Why I don't want to self-publish - that authorised version!

I got into a snit a couple of months ago - and wrote this, hoping the Bookseller might publish it - they didn't, but I think it's a worthwhile statement.

“Have you thought of self-publishing?”

Friends, reading groups, other writers, even the local Society of Authors’ chapter(?) are encouraging me to do this.   I don’t want to.  I’ve investigated it, I’ve been to a conference on digital media for writers, visited the “Writers Lounge” at the London Book Fair and heard from the businesses who are making money from the self-publishing trend.  I have been momentarily enthused – it’s a simple procedure: stick the novel on line, tweet about it, blog about it, tell your Facebook friends to share the links... and hey-presto – after the week of free downloads, and glowing Amazon reviews you’re plucked up in a whirlwind of money, fame and renown.

Like the nurse who attended me in hospital recently, I like good books.   This nurse was a reader, a consumer, she had no connection with the production and distribution side of the industry – her comment on self-published books was:

“Some of them are quite good, and I’ve enjoyed them, but most of them have got so many mistakes in that I just get sick of it and give up.”

This need not worry the author, who presumably has the 99p or whatever s/he’s charging, in their Paypal account.

How many self-published books are honestly of publishable standard?  The work often hasn’t been fully edited (arguably the longer offerings of some very popular writers haven’t been edited either...) and it hasn’t been proof-read.  Jane could have spent several hundred pounds getting professional help with these things, but she hasn’t got the money – and anyway it will eat into the profits she’s longing to make from her book.  She could have taken the advice of friends who suggested politely it needed more work – but she felt happy with it, or perhaps even sick of it, and didn’t see the point in waiting any longer.  None of these are indicators of a book that’s ready for the market.

If I were to put my precious first novel The Romantic Feminist out in the self-published ether, I would be rubbing shoulders with the under-edited (mine is in its 20^th version I think!) and the unproof-read (I know it still has typos) and worst of all, it would simply join a great steaming pile of unpublished books, a million books each year apparently.  Where there’s muck there’s brass, sure – but you have to dig pretty deep in the heap to find anything remotely like brass, let alone gold, so I think, if you know you’re a good writer, why would you want to lose yourself amongst the unpublishables?  Of course, you’d hope that your book would shine out – would be discovered, that there would be a buzz about it – people would start tweeting about you, critical mass would drive you on – to what?  Ah – lots of money, yes, and also – being picked up by a publisher.

This strikes me as a very random and labour-intensive way to find a publisher.  I do not wish to spend all my valuable time blogging and tweeting about my absolutely marvellous books – I don’t want to beg my friends to review me on Amazon, I don’t want to spend time fending off queries from people who want to enhance my ratings for money, or provide professional services of unproven quality.  I understand that there is another way of finding a publisher, and there are people who do that for you called literary agents.  They do not charge upfront fees, it is, in best practice, a co-operative and collaborative relationship – they can help you make your work more marketable, encourage you in the paths of literary righteousness, and guide you through the valley of rejections.   Of course these people are very much in demand, there are not many of them, and they are very over-stretched because they are expected to take a quick look at all the millions of soon to be self-published books landing on their desks.

But why, say the self-publishing fanatics, would I want a wicked, greedy grasping publisher to take all my hard work, put a repellent and inappropriate cover on it, and then give me a pittance for it?   Well, because although Amazon is a very well known brand, it’s a brand that represents efficient on-line selling and delivery.  It isn’t a brand a writer really wants on their work – what we want is a brand like Faber or Penguin or Bloomsbury – so that when someone sees our book – whether it’s our notional reader, or a reviewer, or a browser in a library – they see that it carries a badge of credibility, of quality.   The reader may hate the book, they might think Harper Collins (other publishers are available) had done the world a disservice by allowing one of their imprints to publish it – but at least they are confident that not all HC books will be quite so dreadful, however fashion- driven publishers may be from time to time. 

We need diversity of imprints to give us an idea of the kind of work we are being offered.  Genre is too crude a division: is this horrific crime, literary crime, humorous crime, insightful crime, or just barely cobbled together crime?  Publishers and their imprints provide that branding for a writer.  Amazon cannot – and who knows which reviews are written by the friends and relations of the authors (yes, I’ve done it myself – it was a good book though!) and which are truly objective.

There have been and continue to be great changes but writers and readers still need publishers and agents, and their ability to offer work that stands out from the crowd and implies some guarantee of literary standards.   At the moment if self-published writers had a collective “company” motto it would probably have to be “With no regard for Quality”, and that isn’t something I want to stamp on my books.

Despised, rejected....

Well, I still think I'm quite a good writer, but JM clearly didn't "get on with" The Ash Grove - but at least she didn't waste too much time over it.

Find a title!

I've been worrying about the title of the first volume ever since I realised that Conscience would be the title for the second volume - and so I have been through various manifestations.  This morning, having decided that there was no single abstract noun that would describe the book without giving the game away, I tried to think of a phrase - I remembered the scene where they sing the Ash Grove together - the beginning of their liking for each other - it's a romantic song of lost love.  But there's also the sense of Ashes... death, destruction - the ash grove could be a beautiful place that's been ravaged by fire - and that does suggest what happens in some sense.  So The Ash Grove is the new title for volume 1.

Conscience: Volume 1

1.    September 1916, France

David cycled across the fields towards a horizon swollen with clouds.  Around him was the wreckage of undulating countryside, with an occasional stand of ragged trees.  Alongside the rutted track the tussocks of fading grass were still studded with late-flowering plants he recognised: scabious, fumitory, and that yellow thing – what was it called?  Rattle perhaps? And some sort of vetch, a blue-purple colour that he loved; it reminded him of one of the dresses his mother had worn when he was a child.   These few fragments of the underlying countryside remained dotted here and there across the battlefield, incongruous scraps which recalled his civilian life.  Looking up again he saw a black puff of smoke unravelling against the sky, heard the distinctive crump, and saw the group of soldiers he had noticed lounging around in the distance toppling like ninepins as a shell burst on the ground near them.  He wobbled on the bike as the vibration passed through him, and put his hand to his head to be sure he was wearing his tin hat.

David saw at once how narrowly he had missed being amongst them, a few seconds’ cycling away perhaps.  Although he was trembling slightly he felt calm. He pedalled onwards, into the disorder, hoping he could help somehow. 

Help me Lord, he prayed, help me do what you want me to here.  And thank you for keeping me safe from harm.

He knew that it was a matter of chance if another shell came or not, and he rode in amongst the wounded soldiers feeling he’d been saved for that day at least.   Some of the soldiers had dragged themselves to their feet, their uniforms spattered with clods of the dusty soil.   They looked shaken and seemed to be moving randomly about without purpose.  Others were still down: one of them lay flung near the path and David couldn’t avoid seeing his wounds.  The face was ripped away, and amidst the blood he thought he could see white bone – or was it muscle? – he couldn’t look at it for long, his stomach turned with the sight of it; he’d be no use if he started vomiting.    He had heard about shells, and how the serrated edge of a piece of metal flying through the air would slice  anything in its path.   Incredibly, the soldier was not dead.  He murmured something.  David slowly got off his bike; he wasn’t meant to be here.  He was taking a message to the dressing station.  He should leave at once, there was clearly nothing he could do, it had been a fantasy to think he could be any use here.  He clutched his bicycle fiercely, the one steady object in the midst of the confusion.

An officer staggered towards him, his face bloody with scratches, his uniform dirtied by earth thrown up by the shell.

 “You’re Medical Corps aren’t you?  Come over here – there’s one of my chaps, he – he needs looking at.”

Dear God, David thought, I can’t do this, let me go away.

But he followed the officer obediently, although he too seemed confused, as dazed with the noise and mess as David, and he’d been there in the thick of it when it happened.  David admired the fact that he was able to think of someone else.  He stopped, looked at David and gestured towards another soldier, lying in the mud, with some sort of head wound.  Nothing dramatic, very little visible, just blood trickling around his face, he looked dead.

 “Perhaps you can stitch him up” the officer said brightly “ – do something for him.  He’s a decent chap, got 3 kids.”

David looked at the officer, young of course, his pink and white complexion still unlined.  Couldn’t he see the man was dead?  He must be completely disoriented by the shell.  The noise alone had been unbearable, penetrating David, shaking his thoughts to pieces before they had a chance to form.  All he wanted to do now was run away.   

“Until last month, I was a curate in South London,” he told the officer, who was now gesturing with impatience at him.  “Now I’m just a cyclist messenger, I don’t think I can do anything for this man, he's beyond first aid.  All I can do is get a message to someone who will know what to do.”

The officer looked at him blankly – he didn’t understand – didn’t register what David was saying.   He must have been deafened by the blast.  But he must have got the gist of David's futility, barking abruptly

 “Well, what the hell are you doing here?”

“I was wondering that myself.”

David began to walk away back towards the path, recalling the injured man’s attempts to speak.  He was a non combatant, with no medical experience and this was his first morning at the front, his first exposure to fresh battle wounds and he knew he was completely out of his depth.  He felt he must go back to the man with the bloodied head, repulsive though the sight was; he was still alive at least.   

Finally...

After various delays and desperation - which is the nearest I will admit to "Writers' Block" I sat down 2 days ago and began to work on the sub-plot of the book which is currently living under the working title of Seduction - I have written about 2,000 words of new material and "I am well pleased".

It occurs to me that in Genesis when God had a look at his work and "saw that it was good" this is the story of everyone who creates something new - something different from their usual work - or just makes anything that is complete in any way, whether it's a crocheted mat or an advertising jingle.  We are so pleased to have a completed work.  Creating is what humans like to do - ergo of course God does it.  Of course God didn't have to submit his work to editors, proofreaders etc.  But perhaps that's what all geological changes and evolution are - the great refining process that has to go on in any new work.  Curiously, when I did the last (23rd?!!!) edit of TRF (during which I removed about 8,000 superflous words, mostly "quite" "somewhat" and "she wondered whether") I did not look at it and "see that it was good" - I looked at it and wondered "have I done enough? Will I ever have done enough?"    I have had so many ideas for ways of doing it differently that I am thinking of re-creating the whole thing and calling it "27 Endings" - and telling the second half entirely from His point of view.   Daring!... actually, it is going to be archived until I am famous enough for someone to take a risk on it.  I bloody well hope that writing is my real metier because I haven't got time to start a new one (except perhaps crocheting mats).

At the moment I am hoping to produce a roughish second draft of Seduction by the end of the month - and I can then submit that to the Dear Agent - who kindly said she'd like to read the whole thing when I'd finished it.   I am hoping it will be a case of 4th time lucky with her.  I am still not sure about the name:  Seduction, Frustration, A Man must Marry are 3 possibilities.  But none of these adequately describes the book - however, Deception might give the game away...but it seems possible.  Alternatively there are probably dozens of books called Deception... What's beneath... oh, I don't know.

Not Blocked/Unblocked

I don't really believe in "Writer's Block" - I believe in the inability to write during times of stress, or heavy domestic or other commitments, and that is what I have had for the last few months.  Recently I have been managing a bit of light editing on TRF - but I haven't touched Conscience for about 3 months... nor have I done any of the necessary back ground research/reading - apart from the book about Woodbine Willie - which I haven't finished yet.   So...I'm not blocked.

On the other hand I felt astonishingly "unblocked" yesterday - not in a literary way, but intellectually, and additionally my level of articulacy seemed to be higher.   Firstly I went to a creative networking thing - and secondly went to the meeting with the potential client for M.  Both these things were differently stimulating.  We seem to be "in" with the client - subject to the Heritage Committee's approval - this is a large job that will continue for some time and begin later in the year.   We found it quite hard to believe - although there are still some uncertains: they may not get the funding - although the client seemed completely confident of that - and of course, the Heritage Committee may not approve us.

But somehow - just going out and being with different people seemed to do wonders for my mood and my articulacy... or maybe it was the celebratory gin and tonic before supper, and a couple of glasses of rose.  We haven't been drinking much - a "good thing" - but sometimes I think the odd glass of wine does make one feel better and more expansive.   The fact remains, that I will be unlikely to be able to get on with any work of any kind except domestic, until 24th September - I expect on 23rd I will be too knocked out by the effects of hosting a family party and then driving to Norwich to take Ned to UEA....

Loss of Confidence

Well, it happens, eventually.  A couple of months ago I would have said I could write, had two novels under my belt etc.

Today I would say I have a completely hopeless first novel and a draft of a second novel that needs a significant re-write that I wonder if I am capable of.

There are reasons for this change of heart, firstly the fact that I haven't been able to write for weeks.  Secondly the fact that another two agents have turned me down, perfectly nicely  "considered carefully"  "just not quite right for our list" - but rejected none the less.

Thirdly, and rather annoyingly, I have had feedback from the wife of a member of the SoA group - he described her as an editor - but I think "proof reader" might be more correct.  I felt unsure whether I should impose on her, it was her husband who suggested it, her workload is clearly heavy - and his adding to it can't have been encouraging.  "Well-written and interesting" - but then she said a number of things which indicated she hadn't read it properly and suggested it would work better as a short story ("What?").  However, receiving this critique the day after the exhaustion and stress of the Summer Squall was a bit of a coup de grace to my self-esteem. I suppose I was nurturing a fantasy that she would say "how interesting - one of the editors I work with would rather like this - may I show it to her?"  I did know that was a fantasy.

Somehow, from these not very major setbacks I have extracted all the discouragement possible, I feel that I will never be published and I might as well give up now.  I feel intensely sorry for myself.  I also feel vaguely humiliated.  I have been writing for a long time - and no sign of anything really.  Interest from an intelligent agent seems to have been a blip...  The humiliation is because I have been so confident for so long.  Why didn't I just shut up about it?  Do it quietly? - but I had to justify my existence.  What was I doing?  Why wasn't I working or cleaning the house or bringing my children up properly?  So the writing needed to be mentioned, to explain why I wasn't doing all these other things, why we were so poor - with only half an income coming in, etc.

In the last few months I've been gradually becoming more depressed - and the idea of giving up writing has been nudging me... I won't stop writing any more than I will stop breathing - just stop hoping to get published, just stop hoping eventually I will make a successful submission... I don't know.  I will not self-publish, but if I don't have the discipline of submitting then I might lose the necessary rigour to improve my work.  God, I feel sorry for myself!  Hope I've snapped out of it by Friday.

Another one bites the dust....

I think I have currently got my oeuvre in the inboxes of 5 agents - and one of them, to whom I submitted in early May, has just sent it back. "not, alas, for us".  I like that "alas" it hints at regret, that the individual agent might have, but "the system" or the in-house criteria forbade.  Or is it just the "alas" of educated cliche, of the kind I might use myself.   Heigh-ho, am not unduly shocked, I think, for some reason I hadn't had a "good feeling" about it.   Looking at my list of submissions, I don't seem to have made as many as I'd thought,.  Yet for some reason I have stopped.  I have this weird feeling that amongst this batch of submissions is the agent... but reason dictates doubt, wishful thinking promotes this belief.

Those whom the gods seek to destroy they first make mad!  But it is true, one does have "feelings" about certain agents.  One of the agents I really wanted to read my book may or may not have it - due to the vagaries of the submission system.  I never got an answer/receipt from the system.

My reason tells me I should continue to submit - there are at least another 30 I could quite sensibly submit to.  Let's see what happens.  I expect I will be moved to make more submissions in due course.

Work

"It was the hardest work of my life, and the best work of my life".

These words from a German gemstone cutter about the year or so he spent cutting a tremendous gem out of a crystal.  They could perhaps apply to any work.  Perhaps they will apply to Conscience

The re-write: the sub-plot

I started fiddling with the re-write of Conscience in June.  It was going rather well, when I worked on it, which wasn't often.  I was about one third of the way through it but last week I was overwhelmed by the conviction that I must have a sub-plot.  At first I thought about doing something with the under-age boy who runs off to the war.  I think I will do something with him, he's a good Finn like character - I could bring him back in vol 2 - but I couldn't engage enough with the child to make his story major.  

Previously I had toyed with the idea of using Gwen, David's sister, and contrasting her happy love affair with Frank with D's tribulations.  I have already made her a fan of suffrage, although not a militant suffragette...,and then I was listening to Woman's Hour - and taking notes, all about the suffragette movements, and I saw a way of marrying Gwen/love/freedom - with suffrage issues.  I am rather excited about this, but also heavy hearted, it means more reading, more research, more thought, and worst (because the other things don't matter) a great deal more time before I can submit it to any one.   So... I am now declaring myself a fortnight off for reading.  I am going spurn the computer - at least after 12.00.  I can do emails and work in the morning, then read and note in the afternoon... good!

Another submission

Today I spent the whole morning doing and undoing and re-doing tasks connected with the financial side of my life, so that by 3.00pm I was determined to do a submission.  I then decided I was pretty fed up with topping and tailing my usual "correct" submission letter.  So I wrote another slightly more freeform, mad one... it certainly gives them a flavour of me.  I submitted to a well-known international agency and actually received a confirmation that they had received it.  I am becoming increasingly paranoid about the agencies I have submitted to through their on line processes who have not replied... but maybe they just don't bother.  Perhaps they'll all get in touch tomorrow asking for a full read... ha!

One of the agents at this agency said she liked books with exotic settings - I wondered whether Ramsgate would seem exotic to US readers?  Or maybe she was just a closet Mills and Boon fan... there is a bit of an exotic setting: several pages set in Kinshasha...  Anyway, I achieved another submission.  Wonder if I can fit one more in tomorrow before I go out?

The house is now full of students, my father-in-law has been sent to the flames, and theoretically I could concentrate on getting on with the Conscience re-write...but I feel a couple of submissions before the summer hols will not go amiss.  And then if there's no response, I can start sending out Conscience again.Sooner or later, some other agent will want a full read...

The State of Play

Discouragement is an ever present threat.  Currently, because other aspects of my life are "less than satisfactory" (short-listed for the Understatment of the Year prize 2013), I could feel discouraged about my writing.  I could feel discouraged that I have submitted The Romantic Feminist to 3 agencies, not one of which has acknowledged receipt - how do I even know it arrived?  I suppose I have to keep submitting.

On the domestic front the death of my father in law and the imminent full-on Ramsgate festival season means that I am unlikely to have time to write.  However, I am determined not to stop.  I want so much to just let it all rip... and get on with some fantastic new ideas, but I know the sensible thing is to keep working on Conscience and keep plugging on, keep submitting to agents.  Part of me thinks "drop" TRF - but it would be such a waste of time and energy.

E-publishing
I am still being prodded about self-publishing - and every now and again the temptation becomes stronger.   But I know I don't have the energy to see about marketing it.  However, my cousin Alaythea in SA has a small publishing company, and she does a lot of electronic publishing and might have some handy hints for the earnest self-publisher.  It's crazy, if I wanted to I could put it out next week - advertise it as the ideal beach read (debateable)... but,but,.but....

One thing that keeps me going is knowing it is not my writing that is the problem as such, the state of the market is so tricky, agents are losing power apparently, nobody really knows where things are going, that caution has become more and more the way of things.  The idea that a reasonably good, fairly commercial book is now a risky prospect is interesting.  It is too late to fill it with S&M - but it has some sex in it, and a middle-aged love affair (another vaguely hot topic).   Actually, there are no real "hot topics" any more.  Everything peaks over about 6-8 weeks and then everyone loses interest again - there's no point trying to get  more of "the next big thing" out in a hurry - since by the time the books are out, the NBT will be over.  So, what is the future for the dear little book?  Perhaps I should try and look at the agent matching service on the internet - bet they ask you to pay though!  Off to check out LitFactor.

Talking about "What is a writer?"

We were talking about whether another friend was "a writer" - and it was an interesting question.  He has ideas, an imagination, turns of phrase, poetic images, but is the novel the place for him?  I've seen his work, a bit - it is a classic example of having ideas, but no idea how to connect them, how to make a narrative, a story.  The plot's all good - excellent events, plenty of action, but do we care enough about these people?  These talents and ideas don't make you a writer, what a writer needs is a ghastly amount of tenacity, and buckets of supportive self-criticism, i.e. the ability to look at your sentences and think "Christ!  How could a piece of shite like that have been typed without me throwing up!" One needs to experience the utter boredom and frustration of re-reading something you know to be good(ish), yet wondering if it isn't somehow a little thin, and wondering how to put flesh on it.... 

Being a writer is not about being published.  I've said for years that no one recognises your creative work until you are being paid for it, I used to believe you could not call yourself a writer unless you were paid for writing.  I still believe that to a certain extent, but but really "being a writer" is so not about the money, kudos (ha!), or being published.  It is being able to fail and do better, fail and do better, fail and do better until you get to the point where you can't see how to do better.  At that point, if you know the work is not yet right, you need advice, and you need to take some of it. 

A friend said to me the other day "we all really admire the fact that you've kept on going with the book".... a more cynical me might have imagined she was saying "even though you keep failing dismally!" but she is a kind friend, and I think she was saying that "we" would just have "melted" by this stage.  But as my dear friend Tara Moore would say, "writers go on regardless, how can we not?"  I'm not sure if it's genetic, there's nothing like it in my family, but it does seem that what makes one write is a feeling that "there is no alternative".  I cannot melt now, and resign myself to housewifery.  I shall carry on sending out TRF while continuing to re-write Conscience 1.  Once all the agents in London have rejected TRF I shall start sending them Conscience 1. I am about 10% through the re-write... and marvelling at how much shite I managed to sneak into the first draft!

So I shall continue to "fail better"!

la lotta continua.

Hanging on in there...

I think the fact that I haven't been writing in a sustained way for about 8 weeks is a BAD THING - but not a hopeless one.  In this period my husband has effectively become unemployed - which necessitated a certain amount of input on paperwork and finance from me, two friends have been diagnosed with cancer and one has subsequently died, I have entertained a number of foreign visitors, seen a few friends, been to a lovely family book launch... and tried to make some money selling advertising.  I have also submitted TRF to four agents, so far one has kindly refused with the "try other agents" line - a sign that one's book is a book - and one isn't wasting one's time.

I had hoped to spend June revising the first volume of Conscience but this simply hasn't been possible, there has been a great deal of fire-fighting on all fronts (including youngest son's emotional/educational career).  So far, in mid-June, I have revised 10% of it - but I'm happy with what I did because I feel I know now what is needed to make it stronger (thanks to Tolstoy!) so it remains as my project for the summer.  What I wanted to do this summer was put my head down and write Islanders - I have this feeling I could steam on with it and finish it in a few weeks a la Stephen King - I can feel it within, gestating quietly, limbs lengthening, organs functioning, central nervous system building - just ready to be laboured onto the laptop as soon as I have a moment.  As for TRF, irritatingly, whenever I do a submission and read the synopsis I find myself thinking that the book should be stronger in certain ways - points should be emphasised... but we'll see.

Sadly in the last two months I have sometimes been overwhelmed by waves of depression - not sure if it's really "mine" - it seems to come out of nowhere and burst like a raincloud.  It can sometimes be warded off by a nice meal or a conversation, but sometimes it just returns regardless. In these periods I find myself thinking of giving up writing and forgetting all about it.  In those moments, if I had any alternative, I probably would.  But I have been forced to stop writing so often that I don't think I will this time, this is not exactly my last chance, but it sometimes feels like it.  

Go on - surprise me!

Well - what would surprise me would be if the delightful JM had actually got back to me when she said she would.  I am coming to understand her quite well - I know she means well, but ... perhaps she isn't getting in touch because (a) she hasn't read it (b) hasn't got time to discuss it with me (c) it's very low on her priority list (d) she doesn't like it and wants to turn it down, but wants to do it properly - see (b).

It will be all right in the end... but the end seems to stretch into infinite distance, and sometimes I wonder if I might die first!

Last week....

...I didn't write - I wanted to, but the things on my mind are not really bloggable... I was not writing the work either - because I am in waiting for the agent to give her verdict.

I just heard a book called "Idiopathy" reviewed on the radio - it sounded a bit underwhelming - with less of a McGuffin than "The Romantic Feminist" and the reviewers were not overwhelmed by it, nevertheless it has been put on Waterstone's list of 11 most promising debuts of the year.... so perhaps there's hope.  It's published by Fourth Estate - I just read the first 3 pages, it took an effort - too many clever, but not very interesting effects, I didn't yearn to know more...But I think if they can publish "Idiopathy" which apparently lacks "narrative drive" then they can publish TRF!  Early sections of Idiopathy appeared in Granta - so clearly Mr (?) Byers is in the the in crowd.    Maybe linking life with a cattle disease is the funniest and cleverest trope and so it will trump TRF's premise eventually.  I don't know, perhaps I've made TRF into a mish-mash and it's neither this nor that... I still think "contemporary woman's literary novel" is a good idea though.  And I think it fulfils it.

Update

Really - there's nothing to add to the agent saga.  We had a brief exchange of delighted emails this morning, and now I am just praying that she'll find the new MS sufficiently altered to find everything different...

Meanwhile, I am not working - how can I possibly work this week?  Although I did a bit of research, and had thoughts about some of my historic ideas for work... I just don't quite feel up to diving into Vol 1 just now.  I feel I need to take a bit of a run at it - and this week is very chopped up in various ways: social events, BnB visitors, worried about a friend... which will take a little time I think - and the first editorial meeting for the local mag. which I've crazily agreed to be involved with... and Anette's premier at the club on Thursday - lots of itty-bitty things which will take time and energy - and now I think there's something happening tomorrow as well... an archaeology lecture, which M has to go to - and I think I said A could come around for a drink... how am I going to deal with that?  So writing is probably the one thing I won't manage to do this week - although given my nature I will probably get on with some.  Perhaps I should give myself a week off - and then I can start worrying about TRF on Monday... whoooo.... she said she would get back to me on 29th - now modified to "early next week"... half the time I think the book is great, at other times I think "why on earth would anyone publish that", but I'm beginning to think it does have one or two outstanding qualities...

I just feel utterly restless - about to slide into the next stage of this process?  Or not?  But I think this week there are pressing affairs which require my attention...

Agents... and superstitions

There are two versions of superstitions about "bad things" - the most common one is never to mention a bad thing, lest you bring it upon yourself by doing so.  I have always gone for the opposite version, which is Name Your Fear (or for younger readers, mention Lord Voldemort a lot!).  I feel that naming your fear takes a lot of the sting out of the bad thing happening, if it does.  You've already confronted it mentally so you are prepared up to a certain point.

On Friday, JM, the most esteemed agent and the one closest to my heart, had a look at the new synopsis and asked to see the whole book - again.  So crack open the fizz, let joy be unconfined etc.  but of course, there's a very real chance she will read it and turn it down again... my ever hopeful gut feeling is - this is it!  because I've always felt she was the agent for me... but I can't quite rejoice yet.  She promised to get back by 29th April so that I could submit to other agents - which is really nice of her.

If I wanted to act in a truly apotropaic way I would be drawing up a shortlist of other agents, and drafting a query email to be sent out on 29th-30th April.  But actually, I have a busy week ahead, and if I do anything I will be going back into Conscience Vol. 1 and turning it in to the Tolstoyan masterpiece it was always meant to be.   At the same time I will be bombarding the TLS with requests to inaugurate a list of the "Best New Writers over 50" which I will hope to be on as soon as TRF and Vol 1 are published...

I am not quite sure how I am going to get through this week - but I am insanely busy on the domestic front - so hope that this will distract me sufficiently.

The London Book Fair 2013

The London Book Fair is no place for writers, this is the business end of the process, the dirty, gritty, commercial side that is miles away from the little creative bubble in which we spend our days.  We all know it’s happening somewhere “out there” – but we don’t necessarily want to be involved in it.  Frankly, who does want to spend 6 hours away from natural light trudging up and down the aisles of publishers, foreign book organisations, and people offering services to authors and to the industry, in the hope that we can find someone helpful to talk to.

“It’s all about the serendipity!” one (sales)man told me.  “We were talking to an unpublished writer when a foreign publisher came up and wanted to buy the Dutch rights.”  Yeah, that sounds like estate agents telling you that they sold a house just like the one you want but with an even bigger garden/conservatory/garage just a few months ago.    You can imagine the stories: the writer who got an agent when she met her in the queue for the ladies, the writer who sold his Chinese rights, after a Chinese publisher asked him to take a photograph of her, etc.  Of course they’re true, and they nearly happened to me.

And where are the agents?  Ah, they are upstairs, busy negotiating international rights for their clients... you can go up there, but you can’t see them unless you’ve got an appointment and if you’re not interested in buying international rights, forget it!  Up above the main exhibition hall is this dark, dowdy place, filled with booths and tables – rows of agents, and foreign publishing houses have tables here.  You can’t go in without an appointment – but would you want to?  What would you do?  Introduce yourself “Hello, I’m a leprous pariah looking for representation.”

The LBF is not a place where authors go to feel valued: it’s a salutary way of making yourself realise how small and unimportant you are in the process.  For the first time this year the LBF acknowledged writers by introducing a place called the Authors’ Lounge.  Sounds nice doesn’t it?  A quiet spot with some sofas, a coffee machine perhaps – or at least a water cooler – somewhere to sit and chat to your fellow sufferers.  Wrong!  A flimsy structure, open to the rest of the exhibition, furnished with  padded benches, with a rolling programme of talks – many of which were being given by people representing companies with a commercial interest in helping self-publishers.  Author’s purgatory really.    However, due to the lack of anything else constructive to do, I ended up sitting there and hearing about Granta’s 20 young authors under 40 (which I can never be of course) and it was good to hear a couple of writers (Adam Thirlwall and AL Kennedy) talking about their experiences of being selected.  AL Kennedy gave a rather spirited attack on people who just wanted to make money out of unpublished writers which was refreshing to hear  (don’t start me on Amazon’s Create Space scheme!) and was very encouraging to the writers in the audience who asked questions.

Without the writers none of the rest of this industry, or this trade fair, would exist – but I realised that we are analogous to the workers under capitalism: our labour produces profit, but very little of it gets back to us.  In promoting Create Space, the Amazon speaker pointed out all the people who took a cut of the profits between the author and the reader... and how Create Space had changed that: they took the cut instead!  Perhaps one ought to find some way of working co-operatively with other writers to publish and promote books – but how many writers really want to go on the road, or even around the internet, to do that – come on, we’ve got books to write!

Synopsis hell

That's where I've been today.

I started with some ideas of how the synopsis tells the story (i.e. the emotional engagement) not the plot.  Then I read a vast amount of stuff about it on Ms Snark (which is a wonderful blog, sadly discontinued), then  I started writing the bloody thing.   It's nearly 1,000 words (industry standard in USA) and it managed to do a lot of things she suggests, and I think it tells the story.  But what do I know?  Does it make it sound attractive?  Well, I think it is more interestingly written than some of the offerings sent to the Snarkblog...

Whenever I write a synopsis I start thinking about things that I want to say in the book that I haven't been explicit enough about - so I am about to do and do some more re-writing - maybe not today, but perhaps tomorrow.   I really don't want to have any more worries about the story when I send it out... don't want to be re-writing and pissing about while agents beat a path to my door (hollow laugh).

I am taking copies of my synopsis and Page 1 (that 2 agent double-spaced pages) with me to the London Book Fair.  I don't have any appointments, but I am hoping to get somewhere, somehow and maybe hand out a couple of these things.  I notice there are strict injunctions against canvassing and leafletting... so better not take too many.

The Romantic Feminist Page 1

1

April 2000

Lucy expected him to be there, she wanted him to be there, but she was not going to think about him now: she sent her acceptance for the party at the gallery, a private view of a retrospective of his father’s work.  She was determined not to dwell on the issue, not to anticipate, not to imagine.   

We have so little control over the really important things in our lives, which is why all the political rhetoric about choice is nothing but a flattering distraction from our essential powerlessness.  And when we do exercise our ‘right to choose’ it may be many years before we discover whether we made the right choice or not – and by then it will be encrusted with the barnacles of dead consequences, and it will almost certainly be too late.

The route through Oxford was circuitous.  The sun illuminated the blossom against the stone buildings with a hyper-real brilliance for her nostalgia to play against.  An insistent crowd of memories from other times jostled and distracted Lucy from the imminent meeting, but these curiously poignant thoughts were interrupted by her husband’s irritability.

“Where the hell are we? I thought you said this gallery was in North Oxford – and we’ve just passed the Poly!”

“No – it’s not, well, sort of.  I don’t know, somewhere near the canal.  Look, I just got a bit thrown by the one-way system.”

“I thought you knew Oxford!”

“There’s a difference between wandering tipsily around between parties at night, over 20 years ago, and driving around it nowadays!”

When they found a parking space, he turned to the children, Ben and Max.

“Listen guys, if you want to go to a proper museum, rather than this family thing, we can do that instead if you like.”

“It’s OK Dad” Ben said with care, “it’s nice to meet more cousins.”

They entered the gallery, Lucy first, her sons drifting shyly behind.  She hadn’t planned how to approach this event – usually she’d find and greet the host – and then move around as the situation dictated.  Instead she headed immediately towards the first people she recognised, her oldest friend Alice and her husband; she hadn’t expected to see them there.  There was an exchange of pleasantries during which Lucy performed a delicate scan of the room. 

That’s him – there; I’ve walked straight past him without noticing.  He doesn’t look how I expect him to; but I don’t really know what he looks like any more. Tall, broad, brown hair – no grey? - and grey eyes – hardly unique features.  Familiar but not unmistakable.   Would we recognise each other if we met somewhere else by chance?

There is no eye contact, so Lucy watches him for a little while: he’s standing with a rather beautiful blonde woman, chatting desultorily.  Must be a guest he’s being polite to.

Gradually it dawns on her that they are actually together, having one of those conversations that occur when you haven’t begun mingling.   

And this shall be the last time....

... she sang uncertainly, hitting the tambourine on the off-beat.  

I have sworn that this will be the last re-write I shall do of my own accord.  I sort of hoped to finish it this week - but I'm still about 80 pages off... and it's all rather hard... I hope the pace is OK - I'm not sure if I'm capable of assessing it... I've cut a lot, I've found repetitions and removed them, and it's about 5,000 words down - i.e. around 110,000 rather than 115,000 - so that's a good thing.  I've decided to send it to JM again, but to send it out to the masses...  

I honestly don't think there's much point in re-writing Conscience until I've cracked the story issue - as a result of what I now understand Conscience will probably become as long as Anna Karenina, and only slightly funnier.

When I start sending TRF off again, I will settle down to do a bit more research for C - and maybe look at Islanders again... I re-read it the other day, and I was amazed in that "did I really write that? How did I do that?" way one sometimes has when presented with the products of one's unconscious mind.  It works for me - but will it work for everyone else.... the grim experience of reading The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry has made me wonder whether I can ever manage to get the common touch...   Anyway, that's a problem for next week.

Exhilaration + more slow writing

It's going.... it is much more difficult in some ways - and frustrating.  I wrote from 1.00pm to 6.30ish today and only covered 22 pages - i.e. re-writing, thinking, consulting notes, trying to see what needed to change further down, checking whether I'd already said stuff - I am attempting to eliminate a bit of the repetition...  But it is also exhilarating, because I know it's clicking into place (Oh, how I despise books that click into place!)  When I finished today I calculated that I'd done about 40% of the book.  I think the rest should be a bit quicker, because I have already re-written quite a lot of it... then again, I want to avoid certain slips, so everything needs to be carefully read.   I am planning a good stint over the weekend - to avoid another "neurotic weekend".

I took a break to go out and get some visual art today - a fantastic Howard Hodgkin exhibition, and I got filmed answering questions about what I thought of his art.  Also a good talk to Steve Mellon - the sculptor... he does great work in bronze - a set of fish all caught locally.  Wonderful,  Shelly Goldsmith was showing a couple of pieces too - and there was barely a thing in the gallery that I wouldn't have liked to buy... sometimes I find the visual arts scene here a bit annoying - but thanks to Updown there's always something great at the end of the street...and it is a great antidote to writing too much. 

Vorwarts!

Well, TRF was rejected in double quick time (3 days I think - a record) in the best, impersonal large agent style - no friendly comment, no encouragement.  I went through several degrees of misery... then I woke up. Suddenly it was Easter and I had no time to write: I was furious.  Today - after my father left c. 3.00pm I went upstairs and wrote and re-wrote and did all sorts of wonderful things which give me great faith.

TRF is now Pride and Prejudice plot: two people love each other - they have "form" and personal characteristics to overcome... but don't worry, they will.  Oh dear, it sounds quite boring put like this.  But the great thing is that I have spent nearly 6 hours writing today - and I think I have actually cracked it - no more distractions now, straight through until p 419 (not in real pages, just in silly double-spacing) - I seem to have been stuck around p 129 for a long time, but oh the difference (to me!)...

Instead of wanting to go to sleep, I just want to write on - but stertorous grunts indicate a husbandly desire for lights out.  I must start writing somewhere else!

Submitted

I hate this more than anything.  I have just submitted The Romantic Feminist to an agency of such great dignity and standing that I can barely do anything but gasp at my own temerity.  However, it's got to go there - and everywhere else I suppose.  I flipped slightly because I couldn't decide which of 3 agents to submit it to.  I nearly started to over think - so I went with the "inner voice" candidate.  Hope this was right.  There's always that ghastly feeling that one might have chosen the "wrong" agent in an agency and that if only you had sent it to the other one he/she might have lapped it up.  Do they discuss these things collectively - or pass stuff around?  Who knows?  I am in severe danger of over thinking now, so I think I will go and do something relatively novel - perhaps read a book?

Currently still re-reading Anna Karenina - I suppose her idiotic action in inviting Vronsky to the house is the tragic flaw that leads to their ultimate downfall and disaster - but at present I don't have much sympathy for her.  Karenin is a dreadful old stick, but his relatively decent behaviour in the face of humiliation is a redeeming feature which gives her the chance to continue with Vronsky (surely they would have got tired of each other imminently).  I wonder if any Russian writers write sequels to Tolstoy's novels?  There's a positive industrial sector in JA re-writes and sequels here, I confess I've never read any - although the Emma Tennant one sounded vaguely promising.  It must be tempting to write such a sketch - re-cycle an old Georgette Heyer plot, and work on your Regency slang and scribble "Lydia's Daughter" - who comes up crunch against into William IV's ambit - or a later daughter who falls among thieves and is reborn as a minor character in a Charles Dickens novel, or moves to Manchester, marries an industrialist and gives birth to a Mrs Gaskell heroine - there: multi-author spinoffs!  Have I invented a whole new genre?

The alternative reading just now is Fraser's Marie Antoinette - a bit late for me, but it's jolly interesting to see Versailles in post Louis Quatorze mode.

Finished - for the last time?

I have now finished a major re-write of TRF - it isn't as different as you might guess, even though I deleted 17,000 words, I seem to have added about 13,000 words.   It has taken quite a long time - and I am going to read it properly and then send it off....

Every time I do a re-write I feel that the newer sections are raw, not quite so well-written - but in this case I don't feel like that.  By the end I was writing pretty fluidly - it seemed to be arriving as requested, and I was able to kill assorted darlings.  I wish I had the feeling of tranquillity that I feel I "deserve" after the efforts of the last few weeks.  Actually, it's been a month, I think I started re-writing around about 10th February.  I have written nearly every weekday - not much at weekends.  As I write this I am beginning to feel a little bit excited again - I think it is better, but I am also disappointed that since JM's intervention what I have is a much more conventional romantic novel really - with a few more twists and turns in the plot.  I still like the early version in some ways.  But I really need to move on.  I am not sure how much more time and energy I can spend on this.  I need to start working on Vol 1 (after a few days off to do tax etc.etc.).  I feel that I have a stronger idea of what it needs now.

So what has happened to TRF?  Well - Lucy got a bit tough - but finally is won around - and Leo has an epiphany (as suggested by Tara) and thus is able to see his life and relationship with her in a new perspective and they unite in a positive manner, according to the best romantic feminist principles.

I fear a few babies may have got lost in the bathwater, and I will be just checking through the "dead darlings" document and seeing whether I have accidentally decapitated any really worthwhile trains of thought that I wanted to pursue.  It's not impossible - everything it seems - in the new version - has been scrutinised for its contribution to the "story" - well everything in the second half.  I fear there will be more changes and stuff... oh dear.

Story!

It's taken about 3 months, but I think I've got it.... when JM was wittering on about "story" in TRF I couldn't quite understand the full import of what she was saying... I thought I had a story - that the heroine was developing etc.   But I see now - after my tutorial with Tara - that the scenes have to be more focussed on "the story" - that the heroine has to change - develop - to have learned something by the end of the book.  It is not enough for her to get her old boyfriend back.   Actually, I thought she had changed, but apparently it was so subtle that no one noticed.  Clearly it needs to be hammered out with brawny, blacksmith like strokes!  So I am hammering away at the poor, battered old text.  It is a sad business - the more I hammer and bash it into shape, the more it loses its beautiful passages of exquisite writing.... Jeez.  I bet AS Byatt never has this trouble.  And actually, when did she last write a story?  I contest that The Children's Book while full of fascinating incident and anecdote doesn't really have a story - or does something happen to the mother character in the end - has she stifled her son in some way and finally realises it?  I don't remember anymore - which suggests that the story was not really very strong.   And as for Possession?  Actually it did have a story - but it was blighted by all the faux Victorian poetry.  I would like to like ASB's stuff more, but I secretly think that her sister's book The Radiant Way was more to my liking (even though I can remember nothing about that either - only that I felt full of love and recognition when I read it).  Even though ASB is meant to be the more "literary" writer - Booker prize an' all, doncha know.

Of course literary novels have stories -  but they are not quite so blatant, and I think JM was trying to get me to do something much, much more commercial.  I realise I could, but is this what I want to do?   I am pretty sure that with what I now know Conscience Vol 1 will be a much better book.   The other day I heard some lovely person saying "Of course there are lots of writers who write beautifully and never make it" and I felt very irritated... yes, it's possible, but I've only been at it a couple of years full time - David Almond said it took 20 years before his breakthrough - I reckon I might manage a bit quicker.  Sometimes I feel like a very slow learner - but the good thing is, I didn't need to go and spend £400 on the Faber Academy - it was enough to get a decent critique...that finally jogged my understanding onto the next level.   The downside of this epiphany is the awareness of the amount of work that's still needed on TRF before I present it to the next agent.

The Miracle of Wine

Last week I had an ace critique from Tara Moore - a friend and well established writer.  First I felt glum - would HAVE to re-write TRF - there's nothing else to do, then I felt a few good tweaks would do it.  In the last few of weeks I have really enjoyed re-writing - but the feeling that I must kill my darlings - the historical scenes - is depressing me a little.  I have enjoyed making Leo more sexy and "romantic" - two people had said he was a wimp - I had an interesting little frisson - the man on whom he's based is clearly less exciting than my heroine thinks.  So I've had to "man up" the hero - for the purposes of fiction - but my anxiety is that, the more I write towards the conventional format, the more I lose what I'm trying to say... and the more I look at it in that way, I find that I should lose a lot of the insights... oh God!  I'm not actually writing a romantic novel - I was thinking of pitching it as an "anti-romantic romantic novel".  But I'm confused.

So I went downstairs in a bit of a gloom, but somehow, polpettone, salad and courgettes with pesto had the effect of perking me up - or was it the very good bottle of wine we had with it.  We had one of the James-and-Polly wines: Ch. Mirefleurs 2007 - a pleasant claret.  The theory is that we drink a nice bottle of wine once a month - to make the case last.   After the wine, the cheese and a bit of bread I felt immediately more cheerful, almost as if I was going to make a success of the book.

Is this the final version?

I spent last Tuesday getting pleasantly sozzled with Tara - the sozzling didn't start until after she had given me a really thorough and helpful critique of TRF.  One of her suggestions involved such a major re-write that I couldn't countenance it - even though I feared she might be right.  Actually, she suggested returning to a strictly chronological version - which was what JM told me to unpick, so although I didn't think Tara was wrong (she says, writing this carefully in case Tara is reading it!) I thought perhaps this was a matter of taste... what her critique did was to start a few hares running in different directions.  She said Leo was a wimp, why did Lucy take him back?  Good question, and that gave me some ideas, to "man up" the character a bit more, to make Lucy have a big row with him, and perhaps add some more jeopardy for both of them - hers of a domestic nature, his involving something jungly... we'll see.  Lucy has to be different at the end - not just wimpily accepting the situation... but... but... it may not be so easy.  Pride may be involved - as a theme I mean, not my own pride.

At the moment I am working on the re-write, slowly and carefully - and I think I've got it... rather like my discovery that "slow writing" works best, a really slow, careful re-write/edit is a wonderful thing... I am hoping to spend most of March doing this and researching agents/publishers.  In my dreams the next submission will be "the One" - well, it might be.  Anyway, she also lent me the current W&A yearbook - so I am well equipped to do battle.

I have stopped feeling frantic about Vol 1 - because I can't work on them simultaneously, at least I don't think I could.  I expect the interest in WW1 won't disappear just like that, as soon as 2014 is over... so a calm re-do of TRF - send it off and return to Vol 1 - which I am sure will benefit.  Although it needs less work, the structure is pretty conventional - and David really does change in the course of the book - it may need more engagement/dialogue between the two of them.    But enough - sufficient unto the day....

I've just become Conscious of it....

I have recently been thinking about the dire effect of writing on my conscious life - and how much easier it is to bury oneself in the work - and not negotiate with recalcitrant children, creditors, clients etc.

Today I heard Deborah Moggach talking about how it was quite a good career to have for your children, because you were at home, but at the same time another writer had said that it wasn't really "you" who was there, but just a husk, because you were too busy thinking about something else.  I laughed, because that just about describes it, and I am also much more impatient when I am in writing mode.

But extrapolating a little from that, and throwing in my recent observations about how my rational/intellectual side is being progressively more sidelined by this dreamy, unconscious "creative" function, I suddenly realised that some of the more bothersome thoughts that I have are simply part of this - the ideas that won't go away, and the mild obsessions have seeped out of that unconscious bit.

I had vaguely supposed that the rush of ideas that seems to occur when one writes was a sort of "creative" unconscious - but that it was very much something that one used for work, and left well alone the rest of the time.  Of course one's unconscious is full of all sorts of other stuff, repressed memories, desires, horrors, bad experiences, things which one wants to keep a lid on.  It now seems that by liberating the "creative" bit I have also given the other bits a bit of an outlet that they did not have before, hence the vague upwellings of anxiety or love or discomfort or embarrassment that occur more frequently now.  But perhaps the good thing about this is that I should not worry about it too much, some of these feelings are no longer real feelings, just memories of former feelings, so should not worry me any more.  I feel much better about them now that I think I understand what's going on.

It remains to be seen whether this is a good thing in creative terms.  What I am clear about is that this kind of writing, the blogathon, ought to be the more rational stuff, and I seem to be managing it tolerably well.  My inventive writing ought to be even better - except that I have been doing very little this week (trip to my father, stinking cold, shop minding and even - heavens! friends and family have all impeded writing this week.)  And at present M is doing his utmost to to impede this spot of late-night blogging.

Book of the Month

For some reason I posted this report in the other blog - but here's a link if you want to see the current state of reading (much better recently!)  http://schmoozyschlepp-quotidiana.blogspot.co.uk/2013/02/book-of-month.html

Blogging for pleasure and profit

Well, One of the few topics (apparently) I do not spend much time soul-searching about is why I blog.  I know why, I was told to, I started it, and found it was a useful outlet for anything I wanted to mull over (not this blog of course - but the Quotidiana one).  But every now and again, I remember that a writer's blog is meant to be a fabulous outlet for one's writing and all sorts of things.

Today I came across an article called "Why do we blog" http://www.molly-greene.com/why-do-we-blog/ and I am putting the link here - because it is (a) the antithesis of why I blog, and (b) perhaps it is how I should be blogging.   (Note to self: make content more perky, relevant - less solipsistic).

Worst of all I see that I have chosen a style and layout that does not permit me to include lots of brightly coloured pictures of my book covers (to be announced).  I should be building up a mailing list apparently!  Oy-oy-oy!  Well, OK.  This is the way to go, since I am not that kind of writer, I think I can carry on regardless.  Should I find a publisher for those searing works of fiction The Romantic Feminist, the Conscience o Trilogy and Islanders (to say nothing of 17 Years) then it may be that a publisher will kindly offer the services of one of their underlings to assist me.

However, perhaps the final paragraph of the blog is the most helpful - the thing about confidence.  Curiously, despite my still mainly unpublished status, I do have a certain amount of confidence, but I suspect my natural modesty and experience of failure of one kind and another, prevent me from too much trumpeting... plus of course that crippling disease "being British" which makes one very unable to tell the world how fab one is in case one is accused of showing off.   But confidence must have an outlet, and mine comes through what could be interpreted as arrogance... but is actually a sort of sardonic/sarcastic humour which doesn't really look too much like showing off, but at the same time demonstrates a level of cleverness/superiority - hmmm.  I just hope it is leavened with some self-deprecating charm. 

Poetry

I used to write poetry, when I was a teenager - some of it was good, even my mother, usually my sternest critic, said so. I wrote it chiefly during the emotional Sturm und Drang that enveloped me from about 16 to 19.  When I got to university I wrote a little, but once I met James, my first husband, things settled down and the mood no longer came upon me.  It was about that time that some of it got published in the university literary mag... as always, at the first hint of success I down tools and go off and find something else to do.

Nowadays I live in terror of the question "Would you like to read some of my poetry?" - although I do know two excellent poets (Simon Darragh and Sue Rose) who I would read any time - because most amateur poetry is pretty dreadful and I find it hard to compose my face in a suitable expression when I have to read something which either rhymes like a greeting card, with sentiments to match, or doesn't rhyme, but has no discernible poetic qualities either.

Anyway - yesterday "by special request" I wrote my first poem for over 30 years - it's a haiku, an epitaph on a distant friend (a friend once removed?) who was an international environmentalist, supporter of communities and all round loveable, charismatic and inspiring person.  He died horribly "young" - i.e. about 57.  I thought it was good - the recipient thought it was "very good" so I shall put it here, to rest until someone needs it.

Roger Hammond

A good life, inspired
By nature, the whole world seen,
Loved and upheld, changed.

Perhaps there should be a book of haiku epitaphs.  Or maybe I should go and stick it on the memorial website.

Writing and real life

Having had a really interesting, blog-worthy evening last night, when I woke up this morning all I wanted to do was write something to add to TRF.  I suppose this is the classic thing - a night carousing in one's unconscious mind brings forth more interesting thoughts and connections than a great many conscious experiences... but I was making connections last night.  I wondered for example whether it would be permissible for a young Edwardian clergyman to sing Take a Pair of Sparkling Eyes at a musical evening.  I think probably not - but might be acceptable for David to sing it privately to Kitty - to woo her a little?

For the last nearly four years - when I began to write most of the time - I've felt a strange disconnect between my conscious, planning brain, and  my unconscious which seems to have over flowed its normal boundaries, and to be rising up to the top of the seawall...I live far more than ever in the unconscious - and sometimes real life is a bit of a strain.   Last Friday for example, we went to Marine Studios for an exhibition and talk - it took a while before I could adjust - when asked how I was I replied "a bit weird actually" - and I really couldn't engage properly (needed 2 glasses of wine in fact), but when I told Mike, the potter this, he just gave me a great big hug and somehow that grounded me again... almost immediately we found a topic of conversation and normal service was resumed.

Does/can we rely on physical contact like that to jolt us out of where we are?  I think perhaps, as with hiccups, it has to be a surprise.  If M came over to me and tried to hug me to distract me from working I don't think the response would be so positive.  I hate the fuzziness that comes these days - I don't feel as if I am doing much new thinking - I over-rely on the intuitive side of the brain, the rational is under-exercised (I don't think Sudoku counts).

Now where?

A week without writing - not very good.  Actually I began to read TRF again, because I am trying to steel myself to send it out again.  It seemed good to me!  Oh dear, but the intensive self-criticism and corrections all took place during the first two or three years, I can't keep updating it.   I had a whole load of ideas that I wrote down and now can't find the document - probably didn't save it.  I wondered whether to tweak the structure again - but I felt that small tweaks were more in order.  I am still waiting for T to come back with her critique, I am sure she has been busy, but I wish she would, I want to feel I have a version that has dealt with the JM criticisms and then rejection/acceptance becomes simply a matter of taste.

So, next week, I should probably work on Vol 1 while I wait for T to ponder... then think about submitting TRF again...  Oh.  It's all too damn complicated, but while all the published writers I know say airily "Don't worry - find another agent!" as an unpublished novelist I feel slightly less sanguine - then again, I've only had 8 rejections so far - at least 5 of them rave rejections!  So, sooner or later I must find someone.

One continues...

Still revising Vol 1 - and on the whole it isn't bad... I've been tweaking a bit, but the narrative is as it is - and now that I'm about 2/3 of the way through, I can see I have turning points in all the right places... I worry that (a) it is too ordinary MOR writing - or (b) that it is too over the top - religion, conscience, unconsumated marriage... not popular subjects.  At supper Ned said "if it's completely different from everything else then it great - it's original...." is that really what "the Market" wants?  Or maybe it's original in the wrong way?

I like it - I just can't see it as others see it.  But then again, a romantic novel from a man's POV - that's a bit different?  Still worrying about too much narrator... I'm not too worried about the final chapters, think they will be broadly all right - since I wrote them slowly - but the last 4,500 words were taken at a bit of a gallop - so I expect to have to do a fair amount of work and expansion on those.

As for submissions, I did one, but am saving the rest until I've finished the re-write.  I would like some movement, but I would rather finish the re-write before anyone asks me for the rest of it.

So the plan is: finish re-write, do submissions, get feedback on TRF and then give it a final prune...and resubmit.  I still haven't worked out the logistics of re-submitting TRF while Vol 1 is still doing the rounds, I think the fantasy is that Vol 1 will be taken in, and I can then push TRF at the putative agent... but we'll see.  After that, I think a solid 3-6 months of research on life at the front, story lines etc. to enable me to write Vol 2.  That pretty much takes care of the year up to the summer hols - barring the unforeseen.

Normal service will be resumed...

It is very painful when things go wrong, I had thought for a while that I had finally developed the confidence and saurian epidermis necessary to pursue my writing career.  However, the Agent's comments when she gracefully declined to take me on were curiously unhelpful.  Yes, yes, I'm a wonderful writer... but she didn't like the plot (the one she suggested) or rather she didn't think I was good at plotting and I had left lots of the teenage stuff in it (that's the stuff everyone likes silly).  She thought I ought to go on a Faber Writing School course (only £400 - a snip!).

This left me in a quandry - I think I'm rather good at plotting actually, and if I'm not, can you say in what way? I would genuinely like to know, so I can improve it, but I can't afford to go on an expensive creative writing course to find out.  On the whole people liked the twists "didn't see that coming" was one remark - Denise kindly lent me her Syd Field workbook - and I found that in terms of a movie scenario TRF didn't need much tweaking - it already had the first adult kiss on the mid-point - almost to the page - and their first sexual experience was just about where the Act II plot point should come.  It is true that there aren't many sub-plots - but there are still interesting little characters and bits, like Benji and Paula and so on. Denise mentioned that at times one needed a break from the main character, and I think that's true - although I'm not sure how I am going to do that, without making it even longer, but it's one of the things on my "to do list".

So, my first response to JM was to send a wailing email to writing chums - and got some helpful feedback.  I also immediately sent it out to an agent - who said "NO" within a few days.  Then it was Christmas.  

This week, I decided I would start submitting the Conscience book instead.  I wrote my first submission yesterday, I intend to do about 5 and then wait.  In November I was so knocked back by JM's response that I thought "what's the point in trying to revise Conscience (which I'd just finished) if I don't know how to plot - I won't be able to correct it or anything.... I won't be able to see what's wrong with the plot etc. etc."

I've just done things to the first 3 chapters - and still I can find sentences where I've lost the thread, or given up half way through.  V.v. irritating.  I don't quite know what to do with the rest of the book.   My feeling is that the story is pretty much there - it's a fairly straightforward narrative, I don't think I need to change much. Probably I just need to tighten up the POVs a  bit, and perhaps provide more insight into Kitty's behaviour... or make it a little more mysterious, give a stronger feeling of the attraction between them...,a bit more detail.  I don't think I know how to do anything else, but they do need to be really strong engaging characters, perhaps Kitty needs to be more sympathetic to the reader somehow.  More conversations between them perhaps?

Anyway, it looks like revising Conscience is going to be the task for the next few weeks.  I know that the last chapter ended at a great rate - maybe we need more incident in there.  It has been hard work getting back to it, but at least I now have a reasonably sensible synopsis ready and plenty of covering letter text..