place people in low cost housing instead of bed and breakfasts, thereby saving tens of billions of pounds on the benefits bill and perhaps avoiding the apparent ‘need’ to stigmatise the disabled, the obese, and whoever else is next on the hit-list, for having homes, or waistlines, or whatevers, that are ‘too big’. But proffering such apparently rational points of view would be to fail to understand the seriousness of the nightmare that I sit here facing right now. I achieved psychological closure on my novel over a year ago. I wrote ‘THE END’. There was not supposed to be any going back to the files on my hard drive and changing stuff.

So, for no more rewrites, when push comes to shove in May I’m praying for the Tory/UKIP dream ticket.

‘Three Seasons’ – a poem

I haven’t written a pome (sic) for several years, and then only under university-orchestrated duress, but having been woken by the neighbours at 3:40 (yeah, thanks a lot) my cogs started whirring and once I had three words I couldn’t switch my brain off and that was the end of my night’s kip, so I’m feeling pretty fuzzy right now; best I get this post off.

 

‘Three Seasons’

 

Summer

Thunderous jungle,

Starstruck ungulates

Watching

Angled flashing

Wanderlust.

 

Autumn

Blonded fronds

Disconnect,

Drop down

Brown

Collect where

Huge trunks hug their gathered,

Leathered

Trinkets.

 

Winter

Crossbills nibble at

Larch,

Mistle throstles whistle

For March.

Defrosting gardens

Glisten

To the harbinger

Of spring

Blossom.

 

Why only three seasons? Well, I got to thinking about a mate, Ian, whose partner has just had a baby (bless) and I thought, well, a pregnancy only lasts three seasons; I could dedicate this to baby Amelia thereby securing a free pass that gets me off having to write a fourth section. I was pretty pleased with this idea at 5:40 and resolved to get up at this unearthly time of the morning should I ever need to tap into this devious streak again.

I do love playing about with rhyme (full or slant), it really bakes my strudel. I mean noodle. Nope, I prefer strudel. Noodle is a ridiculous word. Reckon I’ve just improved that idiom immeasurably. I gift it to the world at large.

Not sure a nature poem is the best way to help flog a forthcoming crime novel, but maybe there are poetry buffs out there just waiting for a chance to move into the east London underworld…

If so, you need to hold on a bit longer while I admit I love being out at this time of year and hearing the sound of Mistle Thrush; brightens up any winter’s day. It’s a bootiful singer, as they say in Norfolk. if you don’t believe me…

 

http://www.xeno-canto.org/102095

 

[Thanks to Richard Dunn of Northumberland for the uppy to xeno-canto under creative commons licence.]

 

[Edited – for lack of tags. Hard enough to remember at the best of times never mind  while I’m only half-functioning. If this dupes in your inbox, sorry, sorry, sorry and…sorry again.]

New year, new career, new ideas

Three months without posting anything on WordPress probably began with a bit of frustration at the sheer size of the blogosphere, the amount of stuff to wade through before you find what you want, but doubtless it was also due to concentrating on the final module of my degree, which I will wrap up in June. The first tentative steps toward a career change back in the autumn have rapidly moved on to a firm offer of a training place as a secondary school English teacher from September, so it’s new year, new career, all being well.

As part of my presentation to the interview panel I condensed four chapters of Pride and Prejudice into a single tweet, in modern colloquial language, and it seemed to go down well. It’s rewarding to get the thumbs up for any creative effort, however small. I know I’d get a kick out of trying to bring some new ideas into the classroom.

All this has meant the supposed launch date of The Judge of the Dead is going to have to be shifted back by a season, so summer instead of spring. The spring date was arbitrary anyway, six months from my 4th October decision to publish, to give me time to work the internet to my advantage; something I’ve singularly failed to do so far. I’m not really convinced about the efficacy of blogging, doing reviews on Goodreads etc, but I’ll gladly be proved wrong. I need to get back on the case.

I am now in the unexpected position of wondering what the school’s position might be on me publishing a novel. On the face of it you might think they’d be all for it, but it’s a crime novel so there are naughty characters in naughty places spouting naughty language, taking naughty substances, doing naughty man-WOHman stuff. Is that the sort of material parents and governors are going to be pleased to be associated with? Probably not.

Of course this would only matter if my novel entered the public consciousness to any great extent, and I’m well aware that the odds are stacked against me in that regard, but I’ll still need to have the conversation with the school, just in case.

The obvious thing to do is use a nom de plume, but show me a writer who claims not to be bothered about putting their name to their creation and I’ll show you a liar. If Charlotte Bronte were alive today, would she be hiding behind the name Currer Bell? I doubt it. Still, I need to consider the pen name option, unappealing as it is. If I did go down that road, that would kill off any likelihood of me spending any money on the cover. If it’s not going to have my real name on it, what’s the point? I can think of better ways of spending a few hundred quid. I suspect for most self-published authors, the person designing the cover makes more money than the writer. Doesn’t sit right with me that; not unless I can get Dscreet to do the artwork. His owls get a mention in The Judge of the Dead, but I don’t think that’ll qualify me for a freebie cover somehow.

[Edited for tags. I always forget the bloody things, but I like the idea that just by tagging the word ‘owls’ someone with no interest in crime fiction might be drawn into my lair. Sorry once again if anyone gets this twice as a result of my memory slowly disappearing through its sieve.]

Under-declaring income from drugs and prostitution on your tax return…

and then refusing to pay the bill from the authorities…

is apparently perfectly reasonable behaviour if you are…

the UK government.

I’ll remember that, Mr Cameron, the next time I get one of those nice ‘You’d better tell us now because we’ll find out anyway and then you’ll be sorry’ letters from Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs.

First chapters, angels, whores, and self-appointed gurus

Self-appointed gurus. The internet is full of them. Even WordPress seems full of them. They’ve got advice and want to give it to you. Maybe it’s just the medium, but communication seems to be all one-way these days. Nobody asks each other anything. They tell them how it is. No ‘What do you think?’. No, it’s all top ten things you must do, top five things you mustn’t do, top seven…come on, at least make it lucky seven, to give me some shred of hope it might change my life for the better. So, forgive the old-school tone of this post. It won’t deal in certainties, but doubts. I may even throw in a question, just to see what you think (like what people used to do). Don’t get me wrong, the ability to communicate with like minds across the globe revolutionises our lives in a positive way, but we don’t have to be so damned didactic in our dealings with each other, do we?

My irritation is only worsened by the fact that one of these top ten ‘For the Almighty’s sake don’t do this’ lists has got me wondering about my first chapter again; wondering, again, about moving another chapter to the front instead. Am I displaying a sign of weakness here? I bet that’s on a top ten list somewhere. DON’T write anything that might make a potential reader doubt you know what you’re doing. But that ignores the fact that while a chronological story can only have one form, beginning to end, there are innumerable ways to cut the story up into bits and re-arrange it again as entertainment. There is no right answer.

Some background on my novel. It’s a crime novel. Kind of. It has six ‘protagonists’ (each also antagonists), each with four chapters in which to tell their side of the story in first-person point of view (before they all come together for the final chapter). Yes, you understood that right: six first-person narrators. It’s the sort of thing a writer shouldn’t be handling unless he’s David Mitchell or whoever, and even then probably not. It’s dynamite, either in a blow yourself to smithereens sense, or a here’s a cheque for a million pounds sense. The smart money, down to every last coin, is on the former.

Why am I talking about this? Because there are potentially different ways of beginning the novel. Character A could kick it off. Any of them could, and not even with their first chapter in a chronological sense. The first chapter I wrote, originally half the length and in a different tense, was for a creative writing exercise for uni. A young lad has just been let out of prison and begins his hunt for the grass that got him sent down. You might expect that first seed of a story to have grown into chapter one of my novel. No. It’s chapter sixteen. I think it was some kind of exercise on in medias res (starting a story in the middle of the action). As such it ought to be the first chapter, before I rewind the clock in chapter two, much as you might see in a film (crash bang wallop…’four years earlier’…), but I’ve played about with its positioning and eventually settled on its largely chronological place in the story, sixteen chapters in. However, it remains an option to move it to the front.

Why would I want to, considering it sits nicely back where it is? Because of the accepted wisdom that one needs to hook the potential reader, right from the very first second they stare at the page. How could anyone argue with that? You see, that’s where Austen screwed up with her ‘It is a truth universally acknowledged’ baloney. There is no place for a phrase like that other than in a list of top ten things you must do (or not do). It’s no way to hook a novel reader. Okay, that was a bad example to unleash my sarcasm upon. Pride and Prejudice could be improved by opening with Elizabeth Bennet being found naked next to a canal, her entrails being eaten by Carrion Crows (before they’re chased away by the SOCOs), and an estimated time of death between, well, you get the picture. But my question remains: why does every novel have to grab you by the short and curlies right from the off? I can quite happily listen to music that builds slowly toward a climax. If it can apply to music, why not literature? Sure, you can’t open with crap writing, there needs to be some sort of sense of quality, and the voice needs not to be off-putting (I nearly bailed out of Cloud Atlas early on), but if the cover blurb is right, if you’ve sold the concept before the reader even turns the first page, they should be on-board, prepared to sit back and enjoy the ride, content that at some point it will all be worth the investment, shouldn’t they?

Okay, so to re-cap, we’ve got six first-person narrators, plus a refusal to have a dead body on page one and the police with a serial killer on their hands by page two (no wonder I haven’t got an agent eh?). Let’s leave the ex-con in chapter sixteen where he was. What are the alternatives? In pole position (no dancing pun intended) currently lies the escort girl, who gets roughed up a bit at chapter’s end (don’t worry, she’s a tough cookie). Is this going to put female readers off? I’ve been over and over this in my mind and I fear the answer is, yes, some. But then if I move it back to chapter two, it’s still there. It’s not gratuitous, it’s part of the story, but only I can know that for sure without revealing how I wrote the book. I want it in, and maybe sometimes you have to decide that for the sake of the integrity of the story you are going to have to accept losing some potential readers along the way, readers that may include some familiar with Freud, thinking: ‘There’s the whore, where’s the angel?’

That brings me to the remaining viable option as chapter one narrator, the other main female character: the ‘angel’. She’s the one I want to win and you possibly would too. But here’s the thing: she doesn’t get to begin to tell her side of things until chapter six. Why does that matter? Well, it might not, but I think there is more of that lovely accepted wisdom out there, that you need to identify your goodie from the beginning, so the reader can latch onto them, get behind them, become them in their minds. This argument does have its merits. If we say that generally most people are good by nature, and that most readers quickly seek to identify and then become the protagonist in their heads (especially so in first-person POV), then to avoid disturbing this good reader by making them live inside a bad character’s head, we generally get spoon-fed a goodie-protagonist we are comfortable being for the next few hundred pages (hopefully nobody really wants to be Humbert Humbert, the paedophile in Nabokov’s Lolita, charming though he may be). As sensible as it may be to load my goodie into chapter one, show her inciting incident, invite the reader to step inside her head, isn’t this just a bit too formulaic?  This is the hero(ine), all I really need to do is guess whether Sean is going to give her a Hollywood ending, or not; that’s it. It’s too easy, yet it’s textbook (and for good reason). I can imagine an editor saying ‘Look, you’ve got to open with her, it’s the rules.’

Well, I don’t like rules. I don’t like being told how to write. Surely it’s a recipe for the death of originality? I want a reader to absorb chapter one and think ‘Yeah, I could get behind this person’, but then feel the same during chapter two, chapter three, and then eventually for some backing away to kick in: ‘Hmm, I’m not sure about this guy after all, and this woman, I had her pegged all wrong from the start.’ I want ambiguity, uncertainty in there, for as long as possible. Actually what I really want is for different readers to root for different characters for different reasons, mirroring how we root for people in real life: because they’re funny, or successful, or kind, or unlucky in love, or whatever. This, to my mind, should preclude moving my ‘angel’ to chapter one, yet an editor probably would.

I thought I was past all this when I decided I was done with approaching agents; with sending the first three chapters. During that phase I’d decided that chapter three was pretty funny, enough to put a smile on the face of an agent, and providing a counterpoint to the underworld London of chapters one and two, so it needed to be ‘in’, which meant I needed to keep the front three as they were (and are); not move either chapter sixteen or six to the front. That never sat right with me, thinking about organising the chapters tactically, to help sway a third party, rather than them just be ordered how I felt best. But despite removing agents from the equation, there remains a tension between what I want and believe in, what I think readers want, and what I think an editor wants, and it’s hard to arrive at the answer, if indeed there is such a thing. You tell yourself you’re not going to listen to the little voices in your head, but then you turn on your computer, and there are the gurus, and the top ten things you absolutely must not do, and when some of that advice is from people with things called ‘qualifications’ and ‘experience’, you really have to be quite resilient not to cave in to it all, and just trust your own instincts.

Oh, I dunno. What do you think?

Free short story added to FreeStuff page; + a copy-editing question: ‘Mrs’, ‘Mrs.’ or ‘Missus’?

Just uploaded a slightly revamped ‘Leave it to Bertie’ to the FreeStuff page. I hope people enjoy the read.

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While having a necessary last mess-around with it, to avoid the possibility of being sued by Bertelsmann Music Group for reproduction of song lyrics, I noticed something that highlights why an author should pay, or perhaps not pay, a copy editor. I had been writing ‘Mister’ in dialogue, but then when it came to the female version I was stumped as to how to write it. I don’t mind Mrs (or Mrs.) in the body of the narrative but I don’t like it in dialogue. I like ‘Missus’, which feels very British to me – I can’t imagine an American using this spelling – but it does look slightly incongruous in dialogue. When used as a noun, a husband referring to his wife as ‘the missus’, it conveys to me a picture of a man socialising with his fellow men, painting himself as hen-pecked, yet silently treasuring her. Handled well I think the irony can be quite touching.

Consulting the internet though, I noted a wave of anti-Missus feeling. One thing I did decide to pay heed to was the advice to be consistent: don’t use ‘Mister’ and ‘Mrs’. In the end I checked in a novel written by an author who has probably sold millions of copies of books, and found ‘Mister’, ‘Mrs’ and ‘Dr’ within the dialogue, so no consistency, either because the editor hadn’t thought about it, or hadn’t spotted it, or didn’t think there was any value in aligning them all.

I then had to decide between ‘Mr’ and ‘Mr.’ (and equivalents). At school we were taught these abbreviations carried full stops. The American English has retained these, I believe, while the ‘.’ of British saints, doctors and misters have all been surgically removed, like daemons from the shoulders of their humans (sorry, been reading ‘Northern Lights’). Not particularly comfortable with operating on my punctuation without anaesthetic, I decided to chop them nevertheless, to make it look as though I am keeping up with the times.

With the decision still to be made over whether I get someone else to copy-edit my novel manuscript before publication, it was both a timely reminder that I can miss errors or inconsistencies in my own writing, yet also that experienced paid professionals working for reputable traditional publishing houses can too. With a tight budget to say the least, I feel very reluctant to hand money over for this particular task, even though general advice seems to be that this is one of the very few things that a self-publisher absolutely should pay for. The problem with general advice, though, is that it has to cover the worst case scenario, lowest common denominator, frame it how you will. I am feeling, if not sounding, quite resolute on this at the moment. I have to consider that there is a not insubstantial risk that someone will end up making more money than myself from my novel, simply for spotting (or even not spotting) a few comma splices that let’s face it, unless you’re a copy-editor yourself reading my book, you’re probably going to breeze right past without even noticing.

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Bon weekend (Or is bonne? Oh God give me strength…

[Edit – ggrr, keep forgetting to add tags, sorry if you get this twice]