Category Archives: comment

divided worlds

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there is separation that exists in all writing. the writer knows it is there. tries to ignore. pretend it doesn’t exist never existed shouldn’t exist must not exist does not deserve to exist but nevertheless persists in its existence. it hangs there. on the edge. like a small snag of fingernail that catches on a jumper as you pull it on and with a sudden sharp pain makes you aware.

a writer sets out when writing a piece in a belief a commitment a fallacy that what they imagine to be what they can imagine to be will come to be. will exist. once they have put pen to paper. drafted. edited. rewritten. checked. line-edited. drafted again. but it is not there. the thing they imagined does not exist. their writing cannot not create it. even if they were to train a million apes brought up on shakespeare how to type and gave them their work to work on for a million years the problem wouldn’t be solved. the final draft would exist but be lacking. would have a distance between the imagined and the reality of the word.

this distance is what writers have to live with. each time they put pen to page. make their plans. start to write. they know they will not achieve the story they set out to do. that there will be a piece lacking. a slither where their skill was just not enough. but they lie to themselves that this time it will be different this time they will be better and sometimes they are and this time they will put their all to it and pull each and every imaginative writing sinew to the creation of their work. but they know they tell themselves a lie. that it is a lie to get them started. else they would never begin or go mad during the writing process.

that is why all writers are great liars. they tell themselves most fundamental untruth to themselves and their reader. they see this is what i had planned this is what i intended now buy my perfect book. but we know this to be untrue. and the reader and writer join in with this lie. form a bond in untruth. until the next time.

doppelganger

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Minimalist portraiture women outdoors

Margaret Atwood in her book ‘On Writers and Writing’ talks of authors living in a life of split-personality. Like Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde we exist with a darker self, our writer’s voice or being. Whilst we live good wholesome lives earning a crust to support our writing identity and enable us to do the thing we love, when faced with a blank page and a typewriter we turn dark. We will happily murder a character that our poor readers have grown to respect and love. We will with joy bestow upon a poor child a life of misery in the harshest of conditions with no seemingly way to exist the torment. We will bring death to the door of a beloved pet. All for the story. Always to the unseen god of story.

It is no wonder then that some readers when faced with the writer in front of them may confuse the voice of the book, the one they had previously trusted until the heroine died horribly in a fire, is the same as the voice of the writer. That both hold the same sentimentalities and beliefs. That both are not indistinguishable from the other. After all, are not writers told to ‘write what you know?’ What more evidence is needed then that the writer is capable of these hideous offensives?

Yet, when writing the writer often detaches themselves from their character and world. Yes, there may be elements of their psyche that influences the path of the story. But the story is a being onto itself. The characters make demands. Choose their own paths. You may hope a character will do certain actions but the god of story may demand otherwise. And who is brave enough to oppose the god of story? Those who do sacrifice their existence.

words

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White paper on black background

i’ve always had a problem with words. not the deciding on them. not the thinking of them. the focusing on the words to use. the need to reach for a thesaurus because they just won’t come. not that problem. the word count. that’s the issue. no matter how big an idea or how many chapters i seem to always get a low word count.

i plan out my writing. brief lines with a few details what will happen in each chapter. then i begin and write. i sit down at my keyboard and tap away. the idea clear in my mind. full knowledge of the setting and what the character has to achieve in that chapter. i write the scene. describe the setting, add the action and dialogue. build it up as slow as i can. chapter finished. 1500-2000 words. where’s the rest of it? surely i can write longer?

being a two finger typist, i think: maybe its the typing. maybe i should revert back to the old pen and paper. ditch the modern technology. unhamper myself. free myself to write without the distractions a machine brings. but it’s no good. still the same length of chapter. 1500-2000 words. still the problem that the novel is just not long enough for publishers.

perhaps it goes back to me. i’ve never been one to talk lots. always one to listen. speak when i have something to say. something to share. my shaggy dog stories peter out. the dog dies before it gets to the end of the tale. conciseness is in my nature. why use 300 words when a sentence will do? there are some who can talk. really talk. add lots of detail and atmosphere. and write that way. but my thinking has always been why mention the table is red if the colour isn’t important? only mention the details that are important to the plot and events. cut back the chaff.

perhaps my whole approach is wrong. maybe i need to let forth with a wave of unnecessary words. use 100 when 10 would do. but it goes against my grain. perhaps, as i suspect, it is the demanded word counts are wrong that a novel should be the length it should be. should the ‘great gatsby’ be made longer because it doesn’t meet acceptable word counts? max porter’s work lengthened to an epic? or do the publishers need to be more flexible in their approach? is it time for change? perhaps selfish i know. me calling for a revolution just to suit how i write. but think of all the great writing lost because it didn’t meet a required format (i don’t include myself in this).

words. when are many too many? few too few?

sometimes

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sometimes you are gripped with imposter syndrome and the feeling you are wasting your time in the futile gesture of putting words to a page in the hope that someday you will be happy with it that it was all worthwhile the evenings of doubt frustration regret hope the unending feeling that you are so close that it is just over there that knots your stomach at night as you try to sleep but your mind won’t rest as it is full of nagging questions about the viability of the project you are working on whether it was all just a foolhardy endeavour in the first place that you rushed in not heeding the warnings that you were overreaching you should try something simpler a haiku maybe no a single sentence start there but you foolish you decided to rush straight in and try and write a novel again with characters not fully formed just going through the paces in unformed scenes like shadows in an early 80’s video game with all line drawings and the only colour is green and you don’;t even like that so you are left with the realisation that your story is missing a big something a great big something and you are a failure you’ve let yourself down and the people you told you were writing a novel and ask how the progress is going but they have now learnt not to ask anymore as the answer is always the same it’s coming along slowly so you are lying there fretting about the blank page in your book that needs words and exhausted your eyes droop then close but just before they close the idea the solution pops in and you write it down on the page by your bed satisfied that the solution has been found you can rest easy now so you sleep happy only to wake the next day and look at that paper and wonder what the fuck that word means and you are right back where you were the day before with mr imposter syndrome.

anyway. it is sometimes good to remind ourselves why we got into this writing malarkey anyway. the best way i find for me is to pick up a book by a writer i like and read their words and be transported and enjoy the sensation of being carried somewhere and then i remember it is making others feel this way through my work is why i do it. the smiles on faces. the appreciative words. the collective joy. that’s why i do it.

in praise of the futile

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a lot of my time recently has revolved around the issue of copyright and ai. if you’re wondering, i’m against allowing big tech to scrape the work of creatives to train ai without permission. it is theft plain and simple.

there are some who confuse having an idea with creativity. they mistakingly think it is the idea that trumps all. they disregard that creativity is a process. it is the process of flinging an idea into the open, developing it, refining it, abandoning parts, developing others. it is not the click of a button to generate a text or image or song. there is no human process there.

ai will never become creativity or be creative. ai solely seeks a quick fix profit. there will always be a profit margin for ai generated ideas. it will never explore the futile. the time spent on a creation that may not go anywhere. may not sell. is created just for the process and the act of creation. where there is no profit.

humans do not just create for profit. they create to experience a fuller understanding of their imaginative soul. to explore the connection between the sub-conscious and conscious. to play between the cracks. a flick of a button denies that. denies the fulfilment of the creative soul. the human needs to do the futile. to do something just because. it is what leads to advances and revelation. not the regurgitation of what has been.

embrace your futile self while you can. demand the right to be futile. to create without success or reward. to be human.

the trouble with tinkering

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maybe it started with the sink. we used to have plugs and chains. it was a simple and effective system. you would put the rubber plug in the sink hole. fill the sink with water job done. then a bright spark got to tinkering. what if instead of a plug you had something you could turn and the plug would go down and block the hole? no. not good enough. what about if the plug was just a push and pop up? you just push down on the plug then fill the basin. marvellous. life is simpler.
except…
you now have to replace the whole sink if the plug stops working. just replace the plug. don’t be daft. it’s a more complicated system. what? you used to just get a new plug and chain? oh. that was the old days. things are better now.

or there is the tap. the tap starts dripping. you need a new washer. except that isn’t the solution anymore. you can’t just buy a new washer and stop the dripping. not now. not now with these new taps. we’ve been tinkering. you now have to buy a whole new tap unit if it starts to drip. nothing for it. it’s all inbuilt you see.

that website you like. the one easy to use where you can find everything you like? well, we’ve made a few improvements. we’ve added a pop up help system so you don’t have to look for help. it will pop up every few minutes to remind you we’re there to help. and we’ve tinkered with the menu. we’ve made some features that used to be optional add ons. you now have to pay for them but they are new and improved. better.

that’s the problem with tinkering. it’s infectious.you’ve finished your first draft and edits. and you get to wondering. what if i just add a little bit to the scene here. that will improve. it. oh. now i have a plot hole. i’ll just fix that with adding a bit about the character here. oh. now that character’s actions don’t make sense. i’ll add a new piece about them here. oh. a new plot hole. i just…

don’t tinker. if it works leave it. don’t be tempted. not everything added is an improvement. sometimes things are best left as they are.

london

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london has been the inspiration for my writing since i moved here over 25 years ago. from the outside you might think is a humongous whole on crossing the river thames like some great up turned turtle flailing it’s legs. or you might think it is just a large discarded black bin bag discarded carelessly across a stream. both would be somewhat true but inaccurate. fairer to say that london is a collection of towns, neighbourhoods, connected by the web that is the london underground system.
it is known for certain people to rarely leave their particular neighbourhood. to never venture much further than their local high street and corner shops. after all, what need for the centre of the city when you can find what you need on your doorstep? i have known children to have only for the first time to have experienced other polaris of the city, the tube, when taken on school trips with their schools. otherwise their familys stay put.
and who can blame them when you consider the city of london itself, the centre core, is made up of towering office buildings and bars and stores that close over the weekend. what to entice the venturous then? particularly when you factor in the increase in prices should you enter there.`
yet central has much to offer. numerous museums and galleries where you can seek inspiration for a tale. cafes where you can watch the world go by whilst surrounded by works from the past. hidden lanes that lead you to a bygone age of mystery with a pint in a boozer at the end where the decor and clients haven’t changed in years.
then outside of central you have the neighbourhoods. often referred to by their stop on the tube line. in the south: brixton and its caribbean roots gradually gentrifying with the influx of the thirty-somethings in search of their first homes. in the west: richmond where the money lives with leafy parks and pubs upon the thames. in the east: barking with sprawling council estates and descendants of the working class made good. in the north: haringey, the home of protest, upheaval. these are just some places but there are many more and everywhere, the wealthy rub shoulders with the poor divided by the post code they choose to live in.
with such variety and diversity in a living museum of culture, who could not get inspired to write? how could it not play a key role in the work im producing?

writing routine

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finding time to write can be problematic. it can affect getting into a routine. and can make the routine or writing habits you follow. many books advocate writing regularly. some say every day. i have never managed that. being busy with family life. and holding down two other jobs to pay the bills can impact on the time you have available. and by time: i’m not just on about physical time. the time to be free from work. i’m also on about the more important mental time. if you have stressful jobs that are mentally taxing and full on then it takes awhile to achieve quietness. the quietness you need to let your imagination play. explore. dance from thought to thought. place to place. if your’e mentally exhausted this takes longer. first you have to recoup. then gain the quietness. then focus on the writing.
so i snatch my quietness. my writing time. it is not regular. or frequent. and due to that. i forget. i forget what i have written before. where i am in my novel. the threads i have set up. i plot but they are brief notes. often single lines for a chapter. a glimpse as to what the chapter may hold. the rest i write on the hoof. by the seat of my pants.
this means i break all the rules of writing. i don’t edit after i’ve written a first draft. despite how many writers recommend this. i write a chapter or section. leave it whilst i turn my attention to family and jobs. return to the writing. read that chapter and edit. write the next chapter. i edit and write as i go.
i tend to find i don’t do a lot of change. maybe it’s because i ponder a lot what the next chapter is going to be. if i can remember it. think about the characters. the situation i left them in. and i’m a slow typist. that helps. i use just two fingers to type. this has the effect of slowing me down. so by the time i write a sentence or word it has been edited in my head several times. the paragraph shaped. that is why some writers advocate writing by hand. to allow time to think.
when i wrote my first novel. it was by hand. and the edits. only at the final stage did i type it up. i still do some writing by pen. my prose-poetry. it is straight from pen to paper then to ipad. a few changes on the way. novels are straight onto ipad.
i use Scrivener. i like the corkboard and how it can be used to easily shift things around or generate an outline. the outline proves very useful writing a synopsis for agents, etc. i write my novels sequentially. i don’t hop to a scene if stuck. some writers do that. but i can’t work that way. i need to solve a problem before i move on. not that i have many problems. due to all the time between chapters and typing it down i usually have them ironed out in my head.
i also make use of a good writing group. it is local to me and offers invaluable insight on what i’ve written. they will point out if something doesn’t quite work or needs fleshing out more. and it provides a good indicator how a reader might react. do they laugh when you intended? were they surprised by an outcome as you wanted? or was it all guessed too earlier in the story, leaving no surprises?
writing groups also give a good incentive to write. you want to make it worthwhile going. to offer something to an audience. to not go empty handed. this keeps you on track.
however you write is up to you. you find your own path. despite what some may think. there is no secret formula to writing a novel or getting a book published. it is all out there. you can read loads of books on the subject for suggestions. but ultimately it is down to you. your words. your effort.

raven

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lately i’ve been suffering a bout of imposter syndrome. when i work as a bookseller i rarely, if at all, mention i write. instead it remains a subject pushed to the back. hidden away. securely. in a box. wrapped in chains. big large lock. the key secreted away. i feel the dark bird of the imposter resting in the shadows. hovering on my shoulder. i can’t call myself a real writer. i’m merely self-published.

ok. it doesn’t mean i feel that self-published writing has less quality controls. many employ editors to analyse their work. typesetters to arrange the pages. designers for the covers. great expense is invested in their work. to achieve the goal of a finished book. and often the writing is great. brilliantly put together. they just weren’t chosen by the gatekeepers. and those gatekeepers are not infallible. the great publishing house make mistakes. who hasn’t tutted at a traditionally published book with errors in the text or a glaring plot hole?

yet still the dark bird hovers. i was no it chosen to be amongst the traditionally published. certain websites and organisations shun the self-published. only the traditionally published will do. it does not matter to them or me how many hundreds of books i’ve sold. i was not chosen. i am the harry to the william. no great reward awaits me.

i often think when edgar allen poe wrote of a raven he was having a particularly bad bout of imposter syndrome. it was there at his door. clawing to get in. to dig the talons in. so i remain silent on my writing. mention it not to the traditionally published. my dirty secret. instead i keep it hidden. only revealing it to my writing group or spoken word events. then i hurry away. pages destroyed. the shame hidden.