Cat Hellisen's Blog, page 37

Wheeeeeeeeeee

That's me zooming past.

10 k in 2 days. Holy crap I forgot how good it feels to write like this, to write without giving a shit about anything more than what's in my head.

I'm in love.

                                      

weeds in the rain

It's a beautifully drizzly day here in Cape Town. Not a cold miserable kind of drizzle, but an autumnal patter that stutters and stops. The air is still warm. There's no wind.

And there's something about rain that makes even weeds look pretty.

                                      

Review: Deadlands – Lily Herne

Deadlands is Cape Town after the zombicalypse. Or at least, that's the premise, but there's more to it than a rehash of The Forest and Hands of Teeth for the South African market. And while it has the same feel as its YA contemporaries like Suzanne Collins's Hunger Games and Carrie Ryan's The Forest of Hands and Teeth, it has a pervasive political wit that shimmies along underneath, poking fun at giants and wanna-be giants alike.

It is gritty and ugly – the Cape Town it paints is not the Cape Town we like to sell to the tourists, and Herne has done an admirable job of world-building a Capetownian dystopia I can believe, drawn from shacks and shanty towns and the bureaucratic Divine.

Deadlands is also the story of a girl, Lele de la Fontein. She's just this kid, yanno, as all the best books seem to be about. She's out-of-place, bitter about the death (and subsequent zombiefication) of her grandmother, bitter about her father's marriage to the Mantis (Lele has a way of reducing people to faceless entities, although this changes a little as she realises that there are also people behind those adult masks). She's bitter about her new school.

Mostly though, she's bitter about zombies, and the cattle-like state that humanity has been reduced to.

Enter a bizarre zombie cult, a shadowy menace, a blackmarket in Nikes and Levis, a lottery of sacrifices, a rebel group, and you have the seeds of a fun South African take on the zombie dystopia. And when things seem like they're finally starting to get together for Lele, that she's being grudgingly accepted at her new school, that she's even met someone, that her family seems to be chugging along almost harmoniously, that's when things go horribly and utterly wrong, and Lele ends up on a side she never even knew existed.

It's a fast read, and I loved following Lele around on her discovery of who the key players were, and what they are doing. Things develop quickly, and the tension racks up throughout. If Lele comes across a wee bit mary-sueish in the beginning, trust that the novel resolves this nicely with a decent, and somewhat disturbing reveal.

There were two parts where the novel stumbled for me: I found the fight scenes a tad cartoonish, although I feel this may be have been intentional on Herne's part, as a sly nod to anime (pop culture references abound). The other, somewhat bigger problem, is that although I could fully identify with Lele (hey, been there done that! Not the zombie-killer part, the being a wangsty teenager part) and relate to her as a character, indeed fall a little in love with her, I just did not buy the romantic subplots.

They were there, they were square (well triangular) but they felt shoe-horned in, as if Herne herself didn't really buy them and felt that they needed to be there to make the book more appealing to teens.

The novel is definitely set up for a sequel, and we'll see how those issues work out in the second installment. And I really hope there is one, because I'm fully invested in the world Herne's has created, and I need to know what happens next.

                                      

A shout out to old larkin

So The Slave and I were throwing ideas at each other while I was brain storming some title ideas for hob.

(His contribution of Jek Grinningtommy and the Mekekana Menace shall be burned with fire, I might add.)

Finally after much ridiculous banter, he asked me, "What's it about, what does it mean to you?'

And naturally the first words that came to me head were, "They fuck you up, your mum and dad/ they might not mean to but they do."

I'd never really sat and thought about what exactly I'd said with hob, or tried to say, because I never set out to do any of that. What I did was write a first line in the voice of this kid in my head, and it all went downhill from there.

So while I'd love for hob to be called This Be The Verse, I somehow think it won't fly with the peeps in charge of all that.

But if anyone ever asks what I was thinking while I wrote the story, all I can say is that my subconscious must have been sing-songing its way through Larkin's most famous poem, and infecting what was going on in my head. That or my teenage angst period is so indelibly inked into my brain that I'm good for nothing now. *g*

Are there poems or stories or plays that thread through what you write – sometimes so subtly that no one would notice it unless (and sometimes even if) you pointed it?

What are they?

                                      

Playing in the sandpit inside my skull

I've been on an extended writing break, chilling out and doing other things.

This is good for me, but I think I'm cool with making words again. I'm also not going to stress about any one particular project, or try and write stuff to suit other people. I know we're supposed to be, but then I start second-guessing myself on everything. It's better for me to just sit down and write without any goal in mind other than my own entertainment.

Plot and plan is overrated for me, I just end up feeling overwhelmed and like an utter faker who has no idea what he's doing.

I rather write things my way and then edit them eleventy-one times than sit and plot out stuff and shoe-horn some story into a series of post-it notes on the bedroom wall. Talk about killing my joy.

So yeah, I'm going to play around in 500 words a day, and see what beautiful messy worlds come out of it.

I'm also going to be heading off to my third year at Afrikaburn. Yay! I had to skip last year because of moving, so I'm going to go large this time.

And there's nothing quite like art to inspire art. It's this wonderful dialogue of ideas and fancies. Whether it's a poem or a sculpture or  a naked hula hooper in day glo paint, it's all good for the sparking of scenes inside my head.

And yeah, so here's the opening line of the newest project, called The Goat Girl:

Now this happened before the high-Lammers started cutting the horns off unicorns. Long before. And don't ask me how they got the fool notion anywise, because there's no answer to that better than, "they're a bunch of wankers."

                                      

Been hacking at Hob again.

Well snipping at it with tiny silver sithers, really.

Trying to expand on stuff is always fun, even though technically I'm supposed to be trimming. Here's a reworked scene, out of context etc. Iliana and Calissa are sisters. Jek is their bastard half-brother. Jek and his…bat-thing just killed five servants with some kind of magic.

Above us, the heavy alien magic is dripping through the ceiling, spreading like a black stain. "There's something very strange in this house," I say. "I've never seen the like." The unnatural magic is fading. With every sense enhanced, I can see the edges slowly dissolving.

The firelight is too bright when I open my eyes, and I realise Iliana has forgotten to raise her shields while I've been in a scriven trance. She's churning with a grey-green colour, so thick that I can almost taste it in the back of my throat, acrid and chalky. She's so sad. I suck in a breath. I've never seen my sister like this, never. I pull my gaze from that dreadful lonely misery and glance up at the stained magic. "Iliana," I say. "The house is soaked in magic. Soaked."

"Can you see it?" She perks up. "Is it something we can use? Like scriven?"

I shake my head. "I don't know, but if we could – if we could harness the kind of power that ripped those men apart," I stare at her face, "Illy, the Mekekana wouldn't know what hit them."

"But we can't – we don't know how."

"No, But Jek ­- or the bat, I'm not totally sure – one of them can. We need to know how. And they're the only ones who know what really happened in that room."

"J – Our brother is as good as dead." She looks at me, the sadness that is shrouding her tempered now with resignation, with quiet hurt. "You know that. Not even Father will be able to pretend otherwise."

"You're right." I sigh, and lean back in my chair. Iliana forgets though, she forgets that we have one more person on our side. Someone who is not of our House. "He will die. Unless someone speaks for them at their trial . . . ." I wait. "We need that information. It's House Ives' chance to gain face."

She puts a finger to her mouth to chew at a nail, a habit I thought Mother had long ago discouraged. "You want me to save them? Save Jek?" Her voice rises in a muted shriek on his name, before she clams her mouth shut.

"I want you to save the magic. And that means Jek and his bat. You can talk to Trey, you can make sure there's a voice in the Mata that will speak for them."

Her expression doesn't change, but her aura wavers, rippling with a milky uncertainty. "No," she whispers. "I won't do it. I don't care…" Her voice is far away and I don;t think she even sees me anymore.

I press my palms together and bow my head. I know what I can do. "Illy," I say softly. "You will." I look up at her, hold her gaze. "You will, or I'll tell Trey about what happened with you and Jek. And I will tell them both who you still-"

"No!" She stands, her face white. Her aura disappears as she brings down her shields. "You-" she says, then covers her mouth with one hand and glances at Mother.

"I know," I say.

"Shut up." Her words are muffled still. She drops her hand and stares at me like it's the very first time she has truly seen me.

"I will do it," I tell her and I keep my face hard as glass, even though with every word I feel my inners crumbling to dust and nothing, I never thought it would destroy me so utterly, to use her love against her. I thought it would be a victory. My mouth tastes of ash. "Unless you agree."

Illy crumples, sitting down on the chair with a solid thump. There is still no colour in her face. She tilts her head and looks up at the ceiling, at the slow drip of magic that only I can see.

"If I'm right, it will make the Ives' name good again."

"And if you're wrong?" she whispers.

"Really, if I am, what does it matter? Ives is a tangled mess, it certainly can't get worse."

She covers her fear by carefully placing the scriven box back in her bag and fiddling with the clasp. With a whisper of silk she stands, and holds her hand stiffly out to me as if we were strangers. "I'll see what I can do."

                                      

Vaguely Important Point

I am, indeed, still alive.

I have finally gone and bought a bookshelf, so now some of my books can come out of storage….

And that's honestly the most exciting news I have. I should update soon with a book review, though.

                                      

Stop words, start action, having fun, still working

Every now and again I take a break from writing.

When it reaches the point where just the thought of opening a .doc makes me wan to a) vomit, b) slit my wrists with a bic pen lid and c) take everyone in the house with me on the journey down, I know it's possibly time for me to step away from the WiP.

And there's nothing wrong with that. I have other things to do: canoes to paddle, guitars to torture, dogs to wash, children to reconnect with, beer to brew. Computer games to play.

*ahem* yeah.

It's hard to write if you don't actually get out and do stuff that doesn't involve writing. That image of the guy dressed in black, locked in his studio, banging away at his typewriter with a half-empty bottle of whiskey at his elbow, fags long since turned to ash in his ashtray? You don't want to be that guy.

Firstly, he's really boring, and he's probably writing a book about a guy who is writing a book.

Secondly no one invites him to parties because he talks about the book he's writing where the main character is a sensitive, struggling writer, who can't get a girl. Then he gets drunk and tries to molest the host's poodle. Three days later he wakes up in a pool of someone else's vomit and his typewriter's been thrown out of his window and is now being turned into part of someone's Dadaist first year art project.

We've all seen it happen.

Don't let it happen to you.

And is there anything more boring than writing? (Except for golf)  I mean, yeah. READING is fun, and reading something you wrote and going "oh hai this isn't that bad!" is fantastic, but for me, writing is not some weird fugue where I lay down beautiful words in my special happy trance. It's work, and like all jobs, somnetimes I'm good with that – I like being productive, and other times I would rather work out a way to dislocate my arm so I can practise licking my elbow.

When I hit elbow-licking stage, it's a sure sign I need to stop being That Guy and go out and mingle with real people again; do stuff. Stuff that doesn't involve being stuck inside my own head.

Of course, one of the best parts about being a writer is that all that stuff? You get to call it research.

That fantastic book you're reading? Research.

That day-dreaming, lying on the beach, half-focusing on the surf? That's research too.

That post-movie coffee in that new little eatery, catching up with the people who will still be seen publicly with you? Yep.

Don't beat yourself up about taking a break and refilling the well. It's a better use of your time than screaming at a blank screen and making yourself feel like shit.

Yep. You have the best job ever. Go out and enjoy it,

                                      

Let's all play nice and wear our pretty masks

There's been a trend recently (or maybe I've only noticed it recently) for writers to blog about how we should all be nice to each other and never say anything mean about anyone's books in case we need to get blurbs from them later.

Well, that's not their exact wording, but the sentiment is pretty easy to spot.

Now, I'm all for the basics of social niceties so we can get along; being vaguely polite is the grease that keeps the machine going, pleases and thank yous go a long way. But. I have an issue with this idea that we must all play nice IN CASE we want something from that person later. It has such a cynical reek to it. And I'm a really bad liar, anyway.

If I don't like a book, I am not going to give it 4 stars on goodreads (and don't get me started on the star rating on good reads because oh my god I won't stop) just in case my editor or agent  likes that book and would feel offended that I didn't, or something equally ridic. Now, I will probably not go out of my way to rant about why the book is shite, because dear god that involves effort and we already know I am one lazy fuck, and I do have a problem with reviews that are just blatant bashing. But surely we should be allowed to express our tastes without fear of some mysterious blurb-backlash?

Firstly: If I hate one book, I can still like or even love another book by the same author. Not liking a book is not the same thing as hating a person. Maybe I read that book on a bad day and it tripped every negative vibe that will ever trip me. (This happened recently with a book that had been recommended to me by a fair few people – I was expecting to enjoy it. instead I actively loathed it and threw it across the room and didn't force myself to finish – such is life. I will quite happily give the author another try, but maybe only in a decade or so)

Secondly: One of my fave books has bad reviews that I completely agree with, and yet they're the very things that I love about it. Everyone has different things that make them love or hate a book. Don't feel judged. Well, feel judged, but judge back. I dunno, whatever works, really.

Thirdly: If we take away any kind of honesty from reviews, then what are we left with? A circle jerk of authors all trying to wangle blurbs from each other? What the shit is that worth?

Fourthly. or d) And most importantly: OWN YOUR SELF. Own your words, your tastes, your hates, your loves.

I love an extraordinary amount of things that are beyond embarrassing (I mean, hey I spent last weekend watching dancing and singing shinigami in a musical of an anime. And I lOVED it).

Perhaps I was warped when I first read Banks' The Wasp Factory as a wee young thing. Apart from being an awesome book, it also began with a list of reviews and blurbs. They ranged from saying Banks is a genius who should be lauded as a god, to saying that Banks should basically have his crayons taken away and never be allowed to taint the English language ever again.

And you know what. I loved that. I loved the tongue-in-cheek acknowledgement of just what those words are worth.

So, yeah, play nice, but play nice because you like the people you play with. I mean, why else are you playing with them?

                                      

The real work is in the revisions.

A friend of mine recently took up writing.

I know, a moment's silence, please.

Okay, are we done? Good. In all fairness, she's actually been really dedicated to learning, and committed to daily wordcount and so on, which is better than most people who decide to become writers. She's also taken a short course at UCT, where she was informed that the magic number of rewrites before a book is vaguely publishable is seven.

She told me this with rabbit-wide eyes. Possibly waiting for me to go "What nonsense, tralalala." Instead I said "Only seven?"

Granted, there are people out there who write amazing first drafts that need little more than a polish and some tweaking before being sent to their editor. Even then, the ed probably does about three rounds with them, followed by copy-edits. And then a final read through for last-minute fixes. That still comes to seven.

And those are the girl-geniuses of the world.

For the rest of us mere mortals, it's slightly worse. After three drafts, my books (books is actually too fine a word, we'll call them my wordthings from now on) still resemble a skeletal mish-mash of concepts, a few neat scenes, transitions left Blank For Now, and something possibly resembling a plot arc. If you squint.

This is normally the point where I start crying about my inability to write, so bear with me. This is where my beta readers come in and tell me as kindly as possible how stupid my book is, and how I can fix it. For the first time, I have skipped the beta reader part and asked my agent for feedback first (mainly because I'm not certain if the concept is something she would be interested in selling and I want her pov before I commit to some massive revising missions. Also, she's completely amazing at feedback.) So we'll see how that goes…

After I get my beta-reads back, I tend to go into meltdown. These have become less extravagant and take less time as the years have passed.

What used to be "THESE FOOLS! THEY DO NOT UNDERSTAND MY GENIUS!" and weeks of crying jags before I reluctantly accepted that they actually knew what they were talking about, is now more like "THESE FOOLS! THEY DO NOT – oh shit dammit, they're right. Aargh." Followed by a quick sniffle and a muttered vow to never ever write anything ever again.

About a day later I'm tackling revisions, so there you have the worth of my Darkly Muttered Vows.

Anyway, what I really wanted to say is that for most of us, revising is a long and painful process. Yes, your favourite writer may be able to rock out two amazing books in a year, but they ARE NOT THE NORM. I promise. Two years of work on one book is not an unrealistic goal at all. So if you feel like you're being left behind by a stampede of writers who decided to write a book one Friday and then two months later got a seventy billion dollar deal for their YA trilogy, just remember that they're probably on speed. *ahem* (I said PROBABLY)

Write fun, revise hard, and don't think you're a failure if you're on your 9th draft and it's still not right. Really, if that were the standard, a lot more of us would be considered failures. Failures who have sold books.

Get out your red pen and go.