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.
Name: Nigel Davies
Title: Natalia wasn’t a cyclist
Genre: Thriller (possibly)
“She did it,” Joe said. “She bumped him off. I’m sure of it.”
“But didn’t Ray die of cancer?” Daimon said.
“That’s what she said,” Joe said. “She’s hardly going to be wearing a t-shirt that says I bumped off my husband, is she.”
“But I saw him,” Daimon insisted. “He looked awful. Grey skin, sunken cheeks, hair falling out. The classic cancer victim.”
“I never said he wasn’t ill,” Joe countered. “I’m just saying Natalia was responsible.”
“Is there any actual evidence?” Cesar said.
There was a silence. I didn’t for a minute believe any of this superstitious nonsense about Natalia. I barely knew her. It was more like being part of a group sat around a campfire at night, everyone telling their own ghost story: It was Joe’s turn to scare us.
Joe, Daimon, Cesar, Claudia and myself were all sitting around a table on the terrace at the tennis club called The Palms, because of the eight towering Washingtonianas that lined the driveway to the main house, remnants of a local family’s history of wealth and importance. None of us played tennis. We cycled. It was the only place for miles around with a bar. Local cyclists like us always ended up there for a beer while we relaxed, accompanied by the thwack of balls on the courts, some player’s loud Nadal-style grunts, frequent profanities as someone returned a forehand into the net.
“Not to stand up in court with,” Joe said. “But in the space of a year the guy behind her house and the neighbour opposite both died of cancer, too. Cancer’s the thread here.”
“And you’re saying that somehow she killed them, too?” Daimon said.
“I’m saying it’s not just coincidence,” Joe said, and looked up.
A waitress had arrived with our tray of drinks.
Name – Nick Coleridge
Title – Mountain and Prenderghast
Genre – Crime Fiction
“Let’s have a look then!” The boy spat, snatching the porn from his friend’s hands.
“Lay off Rory, I was just looking at that! It’s my turn after all.” Dan Scott exclaimed, looking wounded for a moment before hiding it. It had been like this since they had both started at Riven Abbey four years ago; even then, the great Rory King was quick to pounce on any sign of perceived weakness.
“And now it’s mine. Besides it looks like you’ve rinsed through it enough times.” Rory sneered, peeling the stiff, crinkled pages of the magazine back.
“Fair enough.” Dan sighed. He started to roll a cigarette, fumbling the tobacco along the rolling paper.
“What on earth do you think you’re doing you spastic? If you want a fag, I’ve got some duty-free in that bottom drawer.” Rory tossed the magazine onto his bed in the corner of his study. Posters of page three girls and swimwear models gazed down impassively.
“What did you bring back this time?”
“Gauloise.”
“Blondes?”
“Of course not. Those are only good for queers and their mothers. These are filterless; proper smokes.”
“Cool.” Dan drew this word out, his awe of his friend constant.
There was no doubt of Rory’s popularity throughout Riven Abbey; sure most of it was a reflection of his father and his position in government. But Rory was careful to propagate his own mythology in the echoey halls through a mixture of ice-cold indifference to those he deemed as slightly less than equal, and cruel brutality to those he considered less than insignificant.
Name: Brie Wells
Working Title of book: Death of a Psychic
Genre: Murder/Mystery
The squeak of the dry erase marker echoed in the quiet classroom. Anya printed neat block letters on the whiteboard. Before facing her students, she noticed the slight tremor in her hand. Glancing at her watch, it was eight forty-five. Fifteen minutes to the hour, she could make it that long. Silently she told herself to smile and plastered a smile on her face as she turned.
Pointing to each word as she spoke, she read aloud, “What happens to a frog’s car when it breaks down? It gets toad away.”
It was her English as a Second Language class; advanced level. And she was trying to add some levity to the lesson. No one was laughing, least of all her.
“What can you tell me about this one?” she asked the class.
Nine people attended the Wednesday evening class. Each committed to absorb both a new language and new culture. A couple from Puerto Rico, a mother and daughter from Mumbai, two gentlemen from Vietnam, one of which was her neighbor, and three single women. The three young women always piqued Anya’s interest. The petite one was from Osaka. A willowy girl was from Uganda and the last one with bright eyes was from Taipei. Perhaps the women thought by improving their English it would be easier to meet wealthy Americans. They can dream.
Nine faces gave her blank stares as they confronted the writing on the whiteboard. Anya knew English is a bear of a language to learn. Filled with eccentricities, inconsistencies and downright bloopers how could someone who spoke Japanese, an exacting and precise language, learn the eccentricities English?
Name: George A. O’Brien
Title: The Time of Ends
Genre: Political thriller
The WOPP-TV van screeched to a halt a short block from Alvarez High School. The usually smiling roving reporter jumped out of the front seat and pressed right up against the police barricade tape. She smoothed her blond hair and checked her appearance in a mirror from her compact. She waved the cameraman forward for a clear line-of-sight to the school steps. He counted down from five, and the broadcast went on air.
“This is Cory Lassiter standing at the local high school here in Spanish Inlet, Florida, where frantic police and first responder activity continues. For the last hour, reports of shots fired have inundated 911. Alvarez High includes 1,100 students with a hundred or more faculty and staff. Accurate information is hard to verify, but we believe that EMTs have transported more than thirty students and staff to local hospitals. Police have reported nine students, perhaps as many as a dozen, are dead. Law enforcement, both police and sheriff’s personnel, entered the building forty-five minutes ago. Despite that quick response, the gunman was active for many minutes before they arrived.
“We understand that 911 callers reported an armed man burst into the school as the lunch break was ending. He shot a reserve officer who was checking IDs at the front entrance. Reports are that the gunman started firing indiscriminately as he moved down the main corridor. We understand that he may still be holed up inside. There are reports of sporadic gunfire.
“Excuse me, sir. What did you say?” as she leaned toward the man next to her.
“This gentleman heard more shots just as we pulled up. Students are pouring out of the north and south entrances, fleeing to safety. The main entrance that you see faces east toward A1A and the peaceful ocean shoreline.
Name: Manolita Foster
Title: The Martyrdom of Johnathan Keeler
Genre: Political/Speculative/Dystopian
I stare at my phone in disbelief.
‘Rachel Oliver (30) of no fixed abode, pleads guilty to terrorist charges while of diminished responsibility’
This Rachel Oliver must be Libby. The security file reported only one woman being involved. I slide off the bed, grabbing hold of the end post. Nausea rises again, and I sit back down waiting for it to pass. It’s a coincidence, a nobody with a similar name, but nagging doubt prevents me from returning back to bed. Philip would know for sure.
I make my way downstairs to the morning room, where Philip lords over the space from his gentleman’s club armchair. Charity, as docile as ever, sorts through her box of silk threads.
‘Is this Libby?’ I hold up my phone.
‘Should you be out of bed? Michelle said you were poorly.’ Philip’s leather seat creaks with relief as he heaves himself up. ‘Come and sit here.’ He leads me to the ladies chair basking in the mid-morning light.
I sit, the stabbing sunlight making me shift awkwardly in the seat. ‘Are Rachel Oliver and Libby the same person?’ I ask, holding a hand over my eyes.
‘Why are you worrying about such things, Tim?’ says Charity, tugging a red thread free. ‘You should be resting. Sun stroke can be nasty.’
‘Philip?’ I say, this time with as much gravitas as I can muster.
With the sun behind him, his expression is shadow and impossible to read.
‘We’ll know the verdict later today. The judge is ours, and he will act accordingly.’
I was right, it is my sister.
‘Poor Olivia,’ Charity shakes her head, ‘but it’s to be expected, given her beliefs, and then there’s your mother. Mental instability is genetic, I believe.’
Main character – Sophie. Historical Fiction – a title still being worked on!
On a cold winter’s day, Sophie and her mother approached Newport Workhouse for the first time. Its forbidding grey walls rose above them and cast a shadow on the road reducing the little warmth the winter sun could offer. Sophie shivered, but not entirely from cold. She was holding the hand of her little sister with one hand and her little brother with the other. Ma carried what few belongings they had in a basket.
‘Ma, will they split us up?’
‘Not if I have anything to with it, Sophie love.’ Ma replied. Sophie knew how Ma had tried for months to keep the family from this fate, but slowly, bit by bit she had lost the battle. The money for the rent had been due and even working together, Sophie and Ma hadn’t been able to wash enough clothes or pick enough winkles to keep them from starvation. The neighbours had helped all they could, but they barely had enough to save themselves from the same fate. Sophie knew that if they didn’t turn to the workhouse (as scary as the thought was), they would all starve or die from the cold. She looked at the letter that Ma had in her hand. They had gone together to the local vicar to ask him for help. He had said he was going to write to the Master of the workhouse confirming that he knew Jane Dawes to be the respectable widow of a local fisherman who had died at sea. Ma and Sophie knew that they would need such a letter confirming her mother’s good character; without it, the authorities at the workhouse could refuse them entry. Nobody they knew could read or write, so they had to rely on what the vicar had said he had written. If he had added any information about Dickie Dawes’ night-time activities, they could all be in trouble. Sophie shivered again and gripped her younger brother and sister’s hands more tightly.
Name: Elizabeth Hill
Working title of book: Killing The Shadowman
Genre: Murder mystery
There’s a bomb ticking down in my head. It ticks but doesn’t tock. It’s like tinnitus which disappears into the recess of my mind and for moments, hours, years, I forget it’s there. Over the last twenty-five years these quiet times have become longer, and although that has been comforting, the bomb will tick down towards its inevitable explosion. There’s nothing I can do but wait.
The adult me cannot put right what I did twenty-five years ago, aged eight. There has never been a time, a pause in life, a level of maturity, allowing me to address my guilt and apologise for my stupidity. My error was born of innocence, the innocence of a child unable to understand that adults live in a different world. The ticking sensations slide into my conscience and sit on the breath of my being. Knowing that nothing can stop the coming devastation has added to my dread.
Last March I saved a man’s life. Nathan Groves is alive because of me. My hands staunched his blood. My actions saved him as he lay dying. The world knows of my ‘heroism’ and people praise that I’d kept my cool. Those same people feel that they own my story as they send endless social media contacts. Newspapers still pester me for interviews about my experience. Yes, I really want to do that.
He could have died. If I had left him for even a moment to save my friend and colleague, Vicki, they may both have died. Saving the life of a domestic abuser rankled at the time, but later the truth of his character was revealed; he wasn’t the man Vicki had claimed. She had deceived me. Her deceit was wicked, but brought about because of me. Unwittingly: I’m responsible for this second trauma.
Name: Ian R Lazarus
Working Title: The Art of Betrayal
Genre: Crime Thriller
Candidate for live-editing:
“Good afternoon, Mr. O’Brien,” a slight man, no more than 5 feet tall, approached him with outreached arms. The man was likely in his mid-70’s, prematurely grey, with a grey and black beard. He wore a pair of spectacles that sat a bit crooked on his tired face and offered a cautious smile to his guest as he held both of Anthony’s hands in his own. “My name is Basheer Aktar. I am the Director of Community Affairs. We’ve been expecting you.”
Mr. Basheer Aktar guided Anthony into the lobby of the community center. It was opulent by Muslim standards, with red curtains lining the walls; they displayed rhythmic linear patterns of scrolling and interlacing foliage, typical of the arabesque style. A long counter was the focal point of the center, it was here that residents of the community would arrive to register for programs and activities. Because the sun had set and afternoon prayers had ended, the center was essentially deserted. Anthony and Basheer sat in a corner where two oversized and heavily padded chairs sat on either side of a small coffee table.
As they were taking their seats, Basheer went first, “My son, we are honored by your visit. How may I help you?”
“Thank you for seeing me, I really appreciate it,” Anthony replied, not sure how best to address the man before him, and so abandoning any pretense. “As you may know, I represent the State of New York, but am investigating a crime that seems to ignore borders.”
“And what might this crime involve?” Basheer was not a novice when it came to visits from law enforcement, and skilled at navigating these inquiries, while simply appearing naïve.
Name: Amy Chesson
Title: Black Snow
Genre: Murder mystery thriller
Clouds have descended all morning, now forming an impenetrable blanket above the lake. From within the cage platform of the crane at an altitude of three hundred feet in the air, the clouds look like an irresistible layer of glittering, fresh snow. But through the brick-sized hole in the wire mesh security glass above my toilet cubicle, it has less substance, nothing except a wispy, ghostly mist.
‘Are you all right in there?’
And, just like that, my head feels as though it’s made out of granite, on the verge of toppling into the toilet as I lean over the rim and stare without seeing into the bowl. I rock backwards, adjusting from my kneeling position on the linoleum into a squat. Cuddle either side of the ceramic even harder. I can’t identify the speaker’s clipped voice, so I suspect she’s either one of today’s bungee jump punters or – I actually shudder at the thought – a colleague, maybe even the new mechanical maintenance engineer? A hot nugget of shame drops into my belly.
‘Yes, absolutely,’ I say along with a great big smile, despite the fact that I’m invisible to her in my end cubicle. This is my preferred spot for the sense of privacy, and it’s the closest to the electric heater supplied by a daisy-chain of multi-plugs just outside, even if really I hear the heater more than I feel it.
‘Wonderful,’ I hear, followed by a series of other sounds: a prolonged shriek from the hand dryer, a pause, swift footsteps on a flexing floor, then the door clanging shut. The whole porta cabin shudders as she exits, which makes me question how I didn’t even notice her enter.
Name: Dan Forrrester
Title: CRABS
Genre: Comedy Spy Thriller
Scorpio tapped the side of the boiled egg with his knife, testing its strength until it succumbed with a web of cracks spreading over its surface. He chuckled to himself as he lifted off the cap to reveal the soft insides. It was no match for—
‘Henry, dear, don’t play with your food. I hope you’re not imagining your egg is the head of one of your enemies again. You know that gives you heartburn.’
Scorpio scowled at his wife. How could she always tell? He had trained himself over the years so no-one could deduce what he was thinking. His expression betrayed not a hint of emotion; you would find no frown or laughter lines framing the mask of his face.
Mrs Princeton lifted another shirt from the pile of ironing. ‘Eat your breakfast, dear.’
Scorpio chortled again as he dipped a soldier, forcing the runny yolk to ooze over the lip and dribble down the sides. It was only a matter of time before—
‘Busy day at the office today?’
‘Laboratory,’ he grumbled.
‘Hmmm?’
‘It’s not an office,’ he said. ‘It’s a laboratory.’
‘If you say so, Henry.’ His wife sprayed the collar of his shirt with starch and pressed it with the iron. The sweet smell of fabric softener filled the small kitchen and made Scorpio want to gag.
‘Yes, I’m busy. Don’t I look busy?’ He shoved a spoonful of egg into his mouth.
‘You look very handsome, dear. Just like the day we married.’
‘Taking over the bloody world, Agatha; of course I’m bloody busy.’
She looked up from the ironing board to a curl of floral wallpaper coming away from the kitchen wall. ‘That could do with a touch-up.’
‘What?’ She was always doing this. He would have conquered the world by now if she hadn’t kept him so busy with DIY.