Mo Fanning's Blog, page 16

Ban the office party – My first act as leader

I’ll happily go for a drink after work. But I choose who I drink with. The organisation of any works social event where absence is deemed an act of party pooping should be punishable by a large fine and community service. Add an enforced theme to the office party, and I’ll up the punishment to life imprisonment or a spell ‘on the wall’.

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Ban text messages in drama – My first act as leader

What would you ban forever? In the first of a series of rants and rails, self-confessed old person Mo Fanning imagines what life would be like if British politicians stopped arsing around like silly boys at summer camp and got their act together. His first act as leader would change society, promoting kindness and fair […]

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Who’s doing the laundry?

It's been a while since I did one of those 'writing tip' posts, so I decided to pick on my pet hate 'laundry list writing'. It ought to be a crime.

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Tales of the cities

I suppose I knew three US cities in ten days would be tiring, and just for good measure, there was the tiny matter of squeezing in the Fanning gay wedding. I’m back home feeling like a poolside inflatable with a slow but steady leak. This whole blog piece will sound boasty, but so little ever […]

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The art of doing two things at once

In which I admit I'm not able to do two things at once. Something's got to give. And I'm afraid that has to be the stand-up.

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Starry starry night

We live in a connected world. My phone knows if I’m about to have a heart attack. I can learn a language and order dinner without getting off the toilet. How come we can’t swipe right and change our marital status?

Later this year – after living almost 8000 days in mortal sin – I’m to marry Mr Fanning.

I’ve never been big on the sanctity of marriage. My husband-to-be assured me we could get hitched with minimal fuss. In a registry office. With no guests. Neither of us will write special vows. I voiced  doubt.

He comes from a family of eager celebrants. No life event is complete without a syndicated cake and party.

New York, New York

But no! He had thought it through, promising a New York City Hall form-filling exercise in the company of strangers, followed by a huge dinner. It sounded like the best of all worlds.

Except now, he’s talking wedding presents, having twice asked what I’m getting him to mark our big day. I’ve replayed every conversation and recall no mention of gifts. The air fare alone will mean a month of shop-brand breakfast cereal.

I turned to the internet.

It’s incredible how much bad advice lurks online. In among the mad bastards who think eating a carrot cures cancer and claims that the CIA invented AIDS, there are sites designed to take the pain out of gifting.

I input his age, sex and interests. It recommended I buy him a star. In a special presentation box. It’s apparently the perfect way to declare my love.

Had I dropped as many unsubtle hints about an Apple Watch as he has, I’d be beyond furious.

And what does the purchase of a star say about me?

That I’m an old romantic?

Or an idiot who can’t be trusted with access to a joint bank account.

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Getting choppy with standup

It’s been a while since I updated readers on my bizarre bid to become a standup comedian. With nearly two terms under my belt, I’m well on the way to being an absolute beginner.

As with anything new, there are times when I despair at the lack of progress. I emerge often from the class with every word I thought hilarious crossed out, and my fledgling comedy brain mired in confusion.

The thing is when it comes to writing a story, I’m on solid ground. When I read back over new chapters, I see at once what works and what doesn’t. And – importantly – I know how to fix what’s broken. With standup, I’m nowhere near that perfect state. I know the theory, but putting it into practice isn’t as easy as it looks. So much depends on the writing.

Standup comedy demands a different skill set. The language is different. Any audience must be able to read my act as standup. I can’t shuffle into the spotlight, grab the microphone and tell a story. That’s been the hardest thing to accept.

This weekend, my ego gave itself a boost … and if you happen to be struggling to make progress with your latest writing project, I may offer help.

Standup comedy – experiment 1

This applies to standup, but you’ll easily adapt this exercise in self-flagellation to any writing project.

Just so long as you’ve read or seen enough of what you’re trying to write.

For this experiment, you’ll need

1 willing partner/friend
1 sample of your writing
A safe space (optional)

Hand your willing partner/friend a copy of your work in progress. Ask them to perform or read your work out loud.

That’s it really.

It’s all in the edit

Mr Fanning picked up my set and put on his ‘let me show you how it’s done‘ face. He started to read and within seconds I was shouting out. He was adding words here and there. Doing the thing my comedy teacher warned against.

Standup calls for choppy, very short sentences. It takes forever to edit six words into four and have it still make sense. And work as a gag.

It really helped to put myself in the shoes of my long-suffering standup comedy teacher. To hear what she hears each time I get up on the stage and try something new.

It made me think I might have learned something.

I reckon this would work for any creative project. As the writer, you know how it should sound and what will work. Get someone else to bring it to life. And you’ll see how easy it is to kill.

One word of warning, this experiment will drive a wedge of resentment between you and whoever you choose to support your quest to become a better writer.

Buy them nice flowers. It works.

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Have I created too many characters?

Coming soon – you’d be mad to miss it!

There’s a big bright light at the end of my writing tunnel. I’m nearing the end of what feels like a cohesive draft of my next book. It’s far from the first draft. It’s far from the tenth. But it’s the first time I know it hangs together as a story. And I like the characters.

All that stands in my way is a party. As I prepare for it, I’ve noticed my worst habit is far from cured.

Six years sober Evie’s perfect life fell to pieces 80,000 words earlier. Since then, I’ve let her stumble through mangled dreams and dangled temptation supported by loyal friends. Sometimes she’s found solutions. Often not.

The big shiny party scene pulls together threads and distils ‘The Toast of Brighton’ into one key message.

The guest list

Back to the party. It’s a big event. Too big. The guest list is too long.

My worst writing habit is the need to create minor characters that serve no real purpose. They appear once or twice, but fail to drive the story.

I’m struggling to remember the name of Evie’s sister’s boyfriend. I’m certain her best friend Izzy’s mother had a name at one point, but I’ve used it so rarely, it could be anything. And then there’s the hair product-obsessed estate agent trying to sell the Beachcomber Cafe from under everyone. Did he need a line? Should he be there? Ever?

The struggle for me lies in showing the same economy of story I’ve learned to show with words. I could wrap this baby in 1000 words and move onto the final scenes that drag me across the finishing line. But that means culling the bit part actors.

The final edit

Most writers struggle to let go of their work. Even when we reach the point of hating our stories and characters, we know things could be better with a polish.

I’m ready for my closeup. My final edit.

Scattered story cushions will enjoy a decent plump. I will polish the underwritten scenes.

But it’s also time for an axe to fall.

And sadly, Evie’s sister will have to stay single. Izzy’s mother will be mute, and the little lad with hair gel … he can phone it in.

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Happy cancer-versary to me

Exactly one year ago, a well-spoken doctor snapped rubber gloves, handed me a tissue and explained how she’d been without power since early morning. It’s a nightmare making porridge when you’ve only a camping stove and a billycan, apparently. She also said I had cancer. Determined to give this bombshell time to process, I focussed my attention on her domestic woes.

Thirty minutes later, a nurse weighed and measured me and asked if I was free on Wednesday. For surgery.  I felt relief.

Ten days earlier, I went to see my GP. Or rather a locum. From Spain. A guy I’ve never seen again.

He put me on a ‘two-week fast track’.

‘Does that mean I have cancer?’ I said.

‘You have symptoms.’

‘Cancer symptoms?’

‘It could be many things.’

Doctors talk like politicians when it comes to straight answers.

When the rubber glove porridge lady admitted I had an actual disease, she handed me a way to cope. I no longer had ‘symptoms’. Rather than fall apart, I snapped into coping mode. My brain needed to understand everything. I filed away complex information and memorised dates. I left the worry and the fear to my partner. He let me be selfish.

One year later

In the year since surgery, chemotherapy, recovery and surveillance, I’ve had good and bad weeks. Sometimes, I focus only on survival. But there are darker days mired in ‘why me’.

I’ve spoken to others with lives rebooted by this horrible disease and their story is the same. ‘You’ve got cancer’ isn’t the end-it-all bombshell. The words signal that your life without cancer is over. Now is the time to get well. You don’t battle or fight. You take medicine and wait. There’s a lot of waiting.

Moving on is a process of learning to say no, of putting yourself first. And that’s hard because everybody wants to help. Rarely do we face cancer truly alone.

If you have doubts or fears, see a doctor now. If you’re not checking yourself over, start today.

The sooner you know, the sooner it’s over.The sooner you get on with life.

 

How to check for Testicular Cancer

 

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Why I don’t write every day

‘Experts’ tell anybody who calls themselves an author they must ‘write something every day’. It need not be their finest work. The words might be something to delete the next day. They might not relate to any work in progress. But we must write. Every day.

I want to say I follow this rule. I don’t.

Some days, I can’t find the time. On other days I find the time, but the internet finds cat memes. I’ve tried making myself write when my so-called muse is outside vaping, but the results are lamentable. Writing  something I wouldn’t read seems absurd.

I tell myself I’m writing. Even when I’m not.

I lie in the bath and ponder story-lines. It’s the same when walking the dog, or cursing as some random slowly unloads the contents of a shopping trolly at the basket-only check-out. I try to storyline what might happen next and what absolutely won’t. I put scenes in order. Some would maintain this is writing. I think of it as planning. But it leads to writing, so I guess it counts.

I also tell myself not writing works.

Often if I miss one day, I’ll miss more. I don’t do guilt by half. I’d rather shower myself in shame when the gap between chapters stretches to a month. But when I go back to the story, I find myself recharged. What flows from me reads better than what was already there. I cherish the latest chunk of the story. So much more than the last one … and I was certain what I previously wrote would see me win the Man Booker.

There’s a private fear that not writing every day means I’ve run out of words. A few years back I stopped work completely. For three years I left behind the business of building worlds, convinced it was no longer in me. This week I found myself well past the half-way point of what I hope to be a final edit on my next book.

What I’m struggling to say is, don’t beat yourself up if you don’t write some days. Everyone gets to where they want to be.

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