Of abseiling and avoidance
Oh my fine fat furry friends, this time last week, I was stuck. The door to my Shed of Ideas was jammed and I couldn’t lay my hands on a crowbar, or even a flat-bladed screwdriver and a dab of oil.
And this week? The door has been flying open in the wind. There are ideas – dusty but beautiful – lying all over the floor, spilling off the shelves, getting tangled up in twine and squashing the seedlings.
There is enough stuff here that I already know what I want to tell you next week and maybe even the week after that.
But, for now, one little bit of housekeeping:
Because Covid is a pest and because lockdowns are boring
AND
Because we got lovely feedback on my live self-editing webinar a few weeks back (one that was open to JW members only)
AND
Because we love each and every one of you, not just the wise souls who pay us money,
AND
Because self-editing is the only sure and certain pathway to a book as beautiful as you want it to be,
WE THEREFORE DECIDED
To offer a live self-editing webinar to everyone.
*** For free ***
You just have to pitch up.
It is on 19 November at 19.00 GMT
What we’re going to do is take chunks of YOUR work (see the PSes for more about that) and edit it live on screen. I’ll show you exactly how I would change the text, if it were my own piece of work, and I’ll talk you through my thought process as I do it.
You lot, meanwhile, can use the live chat to pour scorn on everything I do, offer suggestions of your own and generally participate.
The webinar page is here. Remember that although the event is free, you do have to register, because otherwise the system doesn’t know who to admit. Registration is sweet and simple. You’ll get emails telling you exactly what to do. All you need is a computer and an internet connection. More details in the PSes if you need it.
Right-ho.
The Shed of Ideas.
Last week, I told you that you don’t have to be good at everything. That’s true if you only think about marketing. That’s true if you think about writing. It’s most certainly true if you consider yourself as an author in the round.
That was – to judge from the responses I got – a useful, bracing, encouraging message. It permits you to be a bit shit at certain things and still to feel OK about yourself. It matters more that you have genuine dazzle in one or two respects, than that you can handle every aspect of an author’s craft with real competence.
OK. Good. But even knowing this, it’s still easy for us to get stuck.
In my Life Before Kids, I used to do a bit of mountaineering, and I remember one time in the Alps where my buddy and I were descending a mountain. The ascent had been a bit more scary and painful than we’d expected and we were tired and very much wanting to get down to somewhere warm and with hot food.
We were following a ridge that we thought would take us all the way down to the valley, only then – our nice little ridge turned into a 250-foot cliff. There was no way we were going to down-climb that, so we had to abseil off, belaying halfway on a crappy little ledge that wasn’t built to Switzerland’s normal excellent standards.
I’m not scared of abseiling in general, but I do remember being afraid this time. I was cold and tired. I knew that cold, tired descents is where most climbing accidents occur. There was just something about that long, wet drop which I still don’t like to think about. I remember tying a knot at the bottom of the rope to make sure that I couldn’t just abseil accidentally off the end. That’s not something I normally do, but I was scared of my own dulled reflexes.
Anyway. It all turned out fine. The crappy little ledge halfway down already had a bit of climbing tat fixed to the rock, so we hadn’t been the only climbers to have chosen the wrong way down. We got down to the valley. Got warm. Got fed.
But – that fear.
That’s something we all know, isn’t it?
We’re 60,000 words into a manuscript. We know the start of the story, because it’s written. We sort of know the ending (because the thought of it has been keeping us going for that long middle-of-book slog.) Only then, we hit an unexpected plot obstacle. A wet 250-foot cliff that faces north and whose granite has a tendency to come away in your hands.
The fear halts us.
And, OK, your plot obstacle may come earlier in your book, or later. And the metaphor you might choose to describe it might be different from this one. But this I bet is true:
You avoid contact with the obstacle because you’re afraid of it.
Instead of tackling the problem directly, you engage in any kind of displacement activity. You re-edit the stuff you’ve already written. You follow idiots on Twitter. You walk the dog. You hoover the floor. You (ahem) waste your time reading this email.
But you need to tackle the problem directly. You need to take that rope off your back and throw it down that dirty, wet cliff and do what needs to be done.
In plainer language, you just need to write. Don’t know what the next chapter is going to be? You don’t have to know. Write the next sentence. Any sentence. Just get it down. Then write the next sentence.
The trick is to force your character into motion. Force yourself into motion. Yes, it’s possible that a chapter you write in this way is rubbish, but even the act of writing a rubbish chapter will show you the way need to go.
“Inspiration exists, but it has to find you working.”
That’s a Picasso quote that one of you sent me a few weeks back.
And damn the man – he’s right. With plotting problems more than anything else, m’lady Muse will only solve your problems if you put a shift in.
Here’s another thing: it may not be fun.
Abseiling down that cliff was not fun. It did a job and delivered an outcome. (The blessed, blessed valley floor!)
We mostly think of inspiration as joyous, but that thought can be a blocking one in its own right. Sometimes, the right thing just isn’t going to be entertaining as well.
So, if you are facing a problem that you don’t know how to fix, just say to yourself:
- This isn’t going to be fun
- I don’t have an answer
- The chapter I write now may be rubbish and have to be deleted
- But in doing these awkward and unpleasant things, I get myself closer to the valley floor and the full joy and happiness of writing my lovely denouement.
- What’s more, the gifts of invention and understanding will only return to me if I get stuck in. If I move my character and story along.
- The best solutions are always specific, which means they mostly come when you are working at very specific issues. (Not, “where should the book go next?” but “What paragraph follows this one?”)
And heck. My self-editing style means I edit as I go. I hate leaving crappy chapters in my book and want to scrape them free of barnacles before I proceed. But that’s me.
If you want, just write your bad chapter – your wet, dark, dirty abseil chapter – and move on. Leave it. Finish the book.
When you come back to that place as you edit, you come to it from a place where you know everything else about your story. Exactly what happens and when and how and why. And if the chapter still feels wrong, it’ll be a hundred times easier to fix, because you know so much more and because that sense of fear will have left you. Worst case scenario? You have a couple of dodgy chapters in an otherwise good book.
And so what? We’ve all written a dodgy chapter or two.
We’re not perfect and don’t have to be.
Elisabeth Conway, Hope Knows No Fear, Historical Fiction
PROLOGUE –January 1824, Guangzhou
Father John made his way up the gangplank quickly. He carried a meagre bundle which consisted mainly of books, scrolls and a few items of ordinary clothing. Since the authorities had issued their ultimatum expelling his order from China, there had been little time to gather together the trappings he’d accumulated during his ten years in Guangzhou.
*****
Some months ago, he’d received a letter from Singapore. It was written by Stamford Raffles, telling him about Chin Ming’s arrival there and the terrible things she had endured. Raffles obviously knew that the girl had been living under the protection of the mission in the months following her father’s disappearance. He said she was now safe, but continued to be troubled about her father. All Raffles had been able to establish during his extensive enquiries was that Li Soon Heng had never arrived in Singapore as his daughter had hoped. The letter ended with a plea for the priest’s help to find out, once and for all, what had really happened to him.
Father John’s initial reaction was relief that Chin Ming was still alive and being cared for, but he had no more knowledge about her father’s disappearance from the quayside than when the girl decided to go in search of him almost twelve months ago. He was about to reply to Raffles’ letter when the order to expel all Franciscans had been delivered to the mission. For the last few weeks, all his time had been occupied arranging passages for the other monks and planning his own departure.
Jo Waldron
Second Chance
Commercial Fiction
‘How’s it going, Georgie?’ someone shouted behind me. I turned to see a stocky, blonde man with ruddy checks, carrying a large crate of beer.
‘All right, Mick,’ shouted back the bookie. ‘That last one got us out of trouble.’
‘Excuse me,’ interrupted an elderly lady, who was next in the queue. ‘I want to place my bet. Five pounds each way on Over The Moon.’
‘Of course my dear, here you go.’ The bookie flashed her a smile as he handed her back a slip.
‘Over The Moon? Shouldn’t that be 100/1?’ laughed the man with the beer. The bookie played along, grinning as he replaced the 66 with 100.
‘More like 1000,’ shouted someone else from the crowd. The bookie laughed but didn’t oblige any further. I didn’t care. The 100 was still on board.
‘Five pounds each way on Over The Moon.’ My heart hammered as I forced my way forwards, ignoring a fresh burst of laughter from the beer man.
A strange expression momentarily crossed the bookie’s face, but he quickly slipped back into his patter.
‘If you want to waste your money darling, I’ll gladly take it.’ He flashed me a dazzling smile as he took my offered tenner and handed me a slip in return. ‘Although,’ he continued, looking me up and down in a way that made me feel excited and uncomfortable at the same time, ‘I’d gladly take a hit on the money if it means I get to see you again when you pick up your winnings.’
The beer man descended into fits of laughter and I felt myself blushing as I turned and fled, retreating to the safety of my spot on the outskirts.
Kit (the main character) has been forced by her parents to sail on their behalf from Southampton to New York on a liner. She doesn’t want to go. Hates ostentation which I’m trying to show here.
This is page 5
THE GIRL NAMED KIT (completed 85,000 word manuscript) Women’s upmarket fiction
THE SHIP : Southampton, 2020
Once safely inside her stateroom, Kit walked around its spacious area. It smelt of freesias and beeswax polish in turn, but she could see neither flower nor product in view. She inspected the empty storage cupboards and walk-in closet that contained her complimentary white cotton bath robe and slippers. She was amazed that it had been personalised with her initials, embroidered not only on the bathrobe pocket but on the slippers too.
Entering the Italian marbled bathroom, she wondered why she needed a marbled bath as well as two separate sinks and a shower. She held the various soaps and shampoos to her nose breathing in the expensive fragrance. It was certainly a lot different to the supermarket own brands she used at home.
Flinging herself down on the crisp white king-sized bed the peace of the room embraced her. The strikingly papered walls and antique filled room filled all her senses. At last she appreciated the fact that her brother Jess had insisted they choose the best staterooms available. The parents want us to come on this journey so let them pay for it, he had said when Kit had pointed out that much cheaper ordinary club cabins were available.
She picked up an embossed folder on the bedside cabinet and began to peruse its contents, but she had hardly glanced at the first page when a soft knock on the door halted her thoughts. She frowned for she had no wish to lose the quietness she had only just discovered. She knew that Jess wouldn’t knock like that, whoever was in the next room would hear his thunderous thumping.
As she inched the door open, she was surprised to find a smartly dressed man wearing a black suit, immaculate white shirt and black bow tie. His smile was infectious.
Michelle Lawson, I Know Who You Are, Travel/family search memoir.
A portrait of Winston Churchill hung beneath a chandelier next to a Union flag, its wooden dowel slotted through elaborate floral metalwork swirling over a floor-to-ceiling glass panel. Around the corner hung a bored-looking Princess Diana in shiny pink; next to her strolled Prince Philip and a dawdling Queen Elizabeth.
I’d persuaded Solomija to show me L’viv’s British Club, founded by a British man with Ukrainian heritage. I’d anticipated something like the Polish Club my father had attended in Birmingham every Thursday afternoon, closing his barbershop to eat pierogi among fellow exiles. Aware of the British disposition to graft a piece of home into every foreign corner, I’d assumed this was a place for British migrant workers, allowing them to indulge in the comfort of familiarity. But all I saw was an outdated version of Britain rooted in romantic nostalgia. Even the Union flag of the Club’s logo had been artfully aged.
“What do you think?” whispered Solomija as we walked around one of the accommodation suites.
“This kitchen is four times bigger than my own at home,” I said. She replied with a look of incredulity.
Who, exactly, stays here?
“Only around twenty percent of guests are actually British,” admitted the receptionist. “Our guests are mostly Polish.”
I nodded. So it wasn’t here for the British after all. It offered a cultural add-on to L’viv’s better-known Ukrainian/Polish/Austrian heritage.
In the breakfast room the receptionist had laid out coffee and cake for us beneath paintings of London buses. “And what exactly is the Club side of things?” I asked Solomija as we sat down.
“It’s open only to men. No women are allowed!”
Yes, it was definitely outdated.
Merilla Borlace. Alkyona Bay, an adult fantasy novel.
Silchenko opened the portfolio and took out the colourful depictions of flora and fauna one by one. The last painting in the portfolio was of a praying mantis, the stance menacing, mandibles open, raptorial forearms poised, ready to snatch its prey. He propped the painting on the mantelpiece. Bulbous compound eyes, almost colourless, just the slightest touch of ice blue with a grey pseudopupil in the centre; followed him as he moved about the room.
It fell and retrieving it, he saw the title pencilled on the back. ‘Portrait of Papa.’ He propped it on the mantel again, sat in the armchair by the unlit fire, lined up two rows on the screen of his phone. From its place on the mantel, the praying mantis watched him, the triangular face disapproving and predatory, a hint of mockery. Silchenko leant back in the armchair, kicked off his shoes, stretched his legs, and closed his eyes. The drug washed over him, flooding his brain, and sharpening his senses.
He could feel the rough upholstery of the chair beneath his fingertips; smell the damp salt of the sea that crept up the bank, a mist rolling towards the house he always kept shuttered and dark. Then he heard the rustle of thick paper close by, and opening his eyes saw a blank sheet where the painting had been.
The mantis sat upright on the hearth, its serrated forelegs crossed over its chest. The head on spindly neck, turned slowly from side to side as if it was waiting to cross the road and checking for traffic. Fascinated, Silchenko sat very still until the mantis turned her head and its focus fell on him. The mantis began to rock; swaying from side to side it took a step forward and doubled in size.
Helen Lambell
Melodie Chiffon and the Baguette of Death
Cosy mystery, page 90 of 270
“I’m used to mess,” explained the gendarme.
He bent down to inspect the area Gustave indicated. “May I?’ he asked, pointing at a trowel in Gustave’s wheelbarrow. Gustave reluctantly handed it over and the gendarme scooped up the membrane, pouring it into his little pot. He took some photos of the ground with his mobile and some context shots for good measure.
“And you say you found this – when?”
“Um, this morning when I came to collect the eggs. Maybe 6am? Yes, the sun was just rising. As I explained on the phone, it was in the chicken house, snuggling among the eggs. Then when I came back later to see if it really was what it looked like, the chickens had pecked at it.” He felt his gorge start to rise again and stopped speaking.
“And can you remember what colour the pupil was?”
Gustave was trying to keep his lunch in his stomach.
“Didn’t look,” he squeaked.
“No matter – it’s very likely to be the twin of the other one we found. I can’t see anyone scattering random eyeballs across the countryside, can you?’ he laughed.
Well, Gustave couldn’t even see anyone scattering just two eyeballs across the countryside. Surely if someone could do that with just a pair, they could do it with any number of them.
“And, um, where exactly did this other, eyeball, appear?” asked Gustave, his curiosity now battling with his nausea.
“In a field of sunflowers,’ said the gendarme.
“That doesn’t narrow it a great deal,” said Gustave. “In sunflower country.”
“Ah yes,” I see. Sunflowers, melons, vines and maize were pretty much the only crops for many kilometres around.
“On Claude du Truc’s land. A couple of ladies found it. And a dog.”
“What sort of ladies?” asked Gustave.
“Nice looking ones,” replied the gendarme, somewhat unprofessionally. And correcting himself: “I mean respectable, although a little dishevelled. One was blonde. The other auburn. And a little orange dog with short legs.”
Changelings YA
Lost in the maze
Anxiety was beginning to cramp her heart in her chest. She needed to get out. The passageway she was on sloped downwards, like those close to the mine area. It was much colder down here as well, and looked unlike any tunnel she’d seen on the way to the meeting room. The stone walls hemmed her in. She was completely lost.
The next tunnel would take her down again. It was no good. The living quarters were on the upper levels and there was no indication that this one would come out at the bottom of the ziggurat. Even if it did once she was outside in the valley, although she’d be able to phone, she’d be trapped. She needed to be on the other side of the mountain.
Now her anxiety turned to panic, her breathing rapid, her pulse racing. She had to get out.
Stop. Work it out.
Seeing a passagewayl to her right which appeared to head upwards she turned into it. It forked again, and then again, but at least the people she passed were not members of the military. They looked like miners heading back to work.
Her sense of danger increased. Although she could see none she knew it made it more likely she would eventually be spotted. And the rebels were about to start the uprising and people would be more on the alert.
She’d come to yet another junction, her heart beating a frantic tattoo against her rib cage. Leaning against the tunnel wall and waiting for her heart to settle she tried to orient herself. She had to get out. Warn people.
Which way? Which way? None of the tunnels she’d looked down had seemed familiar and every passing second increased the danger.
Two people were crossing the junction in front of her and as she flinched back her heart jitterbugged.
One of them was Velasquez.
John Graham
RUNNING AS FAST AS I CAN
Upmarket fiction
Chapter 1
I’m haunted by memories
SALEM HILL, OHIO, 2015. I’ve been the solitary inhabitant of this bedroom for the past three decades, but I’ve never really been alone. The ghosts from my haunted past parade by every night, filling my mind and taking me back to those times long gone, people now dead and places forgotten by others. Yet to me they are very much alive and with me still. A lifetime of love and loss, but all that remain now are memories.
I’ve been surprised how quickly I’ve aged since my diagnosis. My hair turned grey long ago, but it’s gotten thin, hardly enough to comb now. My skin is wrinkled from all the weight I’ve lost. And my eyes have begun to fail me, and that has made driving difficult, especially in the dark when headlights glare too bright. I didn’t tell the kids, but they knew, and they worried, especially Jonathan. He said he’s seen too many accidents caused by old people. Old people? I never thought that would mean me, but it does now I guess.
Perhaps that is why I now find myself welcoming my nocturnal visitors more. The past seems more clear, even more comforting than the present.
“Dad, we need to get going or we’ll miss our flight,” Emma called from the bottom of the stairs. I smiled, but I didn’t get up from my chair. Of all the kids, Emma is most like her mother. She doesn’t have her red hair. Her sister has that. But every time Emma walks in the room and looks at me, I see Kate. The tilt of her head, the look in her eyes, and especially the way she taps her foot when she’s upset. Obviously she’s upset now. But not with me, and not even because I’m moving in with her family. She’s glad for that. But like I said, she’s just like her mother. She’s only trying to protect me.
Michael S Boyd — Monk Saga — Epic Fantasy
THONK! A pellet thwacked into his calf, stinging like the bite of an irate magfly. Staggering across scree, Dancer-trained feet caught the acolyte before he pitched nose-first into the Volcano’s unkempt stubble.
THACK! THUCK! Two more pellets pattered off rock where his head and hip had been. Instinct made him duck as another flew overhead, riffling short black hair, coaxing a grimace from bright green eyes. He bit his lip. How much longer?
Shouts from higher up the Volcano’s slopes made his lifebeat, already hammering his chest with the passion and vigour of a smith on a strict deadline, jump and pulse. Three more crested a brow of the Volcanoside, aiming slingshots in his direction. He flinched and swerved, covering his head with his arms. Gazexhide moccasins pummelled unstable ground, granting purchase on loose rocks, creating distance from the pursuers. Another TOCK! just shy of his ankle gave him spurs. Must keep moving! Despite his efforts they were almost upon him. Now I know how pyrisquats feel when we corner them for tail-clipping…
He cast his head about, not daring to slow the automatic pounding of his legs. This part of the slope lay far from the main thoroughfare of Temple Road. He had passed this way when but a novitiate, troubled and lonely and seeking respite, and it was mostly untrod by Bolean feet. If I can just reach — THWIP!
Name: Indranil Mukherjee
Book title: The Station Master
Genre: Book of short stories based on real-life adventures of the eponymous Station Master
Extract from the short story titled “Kanausi” (meaning “Earrings”); start of story
The train curved into a turn causing the wind to howl in through the open door of the third-class sleeper coach. The June sun was as pitiless as ever, the dry heat of May slowly giving way to humidity though rain was still weeks away. The rushing wind was thus a pleasure against the skin and a special relief for the spry but old woman squatting by the door.
Imarti Devi, for that was the old woman’s name, kept mumbling to herself, more in anxiety than anything else. This business of alighting in time always terrified her; she couldn’t read, her eyes were not what they had been a few years ago, and she had her bundles to get off too. She had to depend on her recognising the station based on familiarity and yes, that bench on the platform that had lost half its backrest to the rigours of time. And the not so kindly treatment of its users.
She had boarded the train at Kiul after missing the passenger train she usually took back to her home near the hamlet of Bankaghat. The coach she had boarded was different she noticed, less crowded and people actually lying down in bunks. But she didn’t pay attention, her mind on her twin worries: her need to get off at her station within time, and her cantankerous son who she’d need to deal with once back home. She kept to herself, studiously avoiding eye contact with any passenger who boarded after her, trying to squeeze herself into a corner. She certainly had the experience of being shooed off trains and prayed she wouldn’t have to fend off some TTE.