Tony Schumacher's Blog - Posts Tagged "writing"

It isn’t the start, that’s the easy bit.
It isn’t the middle, that’s a little more difficult than the start, but it still isn’t the hardest part.

The hardest part? That’s getting to the end.

I’m not the fittest guy you’re likely to meet, if you think about it that’s hardly surprising, I spend my day drinking coffee and sitting at a desk. Even if I stick the coffee at the far end of the kitchen, in the highest cupboard at the back of the shelf, there is only so much exercise I’m going to get.

Last month I spent some time in the south of England with a friend of mine. He’s a fit guy, he’s one of those people who cycle to work and run up the stairs, even though we have internal combustion engines and elevators.

You know the kind of person I mean? The really irritating kind.

Paul took me to a place called Lulworth in the county of Dorset. It’s beautiful there, so beautiful that even though I write for a living, I wouldn’t try tell you how beautiful it is.
We got out the car and looked at the view.
“Wow,” I said. “It’s amazing, really beautiful.” (see?)
“This isn’t it, the view is up that hill,” Paul said, lifting his arm at an alarming angle, pointing at the top of something that I would call a mountain. “Come on.”

Paul started walking.

I started whining.

“I can’t go up there? Look at how steep it is!”

Paul didn’t answer, he was already about sixty feet away, shaking his head.

“Seriously, there is no way I can get up there!”

He carried on shaking his head for the next two hours, as we made our way along the path. I trailed behind, moaning softly to myself, stopping frequently, pretending to admire the view while actually getting my breath back.

The beginning was hard, the middle was harder, making it to the end nearly killed me.

But I was glad I did.

Because that was where the satisfaction lay.

I looked out across the English Channel and I knew the pain of that climb, I knew the time it took, I knew all of the effort and the number of blisters I had.
And I knew it was worth it.
A bit like writing a book.

“I could never write a book.”

I can’t tell you how many times people have said that to me when I’ve told them I’m a writer (I always wait till I’m asked by the way, I don’t go around shouting “I’m a writer!” at strangers.)
Whenever someone say it I always reply:
“You can, anyone can, you just have to sit down and do it.”

Nobody believes me.

I get all the excuses:
“I’m not smart enough…” (A useless excuse, you’ve only got to look at me to see you don’t have to be smart.)
“I don’t have enough time…” (I was working over seventy hours a week when I started mine.)
“I don’t have enough of an imagination…” (If you played as a child, if you’ve daydreamed out the window, you can write a book.)

I feel for those people, I really do, because they’ll never know, the struggle up the mountain, the pain in the middle, and then the hardest part, the final few feet to the top.

And because of that, they’ll never know how amazing it is at the top of the mountain looking back at what you’ve achieved.

I guess what I’m trying to say to you is if you are on the mountain that is writing a book, don’t give up, no matter how much it hurts, takes up your time, taxes your brain and causes you sleepless nights.

Just keep going, it’ll be worth it when you get there.

Hello everyone, I hope you're all well. Not really a "proper" blog post this evening. I just wanted to mention that my book, The Darkest Hour has been released in the UK today.
A pretty big moment for me, having my first novel published by Harper Collins in my home country, and I just wanted to mention it here as I'm rather proud! :-)

I did a little twitter takeover of the Harper Collins twitter feed today, which was great fun. I got some great questions from their followers about the book, and I thought you might like to see them. If you follow the link below that'll take you to the highlights.

https://t.co/mhWjXJIvKN

Thanks for reading and have a great evening!
Tony

p.s. I should also mention that the book is only $2 in ebook form at the moment, so grab yourself a bargain!
Tony Schumacher

So here I am, one forty five in the morning, sitting in my office trying to build a website, in-between writing blogs, when I should be a asleep in my nice warm bed.

The rain is falling outside, I can see my car parked in the road, dotted in drops under the streetlamp, looking lonely and cold like a dog who ate tomorrows dinner and got thrown out in the yard.

I should be asleep.

Thing is, I can't sleep.

I'm wide awake, mind all-a-racing, full of stories, full of questions and answers to questions, and determined to keep me awake.

Wide awake.

Why?

I'm guessing because tomorrow is my first ever book event. Tomorrow I'll walk into a book store in my home town of Liverpool and tell people how, why, where, when, and what I do.

And it is scaring me half to death.

Wish me luck.

Tony

When I was a kid, like so many other kids, my dad taught me to ride a bike in the garden. I remember it was sunny, warm, but not so warm he was able to take off his cardigan, mind you, I don't ever remember him taking off his cardigan.

He was laughing, I remember that.

I can feel his hand on my back right now, all these years later, sitting in my office with the rain tapping on my window, and my keyboard and coffee pooled in the light from my lamp.

I remember he was laughing, but I don’t remember what it sounded like.

I’ve forgotten the sound of my father’s laughter.

He died twenty five years ago.

I can’t remember the sound of his laughter, but I do remember the sound he made as his battered and tattered heart clenched in his chest just before it gave up the ghost. He cried out, head tilted forward, fists balled, eyes closed, at the edge of the end and not wanting to go.

I remember that.

I miss him.

I’ve an old car, a desperate for attention busted up old thing that needs more jobs than Detroit.

I’ve lost count of the times I’ve been under that car and wished my dad was there to pass me a wrench and give me advice. Even though I know he’d probably just tap me on the leg and tell me to get out of his way.

I’m not very good with cars.

My dad was.

Like a shadow creeping across the grass on a bright summer day, memories fade and move away.
As time passes, in the setting sun of a late afternoon, they become difficult to focus on, their edges soften, they blend into the darkness of the coming night.

Then they are gone, and all you have is memories, of your already vague memories.

My dad didn’t like having his picture taken, he’d frown and quietly shuffle out of shot and nobody would notice he wasn’t there until it was too late.

When he was dead.

I’ve the same frown and shuffle, but I haven’t got kids to miss me when I’m gone.

So I guess it doesn’t matter.

They’ll be nobody to look at the pictures I’m not in.

It isn’t just me though.

My mother once told me she could remember the way the mattress tilted towards where my father had once slept. She said every night his side of the bed was empty she could imagine that tilt, take comfort from it, every night he was there, even though he hadn't been for oh so long she couldn’t bear to count the years.

He wasn’t there, but the weight of him was.

I feel that weight sometimes.

Heavier than his hand.

A weight of expectation, the weight of his hopes, the dreams he never got to have.

Heavier than his hand.

I want to make a ghost proud, I want to show a ghost what I’ve done, what I can do, and I can’t.

It’s too late.

Take a look around the room you are in right now.

Go on, I’ll wait.

Was there someone you love, someone you like? Was there a pc, a phone, a chance to reach out?

A chance to reach out?

Don’t waste it, take it, shuffle into the photo, smile, laugh, make memories that last and linger a moment, stare at them until they look up.

Tell them you love them.

They’ll remember you did.

Say that you’re proud.

Say that you’re happy.

Say it again.

Say “I love you.”
Before it is too late.

Tony Schumacher

I missed John Lennon's anniversary due to being in the air most of the day, but I still wanted to mark it so I thought I'd share this with you.

I’m not a morning person, never have been either. I’m more likely to be accused of being a bit of a nark, than being up with the lark. So the morning that my Mum burst into my bedroom, threw open the curtains and said:

“John Lennon is dead!”

Two things struck me:

“Why are you opening the curtains it’s still dark outside?”

and

“Who cares if John Lennon is dead?”

I went downstairs and had my cornflakes while the rest of the family were glued to Liverpool's Radio City who were breaking the news. I sat munching, disinterested, safe in the knowledge that The Beatles were old fashioned and Lennon was rubbish.

I pretty much got myself ready for school that morning, and off I set to walk to my mate Terry’s house. When I arrived he solemnly beckoned me in, and then ushered me into the kitchen. As I sat waiting for him (I may have even pinched a biscuit) I flicked through the night before’s Liverpool Echo newspaper and listened to the usual early morning household hubbub.

After a while, and during a lull, I heard the sound of sobbing. Proper full on, deep gasping can’t get your breath sorrowful sobbing.

I listened, my head tilted, wondering who it was?

After a few minutes Terry joined me in the kitchen pulling his tie over his head.

“Who’s crying?” I asked.

“Our Karen."

“Why?”

“John Lennon’s dead.”

I shook my head, we left, we went to school, we walked the same streets, the same steps, the same everyday.

The same, they seemed the same, even though John Lennon was dead.

It took me a few years to understand why Karen cried, why the world cried, and then one night, having had a few beers, sitting playing records in my parent's front room with head phones on while everyone else slept. Boxes of old records had been emptied and picked through, everything from Jim Reeves to Deaf School lay around me.

Eventually I stumbled across Lennon’s “Julia”, scratchy and sad, a love song for someone lost.

When I listened to it for the first time, I knew how Karen felt.

The Darkest Hour: A Novel

Guardian Article

This may be a little confusing to all the lovely American's on this page, so I'll try and explain why I've posted it.

The above link should take you to a piece in The Guardian newspaper about a UK kids tv show that ran in the seventies and eighties.

Grange Hill was children s programme that started in the late seventies in the UK. Back then we only had three channels on TV (and there was always something good to watch, unlike now when we have three hundred!.) Programmes tended to be watched by everyone at once, so they would often be the topic of conversation the very next day, on a much larger scale than they are now (even X Factor.)

Grange Hill told the story of a group of kids starting what would be the equivalent of High School, and the problems they had to overcome being teenagers.

What made it different from every other kids show was that it was very very "real."

It wasn't sweet, or false, it covered issues that kids, especially working class kids like me, really had to overcome every day of the week and because of this realism, it became a phenomenon, to such an extent you'd be hard-pressed to find a Brit of a certain age who didn't love it.

One of the big stars of the show was a guy called Terry Sue Patt (he is the black kid in the photo) who played a character called Benny Green.

Terry Sue Patt sadly died a few months back, and wasn't discovered for a few weeks. His fame had been fleeting and since leaving the show he had dabbled in art, music, and a few other things but he had never reached the heights he had once held.

Such was the impact of the show on British culture he was still famous, but not with the money that modern fame usually brings so his life had been modest, quiet and almost normal.

The reason I've posted the article (apart from it being a great bit of writing) is I wondered about a particular line in it, and I wanted to know what other people felt about it.

In the piece somebody mentions that Terry wasn't lonely because he had a lot of Facebook friends. It started me thinking about Facebook, and how we use it today.

I've always felt that a real friendship is emotionally nourishing, seeing someone you love in the flesh or hearing their voice makes you feel good, whereas Facebook friendship is a different matter all together.

I spend a lot of my time on my own, it is the nature of what I do for a living, I write, I think, I write, I look out the window, I write... and so it goes on.

I often switch off my phone or ignore emails and sometimes it can be for days that I won't speak to people. My job has cost me a couple relationships with some wonderful people, but I'm not complaining, I have a career I love, even though it means I am alone at the moment.

I may not have time for relationships, but I will however visit facebook through the day.

What I find though is that I don't feel the same sense of nourishment from clicking "like" or typing a few lines of comment.

Facebook is like junk food, whereas real interaction is a hearty healthy meal for the soul.

Like junk food Facebook is great in small portions, but it shouldn't make up too larger part of your diet. We need a human voice now and then... even me.

Take care everyone, and make sure you speak to someone you love today. xxx

I used to be, in a past life, a stand up comedian. Around the same time I did a bit of acting (a couple of bits of TV, two plays, and a half decent part in a movie seeing as you asked!)

I loved all of the above stuff, honestly, it was amazing to be in front of an audience and feeling their reaction at a stand up gig (you feel it, you don't see it, don't ask me why or how, but you do.)

The reason I gave up telling jokes and stumbling about a stage was pretty simple really: I fell in love with writing.

I still do a bit of radio stuff in the UK for the BBC and LBC and I love it. It's not as immediate as being on a stage, but it gives me a little buzz of adrenaline, and drags me out of my office to talk to other people (half the country) now and then.

The thing is though, acting, radio, and stand-up comedy were like summer romances.

Writing is the ONE.

Writing is the thing that makes me whole, the place where I can finally find myself.

The crazy thing is, sitting in a room on my own with a keyboard and a coffee gives me the biggest buzz I've ever had.

Writing a good scene, putting the "thrill" in "thriller" is like nothing else I've ever done. I feel the gun behind my ear, my fingers ache from clinging on to a windowsill. My heart feels like it is coming out my chest sometimes, and the tears in a character's eyes are always in my own.

I'm such a lucky guy, I've got the best job in the world.

Thank you for giving it to me.

A friend of mine told me last week that the best thing about running a marathon was the mythical “wall.”

He said: “The minute you feel it coming on you, just as you know you’re about to hit it, you realize that if you keep going you’re going to experience the brilliant sensation of pushing through it.”

Personally I think he is crazy (Not for what he said, I see his point entirely, I just think he is utterly mad for wanting to run a marathon!)

I tried to explain to him that I think writing books is a lot like running a marathon. Just like a marathon you start at the beginning with no real end in sight, just like marathon you should have trained with smaller bites at the cherry before you launch yourself into the big one. Just like a marathon, nine times out of ten you’re doing it for no one else’s satisfaction other than your own, and just like a marathon it will involve hours of solitary torture during which the rest of your family will think you are basically crazy, but will encourage you just the same.

The one thing where it really differs is, writers don’t just have one wall to push through, we have loads of walls to push through before we break the tape.
The first part of writing a book is like the flat bit of the course at the beginning. You get a nice steady pace going, you feel that all that training you put in is paying off, as the word count goes up like mile markers around the course.

Then you hit the first wall.
For me it usually comes around the 20k word mark. It’s around then that everything I thought I was going to write goes out the window as the plot starts to wrap around me like long grass around my ankles. It slows down, keeps me looking back, changing characters, changing dialogue, tripping on details and running out of story like it is breath going up a hill.

I normally take a day or two off around this point. I take stock, refresh, think, then take a deep breath and start again.
Last time I scrapped 6k words in three hours.

That is one very painful wall.
When I push through that barrier there’ll be the odd trip and stumble but I normally keep on until I hit the 90k mark, and then, like grey hair and making noises when you get out the chair, comes the inevitable second wall.

As I’ve mentioned on this blog before, I don’t really plan my novels. I like to watch them unfold like real life in real time as I write them. For me this is a great way to write, and I find it really exciting for about ninety percent of the time. I’m getting to watch my own movie in my head, not only that I get to direct and star in it as well! The only problem is, I don’t know how it is going to end.
I write crime thrillers, which hopefully, are pretty exciting to read. They should fizz and bubble and increase in pressure right up until the cork flies out the bottle. The problem is, if I keep shaking and cranking the pressure, there often comes a moment when I stare at the screen and think:

“I don’t know how he/she is going to get out of this.”

And there is nothing as frustrating as writing yourself into a corner.
I hate cutting an extreme situation out of my work because if I do I feel like I’ve cheated. The way I see it, if I’ve written realistic bit of work, I should be able to think a realistic way out of the scenario my character is in.

I often try and solve problems in real time. If my character has a few minutes, I have a few minutes to find the solution. This can be stressful, as I’ll often feel like it is me hanging off the windowsill by my fingertips, which can pretty exhilarating!

Problem is, if I can’t think of a way out, it means I’ve hit another wall, and it is usually a lot harder to push through than the first one.

It can sit on my shoulders for days, drifting around in my head every minute of every hour. In the store, in the car, when people are talking to me in the coffee shop or the pub. People think they have my attention, but secretly I’m hanging off a roof in a snowstorm/ in London in 1946.

And then bam!

I’m through, it comes and I’m off again heading for the finish line, excited, delighted, pushed by adrenaline I’m lifting my arms as my chest breaks the tape and I type:

“THE END.”

I sit back, stare out the window and smile, I’ve done it.

Except I haven’t.

My editor will have a few more walls for me to push through before I really reach the finishing line, and they are normally a lot bigger and tougher than the ones I thought were bad (I'll blog about that misery another time!)

All of those walls are why I told my friend writing a book is harder than running a marathon. The only upside is I have more coffee, more chocolate, and I don’t have to wear tight nylon.

Thing is though, it is still the best job in the world.

Tony

The following happened to me tonight:

"I don't like books."

"What?"

"I don't like books."

"I... I don't... what?"

"I just don't like them."

"How can you not like books?"

"I just don't."

I looked around the bar to make sure this wasn't some sort of joke being played on me.

It wasn't.

"I can understand you not liking a certain kind of book, but surely you can't not like ALL books?"

"Well, I don't. I just don't like books."

He took a sip of his drink and I looked at his wife for some moral support.

I didn't get any.

"We don't have books in the house do we?" She said it with a smile.

I felt like crying.

"No books at all?" I looked at her and then him in the vain hope they would mention an old copy of something that had once caught their imagination.

"We've got manuals and stuff, but no books, not with stories anyway."

"But... I..."

"I can read!" He threw that into the conversation, just to make things worse. "I just don't like to."

"What was the last book you read?"

He looked at her, and she looked at the ceiling and chewed her lip.

"Something at school?"

He nodded and repeated.

"Something at school."

"Twenty years ago?" I was starting to lose the will to live.

"And the rest, it must be thirty?"

"Thirty," she confirmed, with a roll of the eyes and a shrug of the shoulder.

I took a copy of my book out of my bag, and pointed it with my other hand.

"So if I gave you this what would you do with it?"

"I don't know really." For the first time he looked unsure.

"You could read it?" I threw the suggestion out as gently as I could.

They looked at each and then he took the book and took a look at the picture on the cover.

I waited.

He turned the book over and looked at the back for a couple of seconds.

Then gave it me back.

"No thanks, no offence, but I don't like books."

"Honestly, relax... you can trust me."

Now normally, if you hear or read something like that, I'd advise you to start running and don't look back. This time though, I'm asking you to stick around, mostly because it's me who is sounding like a cheesy psycho in a bad book.

Let me explain why.

I've been reading about marketing for the last few days (I should make it clear by the way, I am not a fan of marketing, but I am a writer who has a second book out, and this is the sort of thing Harper Collins tells me to read.) Anyway, while I was reading about marketing, I stumbled across the following fact:

"Over sixty percent of the sixty million people who are regular Thriller/Suspense readers in the USA, say they are reluctant to buy a book by an author they haven't read before..."

That means that approximately thirty six million people in the USA don't trust me.

Which, if I'm honest, makes me feel like a puppy who has pee'd on the carpet once, and now can't innocently sniff the rug without being thrown in the yard.

Anyway, why am I telling you this? Well basically because I am needy, and my feelings have been hurt.

You see, I know you love James Patterson, Michael Connelly, Nicholas Sparks, Patricia Cornwell and Ken Follett. I also know I'm the snotty nosed kid Harper Collins have given a bat to and said: "Get out there kid, show 'em what you can do."

I know all that, but the problem is I can't show you what I can do, if you won't pitch me the ball.

It doesn't matter that the Wall Street Journal called my last book a "memorable novel..." or that the Fort Worth Star Telegraph said it was "an exhilarating roller-coaster ride that would have made a great Hitchcock movie..."

None of that matters if you won't pick it up and see for yourself.

Now I know why you might be reluctant to do that, $20 on a book is a lot of money, and I might be a terrible writer (my first novel is out in soft-back/kindle for a lot less than that, and I promise you I'm not a terrible writer), but I want to remind you of something.

I want you to cast your mind back to the day you discovered your favourite author. I want you to think about the moment you looked up from the book, broke into a big smile and said "wow!" to yourself. I want you to remember how good that feeling was, and then I want to ask you a question America:

Why don't you try a new writer, and see if you can fall in love all over again?

Tony Schumacher