Tag Archives: authors

the curse of spring

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Woman with blonde hair standing near green leaf tree

the months move on and the cold dark days of winter begin to fill with the light and warmth of spring. plants awaken in the garden spreading their leaves and the flowers blossom. animals play and skip across the grass with a spring in their step. literally. you would think with all this light and energetic joy writers would be happy. no. spring is the cursed month.

you may ask how i come to describe so a glorious time of year as cursed. well let’s look at the facts from the writer’s point of view. first all this sunshine and warmth. annoying. you are trying to buckle down to a particularly difficult rewrite of a paragraph in your dark and dinghy corner of an attic room with the cobwebs in the corners of the ceiling sagging with the dust of neglect. and what happens? sunlight breaks through the grime of the window and shines upon your desk lighting up your laptop screen making it difficult to see. the suns warmth beckons you outside.

‘come on,’ it says. ‘take a break. enjoy the sun.’

and you think to yourself: i will take a break. and before you know it you are sat on a whicker chair with a cool rosé in hand taking in the sun rays. time ticks on. you have another chilled drink. and before you know it the day has gone. the sun has set. and no work has been done. a whole day’s writing lost to you. never to be regained. instead you now have a feeling of reproach and guilt consuming you as you make your way indoors to the kitchen to make a chilled salad. all because spring is here.

and that is not the only way the season is cursed. picture this. you are in your attic tapping away at the keyboard. the edits are going well. you are fully focused. in the zone of creativity. then in the corner of your eyes there is a slight itch. just slight at first. you try to ignore it. but the itch grows. so you stop your typing and rub your eyes. you have fallen out of the zone. you try to claw your way back. but now your nose is twitching. you are going to sneeze. you try to hold it back. nose twitching violently. a sneeze blasts out that echoes across the attic room. filling the space. bouncing off the walls. another. and another. and you are reduced to a sore-eyed-weeping-water-sneezing-violently-wreck. you can not think. mind numbed. cloudy. all thoughts on the novel lost. you have hayfever. the fever from hay. and it is a fever. the eyes leak. your nose drips. your face feels warm.

you search for the hayfever medication. you hold the purple box in your hand but it is empty. so you have to leave the house. leave your writing. and go to the chemist where you purchase a box of medication at a price slightly too painful. you could have got new pens with that money. paper for the printer. but instead you had to buy medication. you go home and swallow a tablet. but of course there is no instant cure. hayfever medication doesn’t work that way. you have to build up a resistance. it takes time. so all you can do whilst waiting is lie on the sofa with a box of tissues to hand and think about the writing you could be doing and blame the god of genetics or something.

so enjoy spring if you can. enjoy the sun and flowers and the pollen on the trees and walks in the woods through dappled light. but remember the harm that it does. remember the curse it puts poor writers under. the curse of spring.

in praise of slow

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Black and yellow line on black asphalt road with words "rapid " and "slow " written on it. Image by Constantin Stanciu

in today’s world modern technology has added a lot to enhance everyday living. it enables us to communicate across vast distances, simplifies many daily tasks, and enables advances in many scientific areas. it helps us to perform tasks that were once long and laborious in minutes. it removes the time from a task.

we have engaged with tools when word processing to simplify and speed up the process of writing. the spell and grammar checker. the formatting tool. all of these has aided to quicken the time between the generation of the idea to it appearing on a page to publication. and now we have “AI” being pushed by large tech companies who promote the speed it can do everyday writing tasks. they say it is the dawning of a new age of writing. that it will enhance our work and make things easier. that the distance between idea to publication is almost nonexistent.

but is this rush to embrace speed such a good thing?

when i write or read i like to take my time. i like to chew the words over in my mouth. formulate and restructure the sentence in my mind. think ahead to where that sentence is going and contemplate what possible one could follow. for a while i dabbled with speeding up my work by writing my first draft directly onto a computer device. i reduced down the process between idea, composition, editing. speed was the king. but was my writing any better? was the process easier? no.

so i went back to basics. i put time back into the process. instead of the computer i switched to a notebook and pen. i allowed myself time to chew over thoughts and ideas. for the sentence to brew in my head. it may have only added a few extra seconds but they were valuable seconds. and i added further time. instead of being in a rush to get everything down i added deliberate pauses. stopping mid scene or paragraph and leaving it to pick up another day. the novel would get written but it needed the time to plant roots, develop its stem system, branch out and flourish.

the writing world has been guilty of this push for speed for a long time. writers publishing word counts. publishers demanding certain word numbers. a false dichotomy that demanded volume over quality. how often have we all read a book and thought ‘this section drags?’ what if there had been a bit less insistence on word count? what if the need for word numbers had been reduced? then we could have spent time on choosing our words more carefully and putting forward our best sentences.

so i demand of myself: be slow. take time in the writing process. don’t rush towards arbitrary targets. reduce the pace. grab a pen and note book. better still a slab of granite and carving tools. chip away at my sentences. letter by letter. word by word. until i have a great monument to my writing. something to stand tall and admire.

ai and writers

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writer SLAM Fitzsimons in actor’s bar, Dirty Duck, Stratford-upon-Avon

there was the recent furore around the novel ‘Shy Girl’ by mia ballard whose book was dropped by hachette after accusations of using AI in the writing of the novel. this lead to outrage pieces on both sides of the AI argument. some were saying that it was a betrayal of the publisher and readership and she should have been upfront about it before submitting. others say it shouldn’t be an issue. the story was her idea and besides we won’t be able to escape ai written books soon. we might as well embrace the technology. it is here to stay.

i tend to be on the side of keeping ai out of the writing process. that just because you came up with an idea and fed it through an algorithm does not make you a writer. writing is a process you have to go through. it is not idea then product. however this position leads to a complexity. where do we draw the line.

do i have to announce if i use the review tool in word. if i get word to check my spelling and grammar am i no longer a writer for using such a technology. should i not instead invest in a copy of a dictionary and a roget’s thesaurus? should i not painstakingly turn the pages of those books to check each word in my novel? or is such use allowed?

i would tend to allow the review tool because the ultimate decision making still lies with the writer. they have to agree or disagree with the spelling suggestions or offers of alternate words. they are still involved in the process of the writing. each word previously was written by the writer prior to using the tool. but i would draw the line after that. no more ai or tech intervention allowed in the writing process. formatting is down to you. the decision to send to an agent or editor yours. ai should definitely not be rewriting paragraphs of your work. it is to be avoided. besides it will take the liveliness out of your writing and turn it beige. all will become standard generic phrasing. the idiosyncrasies of the writer’s voice and style will be lost. rounded. smoothed down. we need the jagged edges.

so let’s all promise to be imperfect. to continue to write in an imperfect way. to produce work that was the best we could make it at the time. lets leave the jagged edges in.

writers in hell

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Shadow of person on red wall

writers have had a long association with hell. when in ancient times orpheus descended hell to reclaim his love with poetry he knew what it was to write. he was famed for it and won back the soul of his love. but like many writers wasnt careful of the small print.

writers even today embark on a journey to hell. we willingly undertake writing a novel despite the hardships it may involve. the hours of loneliness in a room as you scribe away at your art. the lack of attention for your work from friends and family. they just aren’t as committed to the project you have spent years on. they may buy a copy under duress and let you know they are being supportive but whether they actually read the book is open to question.

as well as the loneliness there is also the great possibility it will be rejected by the gate keepers and you come to realise that the thing you have spent minutes, hours, years on has been a total waste of time. that it is destined for a drawer somewhere to be forgotten about. rejected and somewhat less than it used to be when you finished the work.

and even if you are lucky enough to get your work published there are the critics. the reviewers. who will happily with little thought give it three stars.which is worse in many ways. at least with one star they really were engaged and thoroughly hated your work and five they loved it to the hilt. but three? its the star equivalent of beige.

and there is nothing we can do but continue with our art. we can but continue to peer like orpheus into hell and think about what we have lost. what we could have had. if only.

obsolete forms

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Nature landscape impressionism painting

let’s talk about art and the creation of art and what is art.
when people first wanted to record what they saw or happened they painted on the walls of caves with paints they created from things around them. it represented what they saw and did. then over time the technology improved. paper. canvases. but people continued to paint to show what they saw.


photography was invented and replaced painting as a technology for recording. painting became art. people used to record events on their cameras. people, places, things. until the rise of the movie camera which replaced the camera as a means to record events. so photography became art and movies became the way to record events. a new technology on the scene. this in its turn became superseded by computers. each new technology reducing the previous to art. the old technology became a means of expression. the representation of the idea.


and now we find ourselves with a new technology making redundant the old. AI. all before is reduced to art. obsolete technology the expression of art. text and image. but what of AI? some say that they create art using AI. they enter the commands and something is produced. they call it art. they claim creation. but is creation just merely the idea and the output?


when earlier artists created an artefact was it merely the output that was considered the art? the result of thought, experimentation, technique, the breaking of rules and the inventing of rules. does not the process also make the art. with AI there is no process. there is simply the input of the idea and the output. there is no experimentation with the materials, the developing of technique, the following of rules and the breaking of rules. that was all done by the artists whose work was scraped and stolen. there is no original technique and expression of process. the process is gone. bastardised. just idea and output.


am i being too hard on the AI creator? i think not. previous technologies that became art did not rely upon the stealing of the work of others. it is not an averaging of many different people’s thoughts, processes and ideas. and even when previous creators made art with dead technologies based on other creatives’ ideas they acknowledged the fact. they made reference to it. they did not claim it was solely their creation. they owned up to the great artists they were inspired by. AI artefacts make no such reference or admittance. they lie that they are original, something new. rather than an amalgamation of many creatives’ ideas.


if you want to be seen as a creator of art then engage with the process of art. take time to develop your skills. find your own voice. develop your own techniques. break the rules your way. develop your own new rules. don’t short cut and steal another’s work and claim it yours. you did not own the process. the work is not yours.

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.

end of eras

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air balloons in sky over Bristol, UK

it has been a time of end of eras. things coming to a close or a major change happening after many years of just coasting along. days unchanging. constant. sure.

the first of these changes has been no.1 child finishing their ‘a’ levels and launching themselves onto the world. they are full of ideas and enthusiasm for what lies ahead, edged with a hint of steely determination. i think they are better prepared than i was at the same stage in life. much more knowledgable and wise.

part of this launch was moving out of the house for 10 weeks to do a course in bristol. the last time i was there was probably for an evening when my friends and i dove up from taunton and went to a large warehouse where four punk bands were playing. the headliner was the henry rollins band. i think he was also trying to flog a poetry book as well.

i have mixed emotions about the departure of no.1. i’m losing a buddy who always had something interesting to talk about. a new discovery. there is a space in the house where they were. but i’m also excited to see what will happen on their journey. what new adventures they will report back on. what life holds for them.

the second end was finishing my WIP. my novella. i started it in october 2022 and it has been with me sporadically since then. it has been the hardest piece of writing to write. it was out of my comfort zone. it had a number of elements i had to juggle and they needed to all land successfully. it was also the most planned because of this. i had to make every step right.

i was sporadic in the writing because i made some major changes to my life. changed my working world. made it less certain. and i’m older than when i wrote ‘wishbone billy.’ i don’t have the energy to do the late nights writing. and i find i also lack the focus now since the covid pandemic and lockdown. my ability to concentrate for long periods has dropped. i’m sure there will be a study somewhere which will look at the impact of covid on the mind. on cognitive function. if not, there should be.

and there was the doubt.the great shadow of the imposter raven on my shoulder. waiting. pecking. freezing my mind. it took some battling some days to overcome it and put words to page. to have the confidence in the project. the belief i could do it. i had to keep telling myself i had done it before. i could do it again.

and so three years later the first draft is done. finished. it is out to beta readers who will come back with an honest verdict on the thing. i look forward to hearing. and am beginning to ponder part two of the series. at the moment it is just a vague thought. but it is forming. ticking over. i’m excited by what my mind will generate.

the last end. the last end of the era. was the death of kaos my cat. he has been at my side many a time as i sat writing. he had appeared in many a prosepoem. but his time had come to an end. it was quick. surprising. heart breaking. there is a small space in the house where he should be. but he is not there. and when i sit at night to read or write it is just that bit more lonely. i think there will be the patter of his feet and a jump as he lands on my lap. but there is nothing. just me. my book. my writing.

Kaos the cat. black cat.

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?

moment 28

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typewriter image. black and white.

he sat down typed a sentence then stopped. where another once followed there was nothing. just blank. not a thought. not a murmur. not a whisper. just nothing. he crossed the sentence out, moved the paper up. clean. blank. he typed a sentence, different this time. a start of a thought. but the thought remained hidden. elusive. he stopped. where another would follow there was nothing. he pulled the offending paper from the typewriter and tore it to pieces. he threw them about the room. they landed amongst others. he put a new sheet in the machine. stared at the page. once they had been friends. now they were enemies. an invisible barrier lay between them. a breath’s thickness but it was enough. perhaps today was the day. he stood up and made his way to the cellar. took a key off a nail and unlocked the gun cabinet. he took out the shotgun and two shells. he returned to the writing room. he lent the gun in the corner and placed the shells on the windowsill. upright. proud. he looked at them a moment and sat down. he rubbed the scar on his brow. perhaps today. he typed a sentence. a thought. a moment. and waited.

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?