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.
Kelley Cody-Grimm
The Lioness Kills Tonight
Paranormal Thriller
CHAPTER 1- THE TATTOO PARLOR – 1989
Lilith let out a contented sigh as she dabbed away the small droplets of blood and ink while carefully inspecting her work. A true perfectionist, her images projected sharp, vibrant imagery that no other tattoo artist could match. She bestowed her talents on those rare individuals who could handle her stringent requirements for reimbursement. If they appeared unworthy, she would not take them on.
Many of her clients were artists themselves who aspired to greatness. Her walls were adorned with museum-quality paintings from legendary artists long before they ascended into the art world’s upper echelons. There were photos of actresses who gained wide acclaim and significant awards because of her guidance. Yet, they often neglected to thank her during their acceptance speeches, which was annoying. They would not be where they were without the large degree of “lucky breaks” that her guidance offered them.
Lilith’s studio catered to women. The floorplan included small rooms so her clients could get their images inked discretely anywhere on their bodies. Cancer survivors who had gotten mastectomies and wanted to cover the scars with roses or other body art were a specialty. She never charged the survivors as they had suffered enough, even if the elaborate designs took multiple sessions. In return, Lilith requested the utmost secrecy about her philanthropy. She did want a reputation for being soft.
Lilith managed the massive demand for her services, and she did not see the need to bring on an assistant. But at the behest of her original benefactor, she hired Em ten months ago. He functioned as the yang to her yin, and she liked having him around. His wonderment at life helped her maintain a sense of optimism in the face of the world’s avarice.
Name: Elin Daniels
Title: The Mountain Maker
Genre: Folklore inspired gothic mystery/suspense
Extract from the opening of the novel:
The day Will Donachie came back to his mountain, I knew he was a liar. I just didn’t know what kind of liar he was.
My wee girl Iona and I had left Edinburgh and all that had happened there. Maybe we would never manage to leave that shit behind. Maybe it would waft and follow us all our days, but we had to try. And if anyone could help us turn a shoulder on the horror and humiliation it was Jeannie, my granny, who had pretty much raised me. She was queen of the, “you’ve just got to get on with it”, attitude. She was probably right. The counselling just made me angry and Iona had practically turned mute during the process. So it was time for Jeannie therapy and a highland winter in her cottage on the flanks of Schiehallion mountain. We would work out the rest from there.
And then he turned up.
‘There’s a man at the window.’ Iona scrambled to her feet, hugging her book like it was a shield.
She was still too jumpy for my liking, but I gave a start too when I saw him.
He smiled, his face too young for the grey hair. One of his hands was up in a gesture of surrender the other raised towards the window. I took a step closer as Iona slid in behind me clutching at my jeans.
A slice of greenstone swung from his fingers, suspended on a piece of leather like some stone-age calling card.
I was half curious, half incensed as I opened the door, nearly barrelling into him.
‘Sorry, I… startled you.’ He held out the carved stone on his palm like he was offering sugar to a nervous horse.
“I would like to sit by the heat of the fire.”
The sisters looked at each other, desperation in their eyes. It was not within their power to deny a witch the warmth of a fire, especially not a blood relative.
The girls made room for Aunt Kenna to enter, and each one of them kept their towels wrapped around them as they sat on the hot cedar planks. Her muddy footprints tracked lightly across the cedar. Pen positioned herself directly across from her, watching her scan the sauna. A pungent odor of wet fur and night blooming jasmine filled the air as her energy darted around them in sporadic bouts of hot and cold. Apparently satisfied that she wasn’t in any imminent danger, she started to remove her dress.
“Ah. To be by the fire again.” Her dress dropped on the floor and the young women gasped as the marks on her body were fully revealed by the light of the fire. This hadn’t been a planned trip to the tattoo parlor, but the work of savages. Jagged scars, apparently smeared with dark purple ink while still raw, etched her skin. Over her stomach, the scars resembled a crude drawing of an upside-down bat. Her breasts were ringed in the Celtic Triskelion, but the triple spiral was broken in two places.
“Who did this to you Aunt Kenna?” Pen asked.
“Does it hurt?” Zenith whispered.
“Ha! Outrage! Compassion! Years too late girls, but nice to hear Burke Witches showing concern.”
For the first time, Pen began to doubt the family stories. Maybe Aunt Kenna wasn’t an evil force, but a victim. “Who did this to you?” she pressed.
“They say . . .” she ran her fingers over the patterns on her breasts, “I did it to myself.”
William Walker Julian: Stranger in a Foreign Land paranormal fiction
Christian’s Serenity, his mental shield between himself and the world, kept him protected and completely unaffected by the background music of the clattering dishes, the glockenspiel notes of silverware and the blocked sinus hubbadubba chorus of “Noo Yawkas”. He relaxed within his self constructed, tranquil oasis between his patient appointment hours and his hospital rounds.
During his six weeks of physical therapy, Julian had often heard his personal torturers mention this eating place. So, arse dragging after his arduous session, he had haled a cab and shuffled over here. Gripping a pair of crutches, his burning arms supported his tall, broad shouldered, slim hipped frame. Neither the third day lost in the desert pain and exhaustion, nor the irritating hardware could detract from his rugged, masculine appeal. By the number of scrubs and lab coats, Julian figured this was the hospital employees’ idea of a diner. It probably would be more dear than he wanted but not as damn pricey as the hospital cafeteria.
Anyway, I’m here now and I’m hungry.
No seats were available at the delicatessen counter. However, the lunch hour crush seemed to be showing signs of releasing its stranglehold on the table space. Julian decided to find a piece of wall to lean against and wait. Scanning the seating area a final time, he noticed someone he knew.
Undaunted by the chaos, the wounded dark refugee Hobbled through the intricate choreography of the wait staff shouldering their giant battered shields laden with dishes wafting delectable aromas along their back trail. Artfully avoiding the injured man; they glissaded and pirouetted around crowded tables, oblivious customers and each other. Equally burdened bus boys performed their vaudeville balancing act, miraculously managing to escape their secretly anticipated pratfalls.
Title: “The girl, a wolf, and a red cloak”
Name: Chris B.
Genre: Thriller
The wolf dropped onto four paws, ran into Ilsa, knocking her to the ground, and headed north into the midnight black forest.
Like a stray leaf in a storm Ilsa trembled. She stood but fell back, her legs shaking. I fear no beast, she thought. Then she said to the throng, “It was a wolf, in the barn, it’s gone, you’re safe,” her voice was heavy with her breathing, and the words came out in bursts. “I’m going in,” she said. Some of the group began to move back to the Pub. Most of them stood watching. A torch sputtered. Ilsa stood and grabbed it from a villager. “Thanks,” she said, and walked into the dark barn.
The torchlight flickered over the hay covered floor and onto the stalls. A horse snorted and its head peeked out of the shadows. Ilsa breathed in relief, “Hello there,” she said, her voice had lost its shakiness. The Chestnut’s eyes were wide like white saucers of cream filled with flecks of bloody red dirt. Ilsa put the back of her hand to its nostrils so it could get her scent, and patted its silky neck. “There, you’re okay,” she said. Ilsa raised the torch ahead on the inky dark floor. Nothing else, she thought, and turned to leave.
Then she noticed something. Torchlight reflected in a dark spot on the floor under the loft. She moved forward and held the torch above it. The spot was a pool of red liquid. It smelled of iron. Ilsa swallowed, and touched it with the toe of her boot, and the sticky substance stuck to it like glue. She slowly waved the torch forward from left to right.
Name: Marcus Brewster
Title: The Crying Game
Genre: Crime/Mystery
It was the glimmer of the flames on the limestone cliff face that caught the boy’s eye. Tonight was the annual village festa and Matthew was roaming outside on his father’s allotment on the clifftop above St Peter’s Pool, waiting for the fireworks to begin.
Matthew was five years old, and even if he hadn’t been naturally curious, the soft, shuddering gleamings on the rockface were like a semaphore against the nightfall.
He noticed the dim illuminations pulsing like a torch with a weak battery. Drawn to the lightplay, he watched the particulars below, his small crouched form invisible against the skyline.
A bonfire was set up on the opposite side of the cove. A silhouette was moving in front of the flames, feeding them with documents.
The boy might have lost interest sooner but for the studied deliberateness of the burning of the papers. Each one was carefully placed on the pyre.
The last page was reverentially placed on the ground, pinned under a stone chosen from the rubble of rockfall under the overhang. The shape, now only indistinctly viewed in the darkness, began swinging its arms round and round. Matthew could make out the cart-wheeling motion of the white sleeves. After a moment’s consideration, the mystery firemaker stripped off and laid shirt and pants over the embers.
The pale figure stepped off the rocks into the shallows and, bending over, started splashing water against arms and chest. Then the fireworks started.
Like a jackrabbit, the boy’s head twisted in the direction of the bangs. He raced back across the field to watch the festa display.
Catherine K
Letting Go
Young Adult, Adventure, General Fiction
Letting Go
Chapter One
Maddy jogged through Chelsea after taking the children to school, eager to catch a glimmer of sunlight across the Thames before returning to the house. She raced along Cheyne Walk and stopped by the railings to stretch. The decks of houseboats by the Embankment were oases of green and gold. She turned her face to the sun and closed her eyes.
Life felt good here on days like this: the children were growing up with all the benefits of city life around them, and she had theatres, galleries and fitness centres nearby. She almost felt good about herself too: self-confident and sparkling when the sun was shining, smooth and streamlined when the jogging was easy.
The painted houseboats reminded her of the gypsy caravans that rolled into the Cotswold village of her youth every summer, and trundled away into the sunset when harvesting was over. She imagined them wintering in a mysterious, faraway land, and on the move to somewhere even more exciting in the spring. She too loved adventures and being on the move – traits she’d probably inherited from Grandma Carmen, along with a love of flamenco and flouncy dresses. Grandma too hated being stuck in a city.
Houseboat residents in silk dressing gowns greeted one another, and lit cigars.
Who were they? Where did they live before coming here, and where were they going? Rumoured to be ageing rock stars frittering away a child’s inheritance, aspiring politicians reluctant to be seen leaving riverside apartments worth millions, or entrepreneurs making fortunes in the emerging computer industry, they shared an apparent camaraderie; wealth too, yet had chosen a cosy but cramped life on the river in preference to a shrewd but soulless existence in a spacious box in a concrete wasteland.
Hi Harry,
Looking forward to the next live editing session!
Thank you!
Roger Webster
Sigrid: a girl from Birka
Historical fiction
790 A.D. Birka, Sweden
‘Want to go with Fadi!
Thorhild kept a firm grip on three year-old Sigrid. ‘He told you they’re only going to a few markets. He be back soon.’
‘Not fair! Want to go with him!’
Well Searider’s already left, so you’ll have to stay here. Anyway, I told Auntie Etta we’d go to see her. You can play with Haakon.’
‘Hate him! Calls me names. Pulls my hair.’
Thorhild muttered a plea for the gods’ assistance. ‘You can sit outside and make a drawing.’
The girl’s face brightened. ‘I get a stick. draw some trees. Like drawing trees.’
Breathing a sigh of relief, Thorhild led her daughter along the narrow path to the cluster of huts where Etta lived. Sigrid picked up a stick and rushed round the side of the hut. ‘I shout when I done it,’ she called.
Etta waved after her and handed Thorhild a cup of the brew she had heating by the fire. ‘I like this quiet time after the traders have gone,’ she said.
‘Yes, it’s almost as if they make all the noise! At least they got the work in the fields finished so we don’t have much to do.’
Etta smiled. ‘Except look after the children, clean the huts, make cloth, check the crops are growing, feed the animals, cook meals …’
Their conversation was interrupted by a scream ,followed by a slap and another scream. Sigrid raced tearfully round the side of the hut, pursued by her seven year-old cousin, and threw herself into Thorhild’s arms. ‘Haakon hitted me!’
‘She threw a stone at me.’
‘You walked on my drawing.’
‘You call those lines a drawing?’
THorhild grimaced at Etta. ‘I’ll take her home.’
‘And I’ll deal with my son. Again!’
Name: Jack Fisher
Title: The Liberty Arms
Genre: Literary Thriller
One night, after the curfew siren. Sweeping cigarette remnants from the bare floorboards. Collecting deserted glasses from the wooden tables scattered around the room. Drawing curtains across the small, smoke-stained windows. The sound of a key inserted into the lock of the front door, and turned. Benson looks up. The door swings open and Smith steps inside. Benson stiffens, then continues to push his cloth across the table.
‘Evening, Benson.’
‘Evening.’
‘Just checking in. Everything in order?’
‘Yes.’
‘Mind if I have a look around?’
‘Go ahead,’ says Benson. ‘It’s your pub.’
‘Yes, I suppose it is.’
Smith begins to move about the room. Her grey government-issue coat reaching down to her ankles, her dark hair pinned behind her head. She stops at the fireplace, runs fingers across the mantelpiece, staring at the photograph above. Lambeth Revolutionary Guard, in all their finery. Pride of place.
‘Good people.’
Benson says nothing.
‘Ever think back to those days, Benson?’
‘No.’
‘Hard to tell the difference between then and now, with this trouble flaring up again. Makes you wonder if it was worth anything, what we did, don’t you think?’
‘I don’t think. About that.’
Benson has stepped behind the bar, opened the taps, begun to fill the sink with glasses. He has already reached underneath, turned a valve, sending water into a bucket in the cellar. The warning. Smith walks idly in his direction, eyes scanning the floor.
‘I might take a look in the cellar. See how you’re doing for stocks.’
‘Okay.’
‘After you.’
Benson reaches for a towel and dries his hands. Methodically, eating up seconds. He turns the hot tap clockwise, again and again, until it’s shut off. Same for the cold. More seconds. With short, deliberate paces, he makes for the back of the bar.