Derek Thompson's Blog, page 28

Stand by your plan

So, in one of my replies to a comment last time (You mean you don't read those?), I mentioned turning some opportunities down. Naturally, someone has asked me to explain and I never like to disappoint an audience on a Thursday.
Here's the thing though, and by all means sing it along with me. Ready? Writing is a business.
And the best way to stay in business - apart from oodles of money and your own subscription-based content mill - is by knowing what sort of writer you are. We're not talking moral judgements here, just business ones. For example, I don't right romance novels because it's not a genre I generally read. (Does Jude the Obscure count? And if that was my template for romance, at least that explains my adolescence.)
So, over the past mmgngghhbmrr weeks - that's my interpretation of mumbling, don't you know - I have politely declined the following:
1. A contract for my novel, Covenant.For anyone who has read the book or listened to me going on about the different versions and the treacherous journey it has taken (deceased editor, bankrupt publisher, 1.25 years for a response), you may well be gnashing your teeth right now. Hear me out. It was an independent publisher, with strong experience in esoteric books and a tiered contract approach. However, due to a number of factors (size of the book, the fact that it's esoteric fiction and my limited profile / media contacts), they could only offer me a deal which required some financial investment on my part. Now, before you start booing and chucking stale bread rolls (take it from me, those things sting), I don't hold it against them. Not at all. It was a business decision. By way of balance, here are some of their feedback comments, which I hope to use in the future:

An excellent read; an exciting story, well paced and really well written. Strong, three dimensional characters and good dialogue. Starts well, straight into the action and hooks the reader immediately. Lots of action, conflict and a love interest. The characters are well drawn and I was immediately interested in the female character even at the first brief glimpse.

2. Copy writingThe job involved writing articles and reviews. The pay rate was excellent and the client was British, saving on Paypal fees. So far so great. The editor's response was quick too, which is always a plus. There was a short test, which involved joining a couple of sites to fully navigate them for review, but I was welcome to use fake details...
Now, the first 'dating' site was a but of a clue and the second 'happy cheaters' (my term) dating site was a clue the size of a billboard. And, for the record, I'd like to think, if I'd ever chosen to use a dating site, that I would have attached a picture of my face, but that's just me. Anyway, before you can whisper uh-oh, I dropped a line to the editor to say no thank you, not for me. Three minutes later, a short email whizzed back. It simply said: It's £50 for a paragraph.
I'm not a prude. My comedy material is testament to that. I just know, subject to prevailing weather conditions, the directions I want my business to go.

Achievement without tears

It's always a very strange time when you finish writing a novel. There's a mixed bag of emotions - part of you is sad to see the end of the adventure, part of you is still focused on whether you did the story and characters justice, and part of you is just plum tuckered out and glad to be at the finishing line (for now).
In my case, all the above is due to completing the edit of Scars & Stripes, my fourth novel. I know what you're thinking, and it's either 'Well done you, how productive!' or 'Jeez, four books written and none of them published yet - can't you take a hint?'. We'll come to that in a minute.
An excerpt from S&S was entered in the Good Housekeeping novel competition, so that novel can now be put to rest until the end of May. And, given my ability to miss my own typos, the rest will do us both good. Meantime, a couple of trusty friends will probably be reading the new version through. Plus, unusually for a novel, I'm waiting for clearance from someone who, along with a specific life experience, appears in the book.
So there's a lull in the proceedings now, where I can turn my attention to other writing. And a vantage point where I can catch my breath, glance back over the journey covered and think about where to head next. Which brings me back to success.
Most of the time, we define success by an external standard or recognition. But is that always a meaningful yardstick? Take a glance at any popular book online, where there are reader reviews, and you'll find people polarised in their support or criticism. In fact, the more successful the book is in terms of its profile and sales, the greater the disappointment appears to be for those who hated it. Numbers do not always equate to quality.
Surely then, you might say, publication itself is success, since no publisher would spend money on a book if they did not think it had artistic merit and commercial potential? That's certainly true, if the former goes hand in hand with the latter; businesses are, quite rightly, in the business of doing business. But, just as we're not all going to the prom, we're not all going to be conventionally published. Don't blame negativity here - it's maths, pure and simple. And I'm not knocking self-publication, having self-pubbed The Showreel Sketchbook myself.
I think what's missing is a personal measure of success; one that doesn't need to stand up to the world's scrutiny. Because if copy writing has taught me anything, it's that information can be presented in a variety of ways to support a variety of conclusions.
Your success might be defined by:- Having an agent.- Having a publisher.- Having a book in print or an ebook, with its own ISBN.- Sales figures and royalties.- Reader feedback.- Prizes and awards.- The respect of your peers.- Being asked to speak at arts events.- A hugely popular blog.- The quality of your writing.- Your ability to develop as a writer.- Your willingness to sit down and write, irrespective of most of the above.
So, should you find yourself in a roomful of strangers, and someone asks what you do or what your passions are, don't flinch. When you've said, "I'm a writer," and the next comment back asks what you've had published, don't falter. If their only interest is in ISBNs and publishing credentials (in which case you can be sure that your earnings will also be somewhere on their list), they're not interested in your writing. Test it out. Tell them about your plot, subplots and character arcs - see if their eyes glaze over!
Don't let your passion for your craft be dependent on other people's approval. Remember, writers write; and if you're writing for public acclaim, they can also take that away from you.
In the words of George Edward Woodberry:Defeat is not the worst of failures. Not to have tried is the true failure.

Be Still - found in a notebook

'Be still and know that I am God.'
How many times had Carrie heard pastor Gellard say that in class? Yeah, she knew God - saw him winking at her between the lines of her Student Bible. But did he know her? Did his all-seeing eye witness the pile of dishes left by her mum and friends, along with the beer cans and pizza boxes left out on the counter? And hey, if he did know then why didn't he do something about it, huh? If she could see that mum needed taking care of, how could he be so blinkered? She thought about it all. Yeah, a blinkered God - that about summed it up.
Pastor Gellard looked up, made momentary eye contact and then continued speaking. Sometimes, Carrie wondered if the class were just for the Pastor's benefit. I mean, it wasn't as if she learned anything, not really. That same droning voice, week after week. I mean, come on, it wasn't exactly jubilation at the word of the Lord. She tilted her head forward to stifle a chuckle. Where was the joy?
The droning had stopped, or at least it had changed pitch a little. Now he was talking about Outreach. Hell, that wasn't even a proper word. Hell. She took a breath. Pastor Gellard had a fondness for hell - talking about it, that was.
"So, the Outreach Programme is looking for volunteers. You'll get extra school credits and it would mean being away from home for one week's initial training. If anyone is interested, please let me know."
Carrie's hand shot up, as if she were signalling to God. 'Look, here I am. I've been still, and I know you. I'm showing you, right now, where I am, so you can get to know me.'

Adrift - found in a notebook

"You'll love it," she said. "It's where you find your soul."

Find the bottom of my stomach, more like. "But what about the snow? Surely a boat can't sail..." I realised I was sounding like an idiot halfway through my plea bargain.

She smiled. The sea won't freeze, and anyway, it's going to rain later - it'll wash away your sins!

I put the phone down, stepped over a pile of unfinished work - the curse of the time-afflicted picture framer - and fetched out my coat from the closet.

Fifteen minites later, the car beeped outside. My stomach leapt. It was getting in practice for a command performance. The car was my gallows walk. When we arrived, I nearly kissed the snow-cpvered ground as I hear the words: dry dock.

When I'd finished dancing my jig - on the inside - I heard her voice waxing lyrical about the majesty of the sea and the power of the waves. Me, I gazed around silently, curious about her hidden world, but happy to remain at the edge of it. There were other sailors there, or boat people - whatever they called themselves; and a couple from France, judging by the accent. But Frankie, when I saw her hand touch the side of The Aspiration, her face lit up and I knew I'd seen a hidden side of her as well. Internet dating had been the starting point, but now it was something other. We lived in the same locale, yet never met except when she called me. That was the arrangement and it suited us both, for a time. It suited me no longer. The more I pushed, the more she retreated, and the more curious I became. I began to construct elaborate fantasies about her; I even wondered if Frankie was her real name or if the boat were hers at all. Or if I were hers at all...

Cheers

Petrol, pasties, and now we have to pay for our garden waste to be taken away by the council - but only in special bins or bags, which can only be purchased from the council.
It's easy to find reasons to join The Glums, and there's even a certain pleasure in indulging in a moping, hissy fit about how crap everything is. I like a good moan as much as the next man or woman, but when I heard that a fellow writer referred to me as 'such a lovely upbeat chappie' ' I knew it was time to get my shit together.
There is not only much to be grateful for, and not just the usual food (pasty tax notwithstanding), friendship, temperate weather, clean water, not living under a dictatorship and freedom of speech.
There are payments coming in soon - and yes, I agree, that does sound like a hint. I have short stories in three competitions, novel excerpts in two competitions and other material being considered for an anthology.
And from May I'm either abandoning myself or expanding my horizons, depending upon how you look at it. I've been invited to join one of my favourite blogs as a contributor - Strictly Writing - so now is definitely a good time to start filling the glass.
I'll also be interviewing writer and chum, Susie Nott-Bower, whose debut novel, The Making of Her, is published by Linen Press in the next few weeks. She'll be revealing what it takes, once you've signed on the dotted line.
And..erm...I may have a cunning plan waiting in the wings. But more about that in May.

Say what?

Indeed. Or rather, that's my point entirely. In a sense, anyway.
Frustrated yet? I know I am - and I'm the one writing this. There are few things as skin-crawlingly irritating as a writer who doesn't communicate well. And it's only really communication when the person on the receiving end actually understands the message. The same rule applies for fiction, non-fiction and all points in-between.
Let me go out on a limb here and say that I'd rather read bad writing - where I at least know what's being said or described - than writing that's abstruse. Know what I mean? Of course you do.
I'm not against literary fiction or experimental writing or esoteric writing. Both Flatland and Cosmic Doctrine remain two favourite books for mental somersaults and interesting dreams. Carlos Castaneda has a similarly positive effect.
Back in the day, I sent my magical fantasy novel to one editor who claimed to be both aware and appreciative of the themes woven through the book. But when the ms came back with the dreaded red pen declaring 'I don't understand this' and 'what are you trying to say here', it became clear that there was a problem. It didn't matter if other people had read the book and understood it sufficiently to enjoy it (hopefully). If the editor hadn't received my writing loud and clear - and especially if I wanted to work with them - then that was my problem.
Writers need readers and, quite rightly, readers can be an unforgiving bunch. Check out the lowest scoring Amazon reviews for some of the bestsellers and you'll be surprised what gets their goat. Even £1 or $1 on an unknown writer is still an investment on the part of the reader, to say nothing of their time. It's a fool who doesn't take every opportunity to avoid disappointing them.

Turn that frown upside down!

It used to be that people defined themselves as being either glass-half-full or glass-half-empty. That, of course, was back in the days when we could afford our own glass.
The debate about the relative merits of being optimistic (motivated and aspirational) versus pessimistic (rarely disappointed) will continue long after I'm gone. And we could even take a peek at negative positivism, were we so inclined. But you can do that on your own time.
Writers are not inured from life. Rather, we are both participant and observer. This has certain advantages - not least that, when the going gets tough, we have something to write about.
Just a couple of star prizes this month - yes, I'm awarding them early:
1. The magazine that took a breathtaking 16 months to reject a story of mine. When I tactfully queried (for I'm nothing if not a diplomat..in my own way...) whether any future submissions would take the same length of time, they helpfully replied that: There was some slush stories that didn't make the transition over into the new, better, awesome, system, and we only recently discovered them hiding out. To be fair to them, we've all lost the odd comb or key down the back of a sofa - in their case it my slush.
2. The literary agent who, upon my three-month query of my synopsis submission, advised that it had not been received first time round from their website. And in any case, they always charge a reading fee of £75, but I'd get a report with that. Although, clearly, no relish.
Neither of which, it has to be said, actually mean anything. In the first instance, the magazine story has already been published (let's face it, 16 months would have been a long time to not submit it anywhere else), and in the second case the novel is under review elsewhere.
If there is a moral to this post, it's this:Most of the time, what goes on around us is entirely impersonal and whatever significance we attach to it comes largely from inside. What you lose is never more important than what remains.

Stranger than fiction

So, it's St Patrick's Day and I wish you well for it. May every stranger knocking at your door bring you glad tidings and a little luck. Now that we've done the traditional thing, let me tell you about a stranger who knocked at my door today. All of this, I assure you, is absolutely true. And best of all, you get to write your own ending.
'DING DONG.' (That's the doorbell, just in case anyone's not paying attention.) I open the door and there's a man, standing there, aged in his sixties, I'd say. He has a large overcoat - tweed, I think - and the cutest terrier I've ever seen. "A Happy St Patrick's Day," the stranger said, in a soft Eire accent. He puts out his hand and shakes mine. "Will you have a drink with me?" I pass, and watch as he pulls out a small, scratched and dented silver hip flask. "I'll take one for you as well then," he says, adding, "don't mind me - my reputation is as an honest man. I was a Hunger Striker, don't you know?" Needless to say, this is a stunner of a revelation - and I've no idea what response he's looking for. I remember hearing about The Maze and Bobby Sands on the news, back in childhood. "Anyhow, you know my reputation is honest." He wants to shake hands again, which we do, then he wishes me more luck and goes on his way.
You're the writer - what happens next?

A little slice of life

So there we are, in a cafe. We've just had lunch and we're in search of cake to take home (sometimes, if you look up greedy sod on the web, you can see my picture within the first ten searches). There's a woman in front of us who's buying lunch or a coffee or something (when I'm in cake mode, I don't pay too much attention to what other people are doing - except the person dealing with the cake). Anyhow, the lady in front of us turns to Anne and whispers something. All I notice is the aggrieved look on her face.

So, we leave, and Anne tells me the story of the woman in the queue. What she said went along the lines of, "It's not fair - your two pieces of cake were both much bigger than my piece here," and sure enough, apparently, she was right. Quite what Anne was supposed to do about it, I don't know. Perhaps the woman was hoping she'd trade with her or act as a witness for a future legal claim. The point is: no one knew why there was such a variance in cake distribution. It may have been a different person cutting the slices. Or it could have been that the staff noted we'd just bought lunch there. Or it may even have been that they just didn't like the woman's tone of voice when she ordered. Who knows?

Writers and writing can be a little like that. If your circle is wide enough and varied enough, you are bound to come across someone who is having a better time than you. While you're there struggling with motivation and the curse of the adverbs, she or he will be dealing with a last minute meeting with an agent, or a publishing deadline to edit for. In the race to be the next JK Rowling or just to keep the wolf from the door, it's tempting to slide into an attitude of: 'When is it my turn?'

Well, newsflash - there are no turns. You write your best work and then rework it; you try whatever publication route appeals to you - self-publication, indie publication, working your way through The Writers' & Artists' Yearbook / The Writers' Handbook - and you keep on going. Because, believe it or not, there will be someone else in the queue who is wondering why your piece of cake is so much bigger than theirs.

www.professional-writer.co.uk

The Lucky Seven Meme comes to call

The Lucky Seven Meme I've been tagged by my fellow scribe and all-round creatix Chloe to take part in Jaycee's Lucky Seven Meme. Here be the rules:

1. Go thou to page 77 of your current MS
2. Get thee hence to line 7
3. Copy down the next 7 lines - sentences or paragraphs - and post them as they're written. No cheating
4. Tag 7 authors
5. Let each and every one of them know(Unwritten rule - share the literary love)
___________________________________

We spoke once or twice a week; she'd talk about New York while I sat on the stairs, rustling the map to pinpoint the attractions she wanted to take me to. Places like the Metropolitan Museum of Art began to take on mythical status, even though the only museums I had frequented since leaving school were: a) The Natural History, in my teens, in a futile attempt to meet girls; and b) The British Museum, to see the Egyptian exhibits.

To say we took things slow would be an understatement. It was three weeks before we got around to the finer details of my stay. And then it hit me that the Civil Service would only grant me two or three weeks of leave.

"Well," Helen said in a nasally twang that made me laugh, "who is to say you'll go back to the same job? Maybe you won't even come back at all?"

___________________________________

And my own lucky seven writers? Well, there are many more than seven, so here are a few from the network:
1. Sinclair Macleod2. Martin Bodenham3. Brian Keaney4. Vonnie Hughes5. Cordelia Dinsmore6. Arley Cole7. E H James
I hope they will all participate to. And if there's no page 77 - or it's unfit for the faint-hearted, there's always page 7 as a fallback!