Category Archives: writers life

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.

moment 22

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i sit by lake coniston watching the water ripple across the surface surrounded by tree banked hills and the gentle curve of mountains. the sun dances on the water celebrating the day, the break of storms and torrential summer rain. swans glide curious at the commotion but proud to show off their young to any who will give them attention. the launch leaves the jetty, sending great ripples to unnerve the newborn rowers and offering a moments excitement to the many paddle boarders with glaring colours of orange and green. the screams of children splashing and the chatting of adults in the sun. tea cups clink in the bluebird cafe as orders are yelled by the staff. a wave of sound fills the air flattening the moment as smoke rises from campfires away in the woods. what would wordsworth have made of his beloved hills and water? would he have found the time to stop and think, to channel god’s talent and compose? or would the constant din of activity stifle and consume, killing thought in its grasp of sound, a black cloud of storm thunder smothering, drenching the poet, blotting his page, words obliterated as soon as thought of, all consumed by the downpour? what then to history? the writer’s lost to a life dull and obscurity, not the conversation in a white cottage or the delight of a sister, but sad mournful days of what could have been, if only, if only.

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.

moment 11

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so i am sat here in a courtyard surrounded by boutique shops and a bus that is a bar. i come here to escape the distractions of day time TV or the internet, the endless ramblings of social media. i sit sometimes in the yard on an unsteady bench or on other days in the 2nd hand bookshop, writing in my small black moleskine notebook with a drink to hand. usually, i am left alone to ponder, imagine and daydream before a customer comes into the bookshop to interrupt and peck at my quietness. but it is a bookshop. so we are often in our own worlds, them in an endless list of book titles seeking to hook, me in a sentence, a moment, searching for a word that stays just out of reach. the courtyard was not always such a pleasant place. once it was an unloved carpark full of lost promise and refuse. now, it is a place of creativity and creation. ideas blossom until the yard is full of flowers waiting to be picked.

moment 9

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every time it happens it amazes me. i can be sitting happily at home or lying in bed, nodding off after a tiring day, or even watching tv, or reading a book, then it creeps up. the little nag at first, a small tapping of the needle in a corner of my brain. Tap. Tap. i try to ignore it. refocus on going to sleep, focusing on the programme or the page. TAp. TAp. my stomach begins to clench as it know what is coming. TAP. TAP. then the voices, the cry of what ifs reexamining the day and where i went wrong or think i went wrong. did that person really mean that or were they hiding their true feelings. maybe they secretly despise. you may think that would be enough but not for my mind. it is just getting warmed up. now we top it off with predictive what ifs. what if i do something wrong at work tomorrow? what if my boss sees it? what if they find out i’m not any good? what if – what if – what if. it yells in my ear. my heart beats fast. i begin to sweat. everything around me is reduced to nothing. i just hear the voices. you’re a charlatan! you deserve to fail! you’re no good to anyone. i try to focus on my breathing like i’ve been taught. centre my mind on a single part of my body. focus. come on, focus! the voices laugh and yell at volume. out of control. they jump from cell to cell in my brain. kicking at the positive, knocking it down, crushing it under foot. count to ten, count to ten, count to ten. focus on your breathing. then the disasters tear up as punishment. the abject fears of harm to my family. did i lock the doors? is everyone safe? the voices come back: but if you did lock them, can you be sure? can you be trusted? surely, something so important can’t be trusted to you? count to ten. count to ten. count to ten. breathe in slowly. hold it. breathe out. focus on the toe. the right toe. now follow the toe along the leg. take a journey. one part at a time. the voices quieten to a whisper, not completely gone, just murmuring enough for me to know they are there. i get up, walk to the kitchen, and pour myself a glass of wine.

moment 8

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Black and white leather barber chair

i never understood how women could spend so long in a hairdresser. how they could disappear for half a day. half a day! i knew about the colours and potions that had to be applied but could not see the attraction of spending so long on a necessary thing. when i was young, if i was lucky, i got a break from the wonky fringe created by mother and instead went to the Bosun’s. Chair. it was a typical town hairdressers, images of forgotten styles proudly in the windows, chrome chairs and black outlined mirrors. a woman in her forties would listen carefully to my mother’s instructions and produce an approximation. once, when a teen, i took a picture from a magazine of Jon Moss and saidi wanted hair like him. i left disappointed by the outcome. when i grew older, i ventured into the world of gentlemen barbers. there was one called Manns (yes, really) that lay hidden down an alley in Taunton. people would sit waiting, courteously declining their turn if it was the old guy cutting. no one wants a cut from pre-war days. we wanted the latest trend of shaved sides and spikes atop. he just couldn’t cut it. i would leave more satisfied at the price than the result. when i moved to London, i found places that would trim for a tenner. no time wasted. ideal for a frugal me. i would go to the same place and as for the same thing. over the years, we built an understanding. then, overnight, a disaster. it shut. my reassuring friend was no more. so i went on an adventure. entering places i had never before explored. one, we talked fluently in our own language. In vain I tried to sign a style.  I left with something. the worse time i saw a place full of young men with clippers. i thought they must know. Iientered and sat down.  the guy cutting became distracted by a friend and the offer of a cigarette. he continued with fag in hand, clippers in the other, talking, turning to talk to his mate. realising the cutting a hindrance, he handed the clippers to another and walked out to continue his chat.  i left with a disaster on my head. now, i go to the same place as my wife. it is above my usual 10. but i get pampered. coffee is offered, good coffee, and. i lean back and have my hair washed. the massaging releasing the tensions of the week. then the cut. i show a picture and she crafts with scissors a close representation.. i smile at the person in the mirror and leave happy.