Steve Harrison's Blog, page 3

Rejection Resurrection

I like rejection. Rejection is good. Actually, rejection is the best thing that can happen in the development of a writer. It’s the place where dreams meet reality. I know this because I have been rejected by some of the finest publishers in the world.

I should zoom in on the type of rejection I mean. I don’t mean passive rejections, where you sit by your letterbox (or inbox) for weeks, months and years and hear zip. I don’t mean hostile, “this is rubbish,” rejections, either. Or even the apologetic, “we like it, but it’s not for us,” rejections. All of them are useless. They mean nothing to a writer, unless… but I’ll come back to that later.

I wrote the first draft of my novel, TimeStorm, in the late 1980s. Until then I had written two unpublished short stories and a published article on the history of the soccer world cup. I was obviously ready to write a novel, but to my surprise it was utter rubbish. Not the story, I hasten to add, which is pretty much unchanged. It was the actual writing that stank. I revisit that draft every now and again, like one of those painfully embarrassing incidents you can’t forget. And try as I might, I also can’t forget that I sent the manuscript out to about thirty publishers. Thank goodness there was no internet in those days; it would have gone viral under the heading, “I received this manuscript. You will not believe what happened next!”

Anyway send it I did. I even got replies, most of them polite rejections, and, surprisingly, no one asked me if I had another career to fall back on. The wakeup call, when it arrived, was in the form of a short paragraph from a middle range publisher which, in essence, said, “do not submit this to anyone else until you can write.” How rude and insulting! What a cheek! How dare he! By the time I had finished reading – and stopped swearing – the letter was confetti. I should have kept it. It would now be framed and hanging in pride of place in my office.

That is still my favourite rejection, because after a writer is told he has no writing ability, nothing can hurt him ever again. It wasn’t so much a rejection as a suit of armour in an envelope.

It took a while to realise this, however, as I went from anger to despair, stopping off at self-pity, misery, denial, Kings Cross, anxiety and madness. Sorry, one of those is a railway station.

I stopped sending out the manuscript, which indicates that at some level there was a small portion of common sense that told me, alas, that the words were true. I did resolve to improve, though. Writing the novel had me hooked on writing – bad though it was – and I couldn’t stop. I hid the manuscript and read writing manuals, subscribed to writing magazines, read everything I could get my hands on. And I wrote. Short stories, articles, letters to editors, anything. And then, after a few years, I dug out the manuscript and started again

It was better this time. The writing was dull, the descriptions dry and the characters were literary blocks of wood, but you could read it without being induced to commit suicide. I sent it out to a dozen publishers and the feedback was better, the criticisms referred more to the content and genre and not so much the writing. I had a couple of detailed critiques and even corresponded with an editor who was kind enough to refer me to novels and style guides she thought would help me.

I clearly had much more to learn and this manuscript joined the first in a drawer, while I managed to get a few short stories published, achieved modest success with a syndicated humour column and turned to screenwriting.

But TimeStorm was always on my mind. Every few years I would do a complete rewrite and send it off and as the internet became established, responses from publishers became few and far between and comments even more rare. But I wanted more. I’m not one for writers’ groups or classes and I didn’t know any ‘real’ writers then. I wanted feedback from professional publishers, so instead of moving on when I got a form rejection, I wrote back and asked what they really thought. I wanted their honest assessment and to my amazement, many of them came to the party.

I again found myself of the end of harsh criticism, but this time I knew what they were talking about and could identify it in my writing. It was liberating and I felt like I had been given an arsenal of weapons to go with my suit of armour. The drafts improved.

I was no longer getting criticism for my writing. The strongest objection was now: “no one wants to read this type of story.” I countered that with a note to self: “Bullshit!” I had stuck with this novel for all those years precisely because I ‘knew’ it was a story people would want to read. Once my writing ability had caught up and I could do justice to the tale, that is.

Two years ago a medical issue provided the compensation of two months off work. I decided to give TimeStorm one more draft. I performed a page one rewrite using everything I’d learned and employing all the notes, previous drafts and rejection letters I had kept over the years. The draft was good and I knew it. This wasn’t arrogance (maybe it was?), just my own conviction. By then, I’d befriended an accomplished US novelist and screenwriter who provided some very honest feedback on my scripts. I sent him TimeStorm and he agreed it was good, going even further by saying it was ready to be published.

He was right. Three months later I signed a contract with a publisher and TimeStorm was finally a reality outside my head as well as inside it.

I often read that authors eventually found success despite multiple rejections. But now I wonder if, perhaps like me, they were guided, nurtured and published because of them.

The Lonelines of the Long Distance Author

After twenty-five years writing the same novel you would be forgiven if you began to wonder if the book would ever be published. In my case, after each draft, rejection followed rejection. Agents and publishers, it seemed, queued up to say no, but I was too determined, bloody-minded and stupid to give up. I KNEW the book would be published. I never had a single doubt. Certainty was my middle name (actually, my middle name is David, but then the sentence wouldn’t make sense).

And so, when the small English publisher, Elsewhen Press, offered me a contract, I was shocked, mainly because I assumed I would live the rest of my days KNOWING the book would be published. What would I do if I could not work on a new draft of the novel every couple of years? I might have to – OMG! - write another book! Isn’t that what published authors do?

The problem was that I had not really planned on being published, even though I KNEW I would be, so I didn’t have a stack of old manuscripts in my bottom drawer. Actually, I don’t have a bottom drawer. I have one of those modern desks without drawers, designed to make an office look tidy. Of course, without drawers, the surface is covered in papers and stationery and is more untidy than it should be. But I digress.

Word quickly got around that my novel would be published – mainly because I told everyone I know – and after asking me what it was about, they asked, “what are you working on now?” I told them it was a secret, which was true as even I didn’t know.

My published novel is a rollicking action adventure, time travel, speculative historical romance tale about convicts, honour, duty and revenge. At only one novel every twenty-five years, I figured I should pack in as many genres and themes as I could. The book is set almost entirely in Sydney and is very Australian and yet no local agent or publisher expressed the slightest interest, while a wonderful, small and very enthusiastic English company loved it and signed me up within a month of receiving the first five page sample of my writing.

The novel came out worldwide in eBook and then in paperback, but again, Australian book distributors fell over themselves to avoid taking the book on. I am Elsewhen’s sole Australian author, so they do not have a track record here, despite a portfolio of very good novels. I placed copies of the book into the first three bookshops I approached, mainly for vanity purposes (I got a great photo of my novel on a shelf next to one of John Grisham’s), but logistics make self-distribution a, well, logistical nightmare. I can’t get publicity. Local newspapers ignore my pleas, major newspapers are not interested in reviewing books from small publishers – particularly overseas companies – and the Sydney Writers’ Festival doesn’t appear to have much room for low profile, Sydney genre writers with foreign publishers, although they are currently looking at a copy of my book, bless ‘em.

I can’t complain about sales. They are ticking along everywhere else in the world – I had a very nice email from a reader in Fargo, North Dakota last week – but outside of my immediate circle I remain unknown here in the city and country where the book is set. The characters in my novel are strangers in a strange land and I know how they feel.

But I have thought of a way to secure an Australian publisher and distributor and of receiving publicity and support from the local media. In fact, the novel I am now writing – yes, no longer a secret – should ensure all of this happens. It’s set in England.

Words & Music

I can’t tell a bar of music from a bar of soap, but my novel, TimeStorm, comes with an impressively intricate score performed by the London Symphony Orchestra in full (I’m dating myself here) stereophonic sound.

OK, it’s not the real LSO and I don’t even know the tune. It’s just a generic mix of every movie soundtrack of every action film I have ever heard, mashed up in my head and regurgitated while I attack the computer keyboard like a deranged concert pianist.

Near the beginning of the book, there is a shipboard flogging sequence which took an age to write. It’s very important, in that it sets-up the story, introduces nearly all the main characters and provides the tone for the entire novel. No pressure there, then. I imagine it’s the kind of scene that propelled many a writer down the short road to alcoholism, drug addiction or vegetarianism.

The key to everything had actually been staring me in the face from the very first draft, but I had been blind and, more importantly, deaf to it. This key was a character without a name, fleetingly on the page and someone we never see again. But his impact and influence on the novel cannot be understated.

The character in question is the little English Marine drummer boy who provides the steady beat for the Bosun and mate who perform the flogging. It is a relentless sound over the top of the grunting floggers who struggle to keep time as the leather thongs of their cat-o-nine-tails become soaked and heavy with blood. The beat accompanies the groans and screams of the prisoner, an incantation, almost, between the wet slap of leather, the blood splattering the deck and the rhythmic creaking of the ship’s timbers on the ocean swell. I had seen the sound on the page, but suddenly, as I was about to tear out my remaining hair, inside my head I actually heard it!

And when I heard it, I couldn’t just see what was happening. I could feel it. I was there on deck, barefoot, among the assembled crew and cowering convicts. I could feel the beat reverberate through the deck, sense the tension running through everyone on board and smell the sweat and the horror and the fear.

It was total immersion. A moment when the writer becomes the writing and the story becomes the real world. If writing was yoga meditation, I had found the blue pearl!

I can’t say that the book then wrote itself or that it was in any way easy, but I was no longer fumbling in the dark, tripping over furniture. The lights were on and I could see the path. Alleluia!

The drum beat accompanied me through the rest of the writing, underlying the other imaginary music; the soaring themes of spectacle, the jovial accompaniment of the humour, the hum of violins over the romance. But the beat was always there, providing an air of menace and danger, and as I approached the violent action scenes the drumming would grow louder, angrier and more insistent. I would feel nervous, apprehensive and grit my teeth. And then the music would erupt in my head and words would cascade onto the screen.

It was a wonderful and thrilling experience, but I think next time, to retain what little sanity I have left, I will write a light comedy romance…

Writing Bull

You are at a party. The host introduces you to a person and makes a hurried exit. Your heart sinks because you know what’s going to happen. The person asks you where you went on your last holiday and you have a millisecond of hope that a conversation is possible, a hope that is dashed before you can extract even a milligram of enjoyment from the feeling. Before you can answer, the person says, “I went to…” and all hope is officially abandoned.

The holiday is just an intro. You will now hear a life story. What the person did, how they did it and, particularly, how well they did it. No experience not experienced, no opportunity missed, every slight righted and each comeback line – because they have always had one instantly at the ready when required – repeated.

You know you are being fed a line, but the person is oblivious to your uncomfortable reaction, and plows on regardless. You are appalled and, if you are a writer, fascinated, because this person clearly believes his or her own bullshit. You should actually be grateful.

I have always had a resistance to writing advice, particularly from writers like, say, Stephen King, who writes three novels every day, then goes off and has breakfast. Hardly inspiring for someone like me who took more than 20 years to write one book. I want something practical and possibly achievable, like ‘write one sentence per week, but make it a good one.’

However, there is one piece of advice I do like. That old chestnut, ‘Write what you know,’ is my favourite, though initially I denounced it as stupid. My novel is about time-travelling 18th century convicts. What did I know about them? I knew they were from the 18th century and I knew they travelled through time. Not really enough to fulfil that particular piece of advice.

But eventually my brain kicked in and I realised it’s not about what you know, it’s about what you know.

It’s all about the human condition. If you know how a human being ticks, it doesn’t matter if your characters are caught in a TimeStorm (book promo), creeping around the darkened halls of a magical high school, looking for a missing wife or being handcuffed to a bed. You are writing what you know.

And – this is the best part of being a writer – if you don’t know any of this stuff you can make it up.

This is because all fiction writing (and I suspect a great deal of non-fiction) is bullshit. It’s just stuff you make up. You can embellish your story, make it profound or worthy, set it against real events, base it on real people, find the ‘truth’ of your situations and elicit genuine emotion from your readers. But it’s still bullshit.

The advantage you have over our party friend is that your readers have willingly paid you to deliver them a large amount – in my case 103,000 words – of bullshit. They want not only to read your bullshit, they want to believe it. They want the real world to disappear every time they pick up or switch on your book

But to do this, you must write with absolute confidence. You must pretend that your story is real. You must be convinced and convincing with every word you set down. The people in it must be real. The situations, however contrived, stupid and unbelievable, must also be real and your characters must behave in a way that enhances the world you have created. While reading, your reader must – I say again, must – be able to say, yes, that could really happen!

And the only way to ensure this works?

You absolutely have to believe your own bullshit.

The Story behind TimeStorm

Many years ago, my brother and I were walking across Sydney Harbour Bridge when a replica 18th century frigate passed beneath us in full sail. He turned to me and asked, “what if that was a real convict ship?”

That comment inspired me to write TimeStorm, an adventure novel, set during a single chaotic day, about a convict ship from 1795 which survives a storm and arrives in Sydney in 2017, where the convicts rebel and escape.

The question stuck in my head and became something of an obsession. I had written a couple of short stories and sports articles by that time, but never entertained any ambitions to be a novelist. If anything, I was more interested in film and, to me, TimeStorm had all the elements of a Hollywood blockbuster. Think Hornblower meets Die Hard!

However, as the story came together, I started to wonder what these 18th century convicts would think. How would they react to their sudden arrival into our 21st century world? Compared to us, they had fairly basic and uncomplicated lives. But they also lived in a very brutal world where violence and death were never very far away. The essential ingredient, if you like, was their assumption that by escaping, they would be executed if caught. That is a powerful incentive to resist capture at any cost.

Conversely, the officers and crew of the ship would have a strong sense of honour and accountability. How would they resolve both their need to survive and an overwhelming sense of duty while faced with a hostile and alien environment?

And what about the citizens of Sydney? Their city is seemingly under siege, with possibly a large number of terrorists on the loose, and the pressure to work out what is happening would test the authorities to the limits.

I was also interested in the general perception of the convict era. People here in Australia are often proud of their convict ancestors and point to the severity of sentencing people to transportation for relatively minor crimes, particularly the old favourite, ‘stealing a loaf of bread.’ This is true, but the fact is that many convicts were hardened and extremely violent criminals and therefore much more interesting from a novelist point of view. These types, I felt, would cope best with a time slip situation.

With this growing and challenging number of questions on my mind, I realised that the only way I could fully explore all of these ideas and attempt to get inside all the heads of these characters was to write a novel.

The premise allowed me the added bonus of paying homage to my seafaring literary heroes, men like Hornblower, Ramage, Bolitho and Aubrey. TimeStorm’s Lieutenant Christopher ‘Kit’ Blaney of HMS Marlin is very much a man in this mould. His nemesis, the convict Rufus Redmond, is a man cut from a very different cloth. Enraged and consumed by his need for revenge, he is not a man who will allow himself to be intimidated when suddenly transported more than 200 years into the future.

I wrote several drafts over the years as I pursued a career in screenwriting, but TimeStorm was never very far away and I was constantly revising, changing and tinkering until I finally reached the point where I felt it all came together. My goal was to take a classically told adventure and drop it into the 21st century and see if these men could adapt to a new world, or indeed if that world would be forced to adapt to them.

It was a thoroughly exciting and enjoyable adventure writing TimeStorm and I became very fond of all the characters, even those with few redeeming qualities. The novel is very much their story and is told through their eyes, and I sincerely hope readers will share my excitement and come along for the ride.