Laurie Graham's Blog, page 2

Ready, Steady, Wait…

First, business.  Dr Dan, Dr Dad is looking good and ready for publication. The Kindle edition is already available for pre-order on Amazon and the paperback will be on sale by the end of the month. Will there be a fifth book? Probably. I’d quite like to see how Dr Dan fares during the pandemic, but I may take a breather and write something else in the meanwhile. To be decided.

You might think that my move, back to the old country, with a modest amount of worldly goods, would be a simple matter. Into the van and off we go. Wrong. A move between a EU country and the UK is now the occasion for bureaucrats to create a paper-chase, with pages and pages of forms to fill and evidence to produce. As a consequence I’m going to be living out of a suitcase for a few weeks while my stuff sits in storage awaiting the magic word from HM Customs and the Inland Revenue. Ah well.

My consolation is that it will all be worth it because I’m about to take up residence in one of the most enviable cribs in London: the Charterhouse. If you don’t know it, check it out here. Someone asked me, rather impertinently I thought, how I’d managed to swing such good fortune. My reply was that I ticked all the boxes for admission to the almshouse: elderly, single and destitute. Note well, anyone planning to give up the day job and become a full-time writer. Don’t do it. Become a plumber. Get an HGV licence. Write your novel at the weekend.

I won’t be blogging while I’m in transit, so this is it until later in October. I leave the final word to Jessie Wallace channeling that old music hall star, Marie Lloyd. Enjoy.

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Stuff

Two weeks without writing more than a shopping list has taught me a lesson: I need to write almost as much as I need to eat and sleep. Without it I feel…. not quite myself. I suppose I was a fool to think otherwise. After all, I’ve been writing since I was old enough to hold a pencil. Retirement, it seems, is out of the question. I’ll settle for a slower pace.

My two week writing drought has been filled with the stuff you need to do when you’re moving house. I thought my life was simple and streamlined. A delusion. I was overlooking the fact that, inter alia, I owned eleven unidentifiable electronics cables from gadgets of yesteryear, tangled with three sets of defunct headphones. Note the use of the past tense. I owned them, but not any more.

I’m moving from a small flat to an even smaller one. The mission therefore is ruthless culling. I find I can do it in one hour bursts. After that, I run out of firm resolution and find myself sitting on the edge of the bed reading old birthday cards.

Tomorrow, back at my desk, I’ll be preparing Dr Dan for the printer. We are on target for October 1st, he for publication, and I for opening the door on my own exciting new adventure. Of which, more next time.

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Done and Dusted

A clear desk is a rare, rare thing in this house but today that’s what I have. Dr Dan 4 is off to the copy editor tomorrow, leaving me free to dust the Venetian blinds and watch cute dog videos. As usual, having finished a book I feel a mixture of relief and loss. Relief because I made it to the end. I read recently that Edith Wharton was at work on a novel when she died. Some sixty years after her death another writer ‘finished’ it for her, using her outline notes. Noooooh. It shouldn’t be allowed.

I feel loss after finishing any book because I’ve lived with its characters for a year. With Dr Dan that feeling is intensified because it’s been much more than a year. Recently I have even had Dr Dan dreams. I really need to get out more.

Will there be a Book 5? Possibly, but I’m in no hurry. Someone suggested I write another historical novel. I could. I have an idea for one and I suppose I shouldn’t be deterred by the fact that my historical novels were all disastrous commercial flops which helped land me in Self-Publishing Land. I mean, what the heck.

But first up, I’ll be moving and not just house, but country too. It will be, I hope, my last move. Or as my son wisely pointed out, my last bar one.

In other exciting news this week: I have almost perfected the art of the two finger whistle. Almost. It’s a minor bucket list item, but no less important for that. Now bring on the dog videos.

 

 

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We Have Lift Off

For most of this year I’ve been a textbook example of that expression ‘work drags on to fill the time available.’  People have assumed that because none of us were going anywhere, I’d be writing all the faster and getting Dr Dan 4 off the production line in record time. How little they know me.

I’ve turned up for work most days, but progress has been slow.  Maybe it’s age. Also isolation. I feed off the conversations I overhear on trains and buses, even though I steal very little of it word for word.’ I’m just an ‘ear’ person, stimulated by what people say and how they say it. Not the radio, though. People rarely speak naturally on radio. Dramas these days are weighed down with clunky signals of wokeness and radio presenters are either shouty or they litter their SENTENCES with strange EMPHASES that really IRRITATE me.

Anyway, they say a change is as good as a rest. I was in London, working at a borrowed desk on a borrowed computer and suddenly a rocket was lit under my spreading fundament. Was it a bird? Was it a plane? No, it was Laurie Graham getting her act together. We had lift off. Which is a long way round of saying that this week I will finish first draft. August will be spent editing, September will be spent formatting and publication day will be October 1st. Result!

And here, to whet your appetite, is the new cover. You’ll notice a certain bleariness around his eyes.

 

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No Offence

I see from my work-planner that I should be finishing first draft of Dan 4 this week. Sorry to disappoint, but we’re not quite there yet. I keep getting hooked away by other projects, such as The Rest of My Life. Soon, though. Soon…

I’m aware that being a writer is a career many people wish could have been theirs. It may not be up there with brain surgeon or Olympic gold-medalist but it has a certain cachet, which makes it all the more amusing to me that it was never my ambition. No careers adviser suggested it. I took no writing courses. I just kind of fell into it and here I am still. It’s probably too late to change now. I doubt the Royal School of Ballet is going to offer me a place at this point in my life.

But for those of you still young enough to consider a career change, I’d like to alert you to two new, fast-growing professions. The first is Sensitivity Reading, a service now offered to writers who lose sleep over possible unconscious bias, cultural appropriation and problematic language.  Many writers now pay to get their manuscript deep-cleaned. I actually know someone who did. Was it worth it? Well, if you want your book purged of all character and spontaneity, absolutely. However, don’t assume it’s a permanent fix. Every day new groups emerge that are on the qui vive for offence. What is okay today may get you brought to the attention of the Witch-Dunker General and cancelled tomorrow. Offer a 24/7 Sensitivity Reading Help Line and you could be laughing all the way to the bank.

The other, related growth sector is Offence Archaeology. If you enjoy nothing more than trawling through thousands of inane Tweets and Facebook posts, this could be your niche. Twitter has now been around for an astonishing 15 years. You hardly need me to tell you what rich pickings you’ll find in the Pre-Cambrian stratum of Tweets and newspapers will pay good money, or at least some money, to hear about them. It’s a dirty job but someone has to do it. Apparently.

Dan 4 and I are off to London for a few days. Will the UK let me in? Will Ireland let me out? Time will tell.

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Losing the Plot

Well goodness, my last post got you all fired up. I appreciate reminders that I’m not a lone voice crying in the wilderness.

This week, a few words on the art/craft/whatever of writing. A friend recommended Stephen King’s book on the subject and as I’m always interested in how other writers go about the job, I took a look. I know quite a lot of novelists. Some share their work at every stage, seeking the opinion of other writers. I have eavesdropped on one such gathering. They call it ‘workshopping’ and I despise the very idea.  You cannot write a novel by committee. If your book stinks but you can’t smell it, it’s your editor’s job to break the news to you, not a round-table of colleagues, so-called.

I’ve generally been blessed with good editors. When they told me that my characters were great, my dialogue excellent and my plotting woefully feeble, I knew they were right. Sometimes I tried to do better. Mainly I didn’t bother. I was just writing (and still am) the kind of books I like to read. But I was surprised to learn that Stephen King doesn’t fuss too much about plot. I’d have thought his genre of writing demanded it. Maybe he’s a natural-born plotter and doesn’t even realise it.

On the topic of plot, King mentions Edgar Wallace, author of 170 novels, twelve of them in one year alone. He was also, allegedly, the inventor of the patented Wallace Plot Wheel. Are you mid-novel and feeling stuck? Spin the wheel for fresh inspiration. Maybe introduce a tragic accident, or an unexpected legacy that changes someone’s life? Perhaps some character returns from the dead, or undergoes a complete personality makeover. Oh no, you may think. Dei ex machina dropping from the sky like hailstones. Wallace didn’t care. He needed money and he wrote his very successful mysteries fast. There’s a joke that a caller was told Mr Wallace couldn’t come to the phone because he was at the midpoint of writing his next novel. ‘Midpoint?’ said the caller. ‘I’ll hold.’

There are such things as plot wheels. I imagine there are now plotting apps. There are certainly story idea lists, Create-a-Conflict and Select-a-Setting writing aids and character name generators. I wonder who uses them? I can spend a whole enjoyable morning choosing a name for a character, and all by myself.

As for Edgar Wallace, I’m not sure he invented any plot wheel, let alone patented it. I think Stephen King might be having a bit of fun with us. Nice story, though.

 

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Pen Me No Missives

By popular request (well, one) and as I have nothing interesting to tell you about my dull writing life, today I’m going to deal with a couple of crimes against the English language.

First, the widespread confusion between ‘enormity’ and ‘enormousness.’ Actually, the confusion is now so prevalent that in thinking I can do anything to salvage the situation, I may be whistling Dixie. But here goes.

Enormity has nothing to do with physical size. Rather it’s a measure of moral offensiveness. There’s nothing neutral about enormity. It’s a strong word and always, always negative. You may speak of the enormity of a crime but not (no matter how much it appalls you) of your waist measurement. Enormousness is about size, but it’s an awkward word to write and to say, so let’s use something else instead. Vastness? Yes, that’ll do.

People may advise me to let this go. The ship has sailed. Languages shift and change. I know, I know. I play with language myself, though mainly with my inner circle. Why only this week I coined the word ‘floppitude’ which seemed perfectly to describe a friend’s state of exhaustion.

Much as they irritate me, language crimes committed by newspapers don’t qualify as enormities, but it’s Friday and I’ve got nothing much on for the next ten minutes so I may as well get it off my chest.  Regrettable news-speak fashions come and go. Last year ‘iconic’ got my award for the most overused and misused adjective in the British press. I don’t see it so much now. ‘Showcase’ is definitely the verb du jour, almost always applied to some gym-honed part of a celebrity’s anatomy.  Abs are showcased, as are pecs and post-baby bodies. When I see the word, I ‘showcase’ my disdain using my middle finger.

And finally (for today) there is the verb ‘to pen’. No normal person uses it. Missives are penned, and so are tomes, but only in the minds of journalists desperately trying to elevate their language with fancy flourishes. If I were a newspaper sub, ‘pen’ would get the blue pencil treatment every time. Oh, and so would ‘abode’ but I’ll save that for another day.

What are your bugbears? Don’t pen me a missive. Just write and tell me.

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Cruelty to Books

I’m not sure what Tik Tok is and my grandchildren assure me I needn’t worry my grey head about it, but I did read an interesting story about a Canadian woman who scandalised Tik Tok users with her attitude to books. She, an avid reader, cracks open the spines, writes notes in the margins and on the end-papers, and removes dust-jackets. People who had previously Liked her or Followed her or whatever one does on Tik Tok, accused her of heinous crimes. If she does this to innocent books, one complainant wrote, what might she do to a helpless animal or small child? Gosh.

I love books and have a serious book-buying habit, but they are not sacred objects for me. I buy them, read them and, if they’re novels, usually pass them on. The only books I treat as precious are a handful of artist’s books, unique items, made for me years ago by Carrie Galbraith, a talented artist and dear friend who died far too young. Everything else is mass-produced and, if it doesn’t sell, mass-destroyed. If you’ve ever had a year’s work pulped you will understand why I can’t treat books with solemn reverence. Yes, I turn down page corners. I use books as coasters and leave coffee rings. It’s my book, bought with my money. I could use it for toilet paper if I wanted to, and sometimes I’m tempted.

Marginalia aren’t really my thing but my late husband, who was an even bigger book fiend than me, left his mark all over our library. He’d underline things he found particularly moving or apposite or annoying (mainly annoying), and write phone numbers or indecipherable memos on end papers. Occasionally I come across some of his jottings and it makes me happy. It means, Howard was here. He read this book and this was his candid opinion of it.

Some of the Canadian Book Vandaliser’s Tik Tok Likers, or perhaps now, Dislikers, said her treatment of books made them feel physically ill. Are they for real? I hope their reverence for books extends to picketing those libraries that are currently on a hunt & destroy mission to remove anything un-PC from their shelves. Now that’s an attitude to books that should give us all an attack of the vapours.

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Not Missing in Action

A brief post, just to reassure the concerned reader who feared I’d disappeared down a deep hole. I’ve been in London for the past three weeks, attempting to organise the next phase of my life, of which, more anon. This has been a tough year, though heaven knows, not just for me.

I’ve been getting a bit of work done, in spite of being on the road, and today I passed the crucial halfway point in writing the next Dr Dan. So I believe I can now say with confidence, Book 4 will be published later this year.

I’ll be back at my own messy desk next week instead of this neat and tidy borrowed one and normal blog service will be resumed.

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Whither and Whence?

My late, lamented mother-in-law was a woman who skated lightly over the surface of her far from untroubled life. She raised her children on TV dinners and optimism and dished out home truths and advice to anyone within earshot. One of her favourites was, ‘don’t let little things bother you.’

Today I have utterly failed to follow her sensible rule. This all began with a blocked drain outside my apartment building. An inconvenience, but a fixable one. It was the response of the property management company that got me going. I’ll quote it in full.

Your issue will need to be logged on our website. Please log your issue in order to progress your issue. This ticket will be closed.

No, me neither.  Several hours later, with putrid gunk still bubbling up into my bathtub, I received a second message.

Unfortunately this issue has been logged on the incorrect platform. Please log any future issues through the following link. Hope you have a great day.

Those two brief emails sum up why I feel such a stranger in today’s world. Illiterate, impenetrable jargon, needlessly complicated bureaucracy and cloth-eared faux chumminess. I informed the sender that, oddly enough, I was not having a great day.

But wait. I’m not done. There’s a(nother) new book out about JFK and as I have had, in the past, a bit of skin in the Kennedy game, friends passed me a review to read. The title of the book is From Whence I Came: the Kennedy Legacy, Ireland and America. Have you spotted what has me steamed up?

‘Whence’ means ‘from where’ just as ‘whither’ means ‘to where’. The book’s title is therefore, effectively, From from where I came. Which, I think we can agree, makes no sense. I’m not a total ballbuster. I could forgive this (just about) in a high school student or in a regular joe nervously trying to elevate his language for some formal occasion, but from a long-established publishing house? It’s pitiful.

So that’s been my day. My mother-in-law would have prescribed a cup of tea and a Milky Way chocolate bar, but I am eyeing the whiskey bottle.

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