Emma Newman's Blog, page 22

Purging and preparations

At the end of July, the hubby and I decided that August would be a month of clearing the house out in readiness for massive changes happening in September and October. It just felt like the right thing to do.

We were right.

I spent the majority of this weekend clearing out cupboards and wardrobes, rearranging storage and taking stuff to the local charity shop.

I've also managed to find new homes for things using the local Freecycle group. Whoever thought that up should be given a medal. And a knighthood. What a fantastic thing it is!

I gave away things that I have carried around with me for over twenty years. Things that were just so… "mine" that every time I moved house I didn't even stop to consider whether I still wanted them. I've lived in so many places. I had a… disrupted childhood and adolescence, the last time I stopped to count (about 3 years ago I think) I'd lived in over twenty-five different houses. And I'm not that old really. And every time, I packed stuff into boxes and unpacked them again, holding tightly too them as everything shifted continually around me.

I'm a hoarder par excellence. It comes with having an overactive imagination and a fairly good memory. In the past, every time the decision to keep or throw out something has come up, I either remember the emotional context of the object, or imagine a future use, both too well to be able to part with it. Both result in over-flowing cupboards and a feeling of suffocating in my own house.

No more. This weekend I felt like I was shrugging off twenty winter coats that I'd been wearing, one on top of the other. I held objects, remembered the emotional context, felt the odd pang, but mostly I felt a sense of seeing them for the first time as I realised I no longer needed or wanted what they reminded me of.

They were important to the person I was years and years ago. The person I needed to be to find my way to who I am now.

I found notebooks stuffed with my own doggerel, stories written long-hand by my angst-ridden adolescent self. Why keep them all these years? Out they went. I kept a grand total of three, but even as I type this I doubt the decision. Too late, they've been stashed away in a new cubby hole.

Was it really clearing out?

Not just that, I feel. What I was really doing was starting a new chapter. Please forgive the use of that tired old phrase, this being an author's site and all, but it's the truth. Actually, I think starting a new volume of a life-long novel would be a more appropriate metaphor.

I realised that I no longer need to hold on to the past, and this weekend I felt like I was physically turning around; no longer looking more at the past than at the future, ready now to run forwards, instead of cling to things that once comforted me. For the first time in my life, I really do feel that I am on the right path, doing the right thing for me and my family.

As for what that thing is, well, I can't say yet, I'm sorry, it's not time to reveal all yet. But I can tell you that I'm doing all I can to arrive at that future port with only the baggage I absolutely need, and the determination to make the absolute most of what I have. And that I am so very, very excited about the next stage of this journey.

Friday Flash: The Model Family

Clare stared at her wedding ring, hanging off the tail of the porcelain cat on her nightstand. It was the first jewellery hung on it since she'd moved out years ago, but the china cat still looked unimpressed.

"Morning love," her mother said, entering without a polite knock. She deposited a mug of tea next to the cat. "It's a beautiful day, let's get moving."

Clare gripped the duvet tight under her chin, catapulted back into her teenage years. "There's nothing to do today," she muttered back.

Her mother's frown, established in Clare's school years, was still fresh. "Moping isn't going to make anything better. How's your shoulder?"

"Sore."

"That eye isn't looking too clever either." Clare waited for the usual tirade against her husband, but it never came. "We're clearing out the attic today, so get dressed and help me after breakfast."

"Can't that be done another day?"

"Not if you want to bring any of your things over."

Clare sat up, it made her face throb. "Eh?"

"Well you're not going back after what he did to you. So you'll need to move back here, won't you?"

Clare frowned, which made the black eye throb even more, but she couldn't think of an alternative. All of her friends had given up on her, Mark had killed her social life as easily as the houseplants. "Just until I get back on my feet," she said, trying to keep some dignity.

Her mother left her to dress. It didn't take long, there was no choice to be made; she only had the clothes she'd arrived in last night. When she saw that they were washed and ironed, draped over the back of the chair in the corner, Clare almost burst into tears.

She inspected the bruise across her collar bone before wincing her way into her t-shirt. The black eye was not yet aptly named, but soon would be. She pressed along her right cheekbone gingerly, thinking about the accusation that had earned the punch. Why had she said anything?

The loft ladder was already extended into the hallway by the time she'd forced down some toast and she heard scuffs and scrapes coming from above. She climbed, favouring her uninjured arm, and peeped over the lip of the ceiling. The boarded out attic was large enough to stand up in and store a lifetime of junk.

"Don't move anything," her mother said, elbow deep in a box. "Just help me by saying what's to keep and what's to throw out. A lot of this is yours."

"It is?" Clare scanned the boxes, wondering what was hidden within.

"Oh, look at this," her mother said, beckoning her over to unveil a large object covered by a dust sheet. "Do you remember when your father gave this to you on your birthday?"

She nodded, dumb. The dollhouse was still in great condition, lovingly made by her late father. Clare's fingertips felt cold, her lips started to tingle. How could she have forgotten about it?

"You were so excited! And you kept it so neat…"

Clare nodded again, remembering why. It made her throat tight.

Her mother chuckled as she released the clasp holding the house shut. "I'll never forget that day you came running down the stairs in a panic, do you remember?" She didn't look at Clare, who sucked in a lungful of air to keep the nausea at bay. "You'd spilt some water on the little rug in the dollhouse and you thought our front room was flooding!"

The inside of the house was revealed. "I really did think it would happen," Clare whispered, inspecting the rooms. "It was a copy of our house, it made sense."

"To a seven year old I suppose," her mother shrugged. "Wasn't your father talented? We should clean it up and move it downstairs. It's a family heirloom now."

Her mother moved on, sniffing slightly, leaving Clare to crouch in front of the neat little rooms, the kitchen with copper pans and Aga, just like their old house used to have.

Her eyes tracked the stairs up to the landing where the mother doll was lying, probably displaced when the house was carried up to the loft. She plucked her out, bringing her into the light to see one of her arms hanging loose in its joint and a dent where her right eye had been.

She closed her fist around it, shutting her eyes against the panic of her childhood. Just a coincidence.

When she was ready, she looked for the father doll and the little girl, the one she'd related to far too much, but she was nowhere to be seen. Neither was the tiny wooden father, but then she noticed the lump in the bed of the 'master bedroom' and pulled off the tiny rectangle of fabric that was the blanket.

The father doll was tangled in the embrace of a plastic doll with bright blonde hair and a waist smaller than its neck, a cheap Barbie clone.

Clare felt like she was either going to burst into tears or hysterical laughter, perhaps both. She put the mother doll safely on the sofa and then pulled the model cheating scumbag away from the model whore, chucking the latter into the bin bag with huge satisfaction.

"Are you alright love?" her mother asked.

Clare looked down at the doll, no longer the one she thought of as her father. She pinched its head, about to twist it off, but then remembered that her real father had carved it by hand. Instead, she flipped it upside down and stuffed him head first into the tiny toilet.

She brushed off her hands, turned to her mother and nodded. "Yeah, I'll be okay." She waited for the panic, the nausea. There was nothing left but the decision and a desire for a nice cup of tea. "I'm going to get a divorce."

"About time," her mother muttered. "I'll put the kettle on."

—

P.S. If you liked this, you'll love From Dark Places; an anthology of 25 dark short stories.

When pictures say more than a thousand words

For almost three years now, I've used the spare bedroom as my office. In the early months, I had a tiny desk crammed in next to the double guest bed, making it an uncomfortable working space and a cramped guest bedroom, neither one adequate for its part-time purpose.

As time went on, I realised that I used the room as an office all year round, and as a guest bedroom on less than ten nights a year. So we sold the bed, got a bigger desk and a bookcase (of course) and I gradually made it a proper office which is occasionally used as a guest bedroom with an inflatable bed that can be packed away again.

Then the velvet covered recording booth was added, a now permanent addition to the room, making it a recording studio as well as an office.

But the walls were left bare. Well, there was a mirror mostly obscured by the recording booth, left over from the guest bedroom days, and a couple of tiny pictures in places that looked odd due to the changed purpose, one squidged up next to the bookcase with an expanse of empty beige wall beside it, for example.

A couple of years ago I found a stash of pictures that I had collected over the previous decade and fell in love with them all over again. I wanted to put them up in my office, but they needed to be framed and spruced up. I dithered over that for a while, and settled on renovating the frames that some had, and buying ones for those without, then spraying them silver so they all looked good together.

It took the best part of a weekend to do. Then I stacked them on a shelf in said office book case and did nothing with them. Until yesterday.

The reason I'd been working, recording and creating in the most drab, miserable and empty room of the house was because I had it in my head that those pictures would need to be arranged very carefully, and put up very precisely, to look perfect on the walls. I've only ever hung one picture in a big space, but to have lots of small pictures on only two walls, well, that would require a real eye for interior design. One I simply don't have.

So they gathered dust on that shelf, even after all that work to frame them, even after my excitement at finding them again, even after I had rolled my eyes at the bare beige walls for years.

For a long time I told myself that I didn't need walls full of interesting, pretty pictures. I write my stories and novels at this desk; all of the glorious technicolour pictures I need are in my head.

Bobbins. That was one part of me protecting myself from having to admit that I was too much of a perfectionist to be brave enough to hang those pictures untidily. And more than that, it was arguing for making my environment so dull it was almost like punishing myself for my design inadequacies.

Enough!

I didn't really think about it when I took the hammer and picture hooks up the stairs yesterday afternoon. I didn't steal myself for impending interior design failure, I didn't give myself some kind of epic pep talk. I just got all those pictures out, started with the first that caught my eye and decided that should be at eye level when I type. The rest were just arranged around that.

My walls are now full of those beautiful pictures. But more than that, I felt so light when I stood back and saw them all in their higgedly-piggedly glory. I looked at the uneven spacing and laughed, delighting in the freedom of imperfection. I felt proud to be so hopeless at hanging groups of pictures, yet able to put them up, finally claim this space fully as my creative haven, and let myself be nourished by them.

Yesterday was a small victory against the tyranny of perfectionism.

And it is a tyrannical rule. I can tie myself in such knots, make myself sick with self-berating hatred when I make a mistake. I feared, for all those years, that if I put those pictures up, I'd never enjoy them, I would only be fixated on the way they don't line up. I would only see my poor picture-hanging skills instead of a fantastical castle, a mysterious bridge, an old Cornish tin mine on a granite cliff, and all the other images that speak to me so.

Sometimes pictures say more than a thousand words. These are showing me that sometimes, making mistakes, being decidedly and consciously imperfect is not only forgivable, but actually a joyful thing.

Experiments in the writing life

Last week I finished the first draft of 20 Years Later: Revelation, the final book in the trilogy. I wrote the last 10, 651 words of the first draft in two days. On the Monday I wrote 4748 words, on the Tuesday I wrote 5903 words.

I was experimenting, and the results really did surprise me…

But before I go any further, a couple of disclaimers if you are a fellow writer:

I'm not saying anything like "this is the way I think everyone should write" – not at all.

I'm only giving word counts here to illustrate the experiment, not to give some implicit suggestion that mine should be compared with anyone else's. It's not a race, and I don't feel competitive about this at all. I'm thrilled with these word counts, don't get me wrong, but it the experiment I want to share, not set some implicit target.

The search for the perfect writing formula

I've been refining the way that I write for a couple of years now. I know that for short stories I like to have a prompt, and that I prefer to write the first draft in one sitting, never more than two. I know that I write novels very differently. I've got to grips with the way that I plan my novels (the agile method I talked about here) and I've known for quite some time that I write the most efficiently when I can immerse myself in the book – I'm not good at stopping and starting. When I do that, I usually end up having to scrap a chapter or two before I get back into the book enough to write something that fits.

I've dabbled with the 1000 or so words a day, I know that I like to write before everything else, but the only thing that's problematic about that in my current lifestyle is that if I start my day with novel writing, it's is immensely difficult to stop and write boring stuff that pays the bills.

I found that when I could set aside a day of writing I could comfortably write between 3,000 to 4,000 words a day, but between audio books, book promotion, client work and family life, those days are rare. When I'm completely in the flow of a first draft, I can crank out 1000 words in 20 minutes, but the average is 50 minutes.

But I knew I hadn't quite cracked it. I'm not talking about craft here, I'm talking about the sheer mechanical feat of getting words onto the page, specifically for the first draft of a novel.

Clearing the decks

On the Sunday night I realised how close I was to finishing the trilogy. July was a truly hectic month and I've been doing my best to chip away at the last ten chapters of the book. I decided to just set aside two days and finish it if I could, because my next project is battering on the inside of my skull and it's always better to finish of your current relationship amicably than start an affair and then be unfaithful to both.

I reckoned I had somewhere between 8,000 to 11,000 words left to write. That meant a lot of words to write in each of those two days, so I saw a golden opportunity to see what I'm capable of now, and to experiment with two different techniques.

Monday's technique: Write like hell until I can't write anymore

When I get going, I find it hard to stop writing, and usually it's the need to go and attend to another responsibility (even just feeding myself when my husband reminds me) that stops me writing. I can usually write 2,500 words in a good stretch, then I have a desperate need for tea.

So on Monday, I decided to write until my body told me to stop. I took breaks when I needed to, but after 3000 words I was starting to flag, the breaks were getting longer and my brain was literally feeling wrung out. The first 1000 words of the day took 45 minutes, by the end of the day 1000 words was taking about 90 minutes, so my speed was going down too.

As an aside, I wasn't trying to get the words out as quickly as possible, I was just measuring words per hour as part of the experiment, and as an indicator of energy levels.

So, by 7pm that day I had 4748 words, and I felt absolutely knackered. I had thoroughly enjoyed myself however, and was looking forward to the second day.

Tuesday's technique: Write in one hour sprints with breaks in between

Looking back, I have no idea why I didn't try this sooner. I suppose it's because it goes against my personality to stop doing something I love voluntarily.

But my goodness, it was a revelation.

When I forced myself to take a break, I deliberately did something non-cerebral, away from the computer. I took a shower, I did some housework, I went for short walks. Having stopped right in the middle of a scene, I stayed in the story, and was desperate to start writing again at the beginning of the next sprint. There were five sprints on that Tuesday, and by the end of it I'd written 5903 words. Not only that, I wrote almost 1,500 words in the last sprint, which was the complete opposite of the productivity trend I saw in Monday's experiment.

And I didn't feel wrung out. I could have kept writing, but I had table tennis and then it was a bit too late to go back to the machine. Had I not finished the book, I'm sure I could have written just as much on the third day, but all the client work was waiting, and besides, the next project hasn't started yet.

So why am I writing about this?

It's not to say "hey! I've discovered the secret formula to writing thousands of words everyday!" I can tell you that. I'm partly writing about it to help myself remember it, and to keep a record of various things I've discovered as I wobble through being an author – that's what the writer's rutter is all about.

I feel this experiment was critical, not just because it's given me an indication of how I can write the most productively, but also because it proves that constantly experimenting and refining how we write is so important. I feel that another piece of my writing life has fallen into place, and it's taken nearly 50 short stories and 3 novels to find it.

This is not about craft

I know now how to plot novels and get words down on the page in the way that suits me best. That's all. These are, to my mind, mechanical things; ways to be creative and productive. I think I'll be learning how to write for the rest of my life. I can't imagine, at any point, being able to sit back and say "I have nothing more to learn about the craft."

I hope I don't ever say that. Yuk.

So there you go; two days, four cups of coffee, six cups of tea, 10,651 words and one happy author.

Great people

Being an author at the beginning of a writing career is many things. It can be scary, exciting and all the emotions in between, and there is no training for it. You learn on the job, you make mistakes, you try your best. One of the hardest aspects (for me anyway) is having to come out from behind the computer and be in the real world. Actually, sometimes being out there in the virtual world is just as hard, but I'm not going to write about that now.

I want to write about an event I went to on Saturday in Weston-Super-Mare called The Liminal. I had the pleasure of being invited to read along with Gareth Powell and Emma Shortt, at the lovely Dr Fox's Tearooms. There's a write-up of the event here.

I'll skip over the part where I was horribly nervous, if any of you have read any other post on my site you'll know that was a given, and go straight to the bit where I discovered that I actually enjoy reading aloud at live events.

This was quite a revelation. It goes against all my fear-based instincts, but I think it's because there is a delight in getting immediate feedback from the crowd. When people laugh in the places you hope they'll laugh, when there is absolute silence until the last line, wow… that feels so good.

A big thank you

The Liminal was the brainchild of Becky Condron who puts a massive amount of time and energy into Weston-Super-Mum, she's one of those quiet, unsung people who works incredibly hard to make stuff happen. I wanted to give her a huge shout-out here for creating the event, organising it all and making us authors feel so welcome and looked after for the evening.

People who support authors are so critical, because fundamentally, it's impossible to gain any kind of readership outside of our immediate networks without support. We can only do so much, we can only promote ourselves to a certain extent without being utterly awful. So when people like Becky have the energy and generosity to create a social event designed to introduce people to new authors, it's such a wonderful thing. Thank you Becky!

Another wonderful event

An event is being planned for fans of Steampunk, alternative fiction, roleplaying and lots of other marvellous things. It's called Miscellarium and is being organised by people just like Rebecca, people who like to support their communities and creative people by making amazing events happen.

Here are the details from the Miscellarium Facebook page:

Miscellarium 2012 – Sat 11 & Sun 12 August 2012. Seaburn Centre Sunderland, SR6 8AA.

"The event will incorporate sci-fi, steampunk, gaming, rpg, fantasy, innovations and much more! We will also have a Writer's Meet for UK authors and writers. 200 stalls – steampunk, sci fi, gaming, innovations, fantasy etc"

I've met two of the people organising this in person (hi Sam and Fiona!), and they are fantastically kind, enthusiastic and just plain wonderful individuals. If you're interested in the event, either as a dealer or attendee, I'd recommend saying hello over on Facebook.

And don't forget Bristolcon!

I'd also like to do a shout-out for Bristolcon, which is being organised by an impressively dedicated team here in the south-west. It's being held on October 22nd 2011, at the Ramada Hotel in Bristol. You can find all the details here: http://www.bristolcon.org/

Anyone else know of any other brilliant events like these? Open mic nights, indy music nights, mini-conventions, flash mob days?

(Probably) The worst question in the world

Over the last month, I've received ten requests to read something (usually a short story) written by an aspiring writer. When it happened the first couple of times, I was mostly bemused. Why ask me? I thought. I'm still figuring it all out myself, I just happened to get published along the way. I'm not an authority.

Then when it kept happening, I got increasingly worried. What if this doesn't stop?

I haven't handled it consistently, and I know it's because it's making a churning maelstrom of ick in my stomach, and that what I need to do is write this out. I think best in text form, after all.

What my gut is telling me

Whenever I get one of these requests, I feel an immediate, visceral cramp in my stomach. My body floods with tension. I'm learning to listen to these messages, so I know that something about this is upsetting me on a deep level. But why? Well, I think, like all these things, there's a line-up of several suspects.

Suspect 1: the bad memory

I remember being in exactly the same place as the people asking me to read their stuff. The vast majority have told me it's their first story – or the first few chapters of their first ever book, and please will I read it to see if it's worth carrying on? Wow, just typing that makes me feel sick with anxiety.

The bad memory starts with finishing my first novella. I was about 14, very screwed up, very damaged by some bad stuff that had happened in my family life. I had no idea whether it was good or not, I had just written it until it was out and I was proud of it. I'd only ever written very short stories, I'd abandoned more than I'd completed, so a story of about 30,000 words was a big deal.

I gave it to a family friend who was a lodger at the time. This was a very stupid thing to do, I realise now. She read it, and bless her heart, was positive, but the first thing she said was: "It's obviously all about you and your family."

It was like being hit with a sock stuffed full of stones. No, it wasn't about me, I thought. How could it be about me? It was science fiction! It was about a girl in space and – urgh, I can't bear to write about it even now.

Because she was right. The story was an emotional dumping ground, and I had no idea that I'd just bared my soul. And the story, the writing, everything about it sucked. I mean really sucked. I found it about ten years later and was so appalled by it I think I either threw it away or buried it somewhere – either way I have no knowledge of where it is now.

When I'm asked to read someone's early work, I am being placed in the impossible position that I placed that family friend in. I may say something that is another blossoming writer's stone-filled sock. I can't bear the thought of doing that, so I prefer not to say anything at all.

Subject 2: What is really being asked for here?

The thing is, as I remember what that feeling is like, I have a suspicion that people aren't entirely conscious of what they are really asking me to do. When you ask someone to read your story, you may be asking for any and all of these:

A detailed critique
A summary of good points and bad points
An appraisal of plot, form, suitability of POV
An opinion on how enjoyable it is
An indication of writing level
A line edit
A list of grammatical errors
A proof read
Just an opinion

That's confusing for the person being asked (and daunting) in and of itself, but beneath all of that, the person may also be asking for:

Validation
Personal reassurance that they can write
Encouragement
Emotional support as they tackle the creative blocks that have held them back thus far
The chance to be discovered as an amazing writing talent
Following on from that: an introduction to a publisher / editor / writing community
The start of a writing mentor relationship
Just a kind word from someone whose work they have enjoyed

Take the first half of that list; unless it is spelt out, any of those technically based appraisals could be given as the result of being asked to read someone's work. This is what professional editors, or brilliant beta readers do (more on them in a moment), not what I do, I'm afraid. I may have the technical knowledge to do it, don't get me wrong, but I use that knowledge to write my own work, and as much as it is lovely and flattering to be asked, I simply don't have enough hours in the day for my own projects, let alone being a lay editor.

It's the second half of the list that freaks me out though, on two counts: 1) that's a hell of a lot of emotional responsibility placed upon me and 2) I usually have never met these people, don't know them well and don't know where the boundaries are, leading me to:

Suspect 3: Where does it stop?

I have a fear that if I read someone's work and offer advice, a critique, a stock response, whatever I would choose to say, that the person would want more than I can give. I am a firm believer in good boundaries. If I did this professionally, I would first define whether I was a writing coach, a line editor, a developmental editor, a writing mentor, or just a mate trying to help you out. In each case, I would define my boundaries exactly. When someone asks me to read their work, I could find myself tangled in all kinds of emotional stuff, even if I was just trying to do the right thing. So I tend to not go there in the first place.

Suspect 4: The spectre of truth

I know that a detailed critique is not likely to be what a person wants. The thing is, I am a horribly critical reader. This is part of my job as a professional author; I read 5 or 6 books at a time, in every spare second of the day (and there's not many of them, believe me) and I am fussy as hell. There's realistically, being brutal here, a very high chance that I won't enjoy the story.

Let's say that I break my own rule and do read a story. What if it is exactly what an early story from a new writer is usually like: e.g. very flawed (like all of my first, second and third drafts are that no-one else ever sees).

So what do I say? How do I handle that? Do I only focus on the positives? There's a good argument for that, but then I worry that I wouldn't really be helping that person to improve. But if I suggest improvements, or problem areas (after all the positives) how do I know I'm not crushing something fragile? That's where suspects 2 and 3 come back in…

Oh the guilt!

Just writing this is stressing me out. The guilt is immense. I have a very large capacity for guilt, swelled into Baron Harkonnen-esque size by years of being a mother with severe post-natal depression. Every time someone asks me to read something and I want to run away, I am subsumed with guilt. I feel I'm letting them down, that I'm being aloof, that I'm not being what they need me to be, that I'm going to be hated for saying no.

Oh dear. That's not good, is it? And I don't feel it's fair for me to feel that way either. I haven't asked to be approached like this. That's why I'm writing this post, to explain it properly.

Memories of how I was helped in the early days

I think the guilt also comes from the fact that every writer, at some point, needs to be read by someone else to develop and improve their writing. I personally think most excited, new writers consider this point to be far earlier than it should be – I'll write another post about that soon actually. However, a critical thing that I hang on to is that the first person who started to read the very, very first draft of 20 Years Later asked me, again and again, to read it. I never asked her. And later beta readers of the more polished first drafts were volunteers again. I feel this is important.

So where does that leave the people who want me to read their stories?

I have this advice. Firstly, if this really is the first story / book / prologue you've written, don't show it to anyone. Print it out, hold it to your chest, feel proud of yourself and then put it in a drawer to mature for at least 3 months. Before I started writing 20 Years Later, I wrote about 50,000 words of complete and utter crap, just from clearing out all the accumulated rubbish of a 10 year long writer's block. Before that 10 years of writing desert, I estimate I wrote about 50,000-100,000 words of short stories as a child. They were rubbish too.

Those first few tens of thousands of words by any writer are likely to be utterly dreadful. There's no getting away from it, in my opinion, as like every skill, writing improves with practice. So put them in a drawer and move on, write another story, then another, then another. Three months later, go back to the first and I promise you'll see how much you've improved and you'll be so very glad no-one else saw it.

When you are ready (or if you really can't wait any longer) find a group of writers to hang out with, either on line or in the real world. If not writers, find people you feel comfortable with and sound them out on being a beta reader. Be very clear what you want them to tell you. Be very grateful. And be ready for some feedback that will hurt. Be ready to return the favour if you're doing this in a writing group, it's all give and take.

This is all hard as hell

I know because I've been there. I still can't beta read for other writers, due to all the stuff I've written about here, and I have a very close group of people who I trust with my early drafts and thank in my own way. It's taken a long time to find my process and people that I trust, and it will take you time too. When you find your beta readers, treat them like royalty; they are worth their weight in books.

So, I'm flattered that people (maybe even you) want me to read your work, but I really can't. I'm sorry, good luck, and I hope you understand. Just please remember that for some people, especially authors, "Please can you read my story?" is probably the worst question in the world.

If you have any questions about anything I've talked about here, ask away in the comments below. And fellow writers, do you struggle with this too?

Friday Flash: The Whites

Eli couldn't remember what had made him suspect his mother was insane, but now, as she dried the fake tears on his sister's cheeks, he was too angry to care. "She's not really upset," he muttered, hands stuffed into his armpits.

"What exactly did you say to her?"

"Nothing. I was only joking."

"He said the Whites will get me," Lil said tremulously. "He said they'll come and take me away!"

"Oh, Eli…"

His mother's disappointment made him look away from her brown eyes.

"They won't take you Lil," he heard her coo. "Nothing will get you if you stay in the garden and come inside when the sun goes down. Take no notice of Eli."

"Did the Whites take Dadda?"

"No, stupid," Eli answered, hearing words choked and stuck in his Mom's throat. "It was the Sickness that took Dadda. And we won't get it, cos he never touched us once he got it, remember?"

She nodded, wiry brown curls bouncing in front of her eyes. "Okay."

She wandered out, sniffing and dragging a grubby doll behind her that watched him with button eyes. He dug a sticky nugget out of his ear, rolled it between thumb and forefinger as he watched his mother rake her hands through her hair. "Sorry Mom," he said. "She was winding me up."

"You're the man of the house now, start acting like it!"

He balled his hands into fists, squishing the sticky lump into his palm. "I'm not like Dad. I want to fight the Whites! Why do we have to stay scared all the time? I don't want to be stuck here for the rest of my life!"

"Eli!" His mother's hands were gripping his arms. "You stop that talk right now! There's no way to change the way things are. You're young, you feel like you can take on the world, but you just can't, okay? I need you here, I need you to pull the water out of the well, and keep this house standing, and keep an eye on Lil too. I can't do it all by myself!"

"But maybe there's some place else we can live, some place where the taps work and where there's more food and-"

"That's enough!" she yelled. "You don't know how lucky you are to have what you do. Now go and get Lil off that damn swing and make sure she doesn't leave her doll outside again. It's Lockdown in twenty minutes, I've still got the tomatoes to pick and I need two pails of water drawn up by then, okay?"

He did what she asked, but all the time he was doing the chores that were once his father's, one question kept coming back. What if the Whites weren't at bad as his Mom said? He'd never seen one. What if she made stuff up to keep them all close, what if she'd tricked Dad into staying by telling him the Whites would get him too? He was tired of living like a mouse. He was almost as tall as Dad was when he died. He was taller than his mother. And as much as Lil wound him up, he wanted her to have more of a life than he'd had.

Lockdown came and went, along with the rituals his mother insisted on. First they walked the garden perimeter and checked the high fence, barricaded gates and razor wire were intact and secure. Then they retreated into the tiny house to lock all the doors and windows. Lil trailed after them as his mother went to each in turn, testing and reporting "locked" which he acknowledged with a "check" that Lil echoed, clutching her dolly tightly. Then sealing the blackout curtains, pressing the edges smooth against the Velcro, and the second round of checks before his mother would let them eat.

Later, he lay awake, nursing the bitter anger brewed by that question about the Whites. His mother was asleep in the other bed beneath the window, the one that used to be his, curled around Lil who had never slept a night through without crawling into her mother's arms.

He'd been tempted to break the rules and look outside after Lockdown, but he'd never had the guts to disobey before. Silently, he got out of bed and crept to the room next door, filled with jars of preserved food. He stepped past them lightly so they didn't chink.

At the blackout curtain, he slowly edged his fingernail between the two strips of Velcro until he had worked the lower corner loose. He lifted the flap, crouching to peer through it, enthralled by the pale sliver of moonlight shining onto the windowsill. His eyes, already accustomed to the dark, made out the garden, the fence and its razor wire easily.

Then he saw something – a person! Then he picked out another, then another, just past the razor wire, all pale as the moon.

The Whites.

He peered at them, the monstrous villains of his father's cautionary tales, the stuff of all his childhood nightmares. The Whites will get you if you go out there, his Dad had said once when he'd wanted to go outside instead of using the chamber pot. They were real!

As he stared, more came into view, milling around slowly, aimlessly, something awful about the way their jaws hung slack and none of them spoke, or even looked at each other.

Until one started to twist his head towards him.

He slapped the curtain down, pressing the Velcro closed, feeling a sudden, terrible urge to pee. He strained his ears, listening for any rattles at the gate or tugs at the razor wire, but there was nothing. Eventually, he crept back to the bedroom. This time he slipped into his mother's bed, curling around her and Lil, shivering.

"Sorry Mom," he whispered. He had never loved her more.

—

P.S. If you liked this, you'll love From Dark Places; an anthology of 25 dark short stories.

What a week…

Blimey. Tea and biscuits please, it's been one hell of a week. First there was my talk at Frome Festival, then a "tea time treats" meet the author event and then reading at ShortStoryVille, a marvellous short story extravaganza organised by the lovely Bristol Prize people.

And I'm shattered.

I was going to tell you about the events and what happened when I read some of the stories from From Dark Places to over 100 people (eeeep!) but now I'm here, the desire has left me. Suffice to say all of them went very well. I'm rubbish at talking about events after they've happened, I suppose I'm someone who prefers to look forwards rather than back. No, that's nonsense, I'm always reflecting on things, I think there's just something else on my mind.

Developing instinct

As I get older and uglier and write more books I've come to realise that one of the most important tools a writer has to develop is their instinct. That shiver down the back when something just works, that feeling of resistance when you're trying to shoehorn in a clumsy plot dump but haven't recognised it as one yet, they and many other moments come from an instinctive feeling about what is working in the writing and what is not. The same goes for learning how to plot a novel – learning your way to plot a novel. I've just ranted about that over at the Write Anything site by the way.

But where does this instinct come from? I've been wondering about that, as my instinct saved me from sending out a story to my Short Story Club before it was ready. I really thought it was ready to go, but when I gave it a last read through before setting it up to send out, it left me cold. Thankfully I listened to that instinct and gave myself time to let it roll around my brain for a while.

It turns out I'd only written half of the story, the other half revealed itself to me slowly. But oh, it was worth it and I'm really happy with how it turned out. More importantly, my readers were happy too and I had some fantastic feedback. Thank gravy for instinct.

It can be a visceral thing; when I write the end of a short story that is just right, all of the hairs on my body stand on end, like a lover breathing onto the back of my neck. When I'm thrashing out plotting options with my husband over coffee, and the right one comes up, I just… know it. I feel it first in my body, and then my conscious mind catches up.

Sometimes it's a shock

This is on my mind because of something that surprised me last night. Life (such as three author events in one week!) has pulled me away from book 3 again and I'm trying to get back into my flow. I put the manuscript onto my e-reader (over 96,000 words, which is nice) and read it to refresh my memory on where all my characters were emotionally and what plot points still needed to be resolved, when it hit me that a crucial decision I'd made about a certain character wasn't right for the book.

I can't go into details without howling spoilers, so I have to keep it vague, but it really shocked me. The instinct was telling me to write something completely different to what my head and my plot plan had decided. I'm used to my plans being changed as I write – that's why I use the "agile method" after all, but it's never happened for something this big before.

I've mulled it over, slept a lot less than I wanted, but I've decided to go with my gut. It's the right choice, it makes the book tighter and keeps it focused on one of the most important themes. What I originally planned was actually an indulgence, and I feel better about the ending now I can see that. But it's still quite a shock that I came so close to writing it, so late in the project.

It's not just the writing.

As I've been telling you about this (and I have no idea why I'm burbling at you about it, but there we go) I've remembered how listening to my gut has usually seen me right. The best example is my marriage. Years and years ago, when my husband was only a boyfriend, I lived a long way away from him and in a very unhappy life situation. My gut had been telling me to get out of it for a long time but I had ignored it, thinking I was being crap, just running away when in fact, ignoring that instinct was damaging my health and my happiness.

It took some time but in the end I listened to my instincts, removed myself from that situation and moved hundreds of miles to London, moving in with my boyfriend with no job certainty and no guarantee our relationship would go the distance.

In just over a fortnight it will be our sixth wedding anniversary, and our ninth year together as a couple.

The next phase

I've just realised why instinct, and trusting it, is on my mind; it's all to do with a super-secret project I'm working on making a reality. It's early days and there's a long way to go before seeing if it's viable, but my instinct is telling me to go for it. Let's hope it's right this time too…

An exciting weekend cometh

This weekend is filled with firsts. I'm going to my first ever music gig (at least that I can remember) at the Frome Festival to see Turin Brakes. I have their first album and love it, so I'm really excited about that. In case you've never heard of them, here is a link to Future Boy, a track that always makes me cry. In a good way.

The second first, if I can write such a clunky thing, is that I'm going to be helping my Dad run a fire walk. How cool is that? I'll tell you all about that next week though, because the third first (gah, make it stop!) is that I am going to give my first talk as a professional author.

And there, right on cue, is the anxiety demon. Come in then, sit down, there's a biscuit over there for you. Yeah, we're getting to be like old friends now. The talk, in case you happen to be in Frome, Somerset at 10am on Sunday morning (10th July) is all about writing for young adults and social media for writers. It's part of the Writer's and Publishers day, all the info regarding booking and whatnot is here.

I've been mulling it over for a long time, and I know what I want to say, I just need to tidy it up into a presentation. One of the tricky things is that I know nothing about the people coming until I meet them on the day, so I don't know what level of experience they have with the old social media. I'm not so nervous about that…

It's the whole standing up in front of people thing.

Yeah, that old chestnut. The thing is, what I've been trying to fathom today is how I used to stand up in front of people several times a day to teach them A-level psychology. On Sunday, those people will want to be there, which wasn't always a guarantee when I was a teacher. I didn't break into a sweat before every lesson.

Actually, the first few lessons I did, probably the first six months of teaching I reckon. But even then, it wasn't as bad as the anxiety is these days. I suppose it was the post-natal depression that happened between then and now; it sucked the marrow out of my confidence bones, making them all brittle. I'm hoping that once I start the talk I'll be fine, and a part of me – the part I consider to be the real me and not this scared shadow of myself – is actually looking forward to meeting new people and helping them. At least I hope I'll be of some use.

One thing I am working hard on is not fretting about the whole implied expert status thing. The anxiety demon, sulphurous, ill-mannered little troll dropping that he is, is sitting here saying that I've got no right whatsoever to stand up in front of people and pretend to know all this stuff. I'm telling him that I don't call myself an expert, I just got two publishing deals thanks to my social media efforts, and a career as an audio book narrator, and lots of other people have already found my advice on writing for young adults very useful and told me so. So (sticks tongue out) nuuuh!

Alas, it has come to this, my precious ones, yours truly sitting in a home office, sticking my tongue out at a coping mechanism. Le sigh.

Have I remembered this correctly?

I know that many of you are writers, so just to reassure myself that I have remembered what it was like to start out on social media, could you be a bless poppet and tell me the things you struggled with at the beginning? Any things you wish you knew back then? Any things you still struggle with now?

And a little bit of good luck wishing is always gratefully received…

A victory against the anxiety demon

At the end of last week I crawled out of my audio book recording booth and emerged, blinking, into the sunlight.

Then I had a wedding to go to. And then a tonne of work to catch up on. And then – oh, you get the idea. Life is full, I am busy, blah, blah, blah.

There are all kinds of things I could (and probably should) write about. My first audio book has been released and a novella I recorded last year has been nominated for a Parsec Award! (Squee!) You can find the details over the on the voice page.

Things are quite splendid in audio book land at the moment actually. I've just finished recording a historical romance for Iambik Audio, and signed a contract with them to publish the audio book version of From Dark Places (squee number two please) and also publish the fantastic sci-fi thriller TimeSplash by Graham Storrs which I recorded last year (and thrice squee)!

There is also the fact that the hardback of 20 Years Later is due to be released a week today! (There aren't squee noises loud and complex enough to express all I feel about that.)

Oh, and there's the talk I'm giving at Frome Festival about writing for young adults and social media for writers (10th July, 10am). That's pretty big actually, I should definitely be talking about that…

But instead, I want to talk about something completely different.

Patterns and knots

In my second year at university I had a nervous breakdown. I very, very rarely talk about it. There are probably some people who are quite close to me who don't know, and probably members of my family who would be shocked to hear about it.

Ever since, my life has been a lot about unpicking knots in my unconscious, trying to identify the roots of behavioural patterns that hold me back or keep me miserable. As a result, I can happily say that I am a hell of a lot less screwed up than I used to be. It's a relative thing though; I am still very screwed up.

But then, aren't we all, my lovelies, aren't we all?

I've been quite open about the issues I have with anxiety, I feel it's important to talk about it so that if others suffer too, they feel less alone when they read about my worries. Well, this time, I want to share a tiny little breakthrough with the old anxiety beast.

When I got back on Sunday evening from the family wedding (which was wonderful) I checked my email and geared up to edit an audition for a new audio book. There were, unsurprisingly, things I needed to attend to fairly urgently, as the audio book sucked the marrow out of last week and some things had to be put lower on the list.

I wrote them down, my Monday starting to take shape and then it hit; a baseball bat of anxiety right in the gut. It was such a visceral thing; stomach cramps, tight chest, racing heart, the works.

I have no idea why, but it suddenly occurred to me that I was panicking because the long list I had just written said only one thing to me: No time to write tomorrow either.

I've been trying to finish book 3 for weeks, and projects, work, book launches and all kinds of shenanigans have slowed my progress to a crawl. Last week I was promising myself that as soon as the audio files were turned in, my creative priority would be finishing the book. Then it looked like that wasn't going to happen.

I sat down and thought about this carefully, picking up a thread of thoughts I'd been having a couple of weeks ago about how I see my life now. You see, over the last 2 years I have completely reorganised my work and lost financial stability in order to create a life in which I could prioritise my writing. But on some level, a very, very deep level, I was still seeing my writing as the thing to be fitted in around the edges. Some part of me was still classifying it as an indulgence.

But it's not any more. It's my job.

Yes, I have other work that actually pays the bills which I still need to do, and writing books doesn't do that. Yet. And that yet is very important; it is absolutely imperative for me to find an income from writing fiction, because it is the thing that nourishes me, fulfils me and stops me going utterly insane.

So anyway, back to Sunday evening. Picking that thread back up, I realised that top of that list had to be writing book 3. I've been scared to do that as usually, once I start writing it I never want to stop, and when I give into that thousands of words get written but paying work doesn't get done. But I promised myself I would write and stop by lunchtime, and just work late (like I do every night anyway).

Ping! The anxiety evaporated.

I finished a chapter yesterday morning and wrote 1200 words into the next one this morning. Aside from grumpiness that I can't just keep writing it for the next five days until it's done as there are loads of less interesting things to do to earn money, I feel a bit better.

One day, I'd like to get this anxiety well and truly sorted out, and find a way to make my natural tendency to want to work intensively on only one thing at a time work to my advantage, rather than disadvantage. I'm nowhere near that yet, but I think this is one small step in the right direction, another little knot unpicked. It makes me wonder whether anxiety is also a way of my body telling me when I am straying too far away from what I should really be doing. It's not just that of course, as I experience levels that suggest something is a tad broken.

Have any of you experienced anything like this?