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: Constance Lindgreen
Title: Danish Hospitality
Genre: Historical Fiction
“The stench . . . I could hardly breathe.”
Jakob nodded. “Gangrene.” He passed the clamps and scalpel to the nurse.
Mortensen dipped his hands in the basin. ‘‘Debridement? is that what it’s called?”
“Lister invented it. In Edinborough. He used Pasteur’s studies as a base. It’s the only way to avoid amputation. The nurse will have to replace the dressings every two hours. Make sure they’re treated with carbolic acid.”
“So you’ve been following the developments in medicine, all this time?”
“Habits are hard to break.”
“As stubborn as ever,” Mortensen said. “You sound like Dr Sorensen again.”
“I don’t want Erik to know, Jens. You’ll get the credit if he lives. If he dies, I’ll take responsibility.”
Mortensen shook his head. “I’m wrong. You have changed, Jakob.”
Jakob dried his hands and picked up his pastor’s robe and collar.
“Don’t you wonder why I agreed to do this? I could have let him die, prayed for his soul. But I was angry. I wanted to prove him wrong, show how good I am. And I was afraid I wouldn’t do enough…I’d have another death on my conscience. I’ve always felt I should have been able to save Anne, and Thomas, and Karen. No. Don’t say it. I know it wasn’t my fault.”
He looked back at the bed.
“To be honest, I’m envious—Erik’s proved his bravery and his loyalty to our country. I’ve been baptizing babies and comforting widows. Every evening I go home to my wife—who he thinks should have been his. And I want everyone to see how generous and forgiving I could be, and how skilled a physician I am. I’m still trying to play God. And not very good at it.”
Name: Cathy Carroll-Moriarty
Genre: Commerical Fiction
Working title: I Am Agnes
The room was an undefinable color somewhere between gray and brown. The cold from the floor tile seeped through the non-skid socks I wore. It traveled up my legs and settled in my middle. An impressionist print of muted blues and purples and greens hung on the wall across from the bed. I squinted my eyes to make out a shape of some sort, but its stubborn vagueness only served to spread the coldness to my chest and arms. The twin bed, clearly a hospital bed, was dressed up with a wooden headboard and blue comforter to look like it wasn’t meant for slumbering invalids. It sat near a window, with bright white mini-blinds, positioned to have a view of the outdoors. “The Courtyard”, she had called it.
The cadence of her voice dipped and climbed with flawless regularity. Her face never stopped smiling. I’m sure her voice was saying useful things to me, maybe even important things. I would be staying here, the rules were important, rules are always important if one knew what was good for them. But her words were lost inside the whooshing sound swirling between my ears. It spread the coldness around until my body was numb from it. I looked around me with just my eyes, while her voice droned beyond the chaos contained under my skin. Then, without warning, my inner voice pierced through the whooshing, spoke to me loud and clear.
This, Agnes, is the room you will die in.
Name: Patricia Stevenson
Title: A Table for Four
Genre: Mystery
From the safety of his position hidden in the trees the stranger couldn’t believe his luck. There she was alone, running across the grassy field almost directly toward him. He watched her run inside the pump house. Almost immediately, he left the cover of the trees to run in behind her. He found her working very hard attempting to turn the lever to the open position. She was not having any success. It was at that moment that she felt, more than saw, the man come in and assumed he was there to help.
“Oh, thank God,” she said. “Help me turn the lever to open it. We can’t get water in the stable!”
The stranger reached in his pocket and drew out the syringe that had been waiting there for this moment. In one lightning fast motion he placed the syringe cap between his teeth and slid the cap off. He raised his hand and plunged the needle into her neck. She felt the pain, then a look of confusion passed over her face. In the next instant she collapsed into the stranger’s arms. He picked her up in both arms and headed for the door where he paused to look outside before exiting. The confusion at the stables was still enormous. Everyone’s focus was on the fire and the fire trucks that were coming up the drive toward the stables. He darted out of the pump house into the trees. His heart was pounding, his adrenaline flowing, the excitement at having her in his arms, completely at his mercy, was intoxicating.
Keeping to the shelter of the trees he made a wide swing around the stables area heading toward the winery warehouse.
Name: Alison Lloyd
Title: The Great House
Genre: Historical fiction
Yos was the only boy on earth who counted sheep to stay awake, his eldest brother once joked. Neither he nor Yos laughed, for their own reasons.
When he was still a skinny-shanked kid, Yos loved watching the flocks return to the fold. The valley at Shechem felt like a mother’s lap – cleaved, draped and good to lie in at the end of the day. The Ivri tents and sheepfolds were down a long crease, not too close to the walled town or the well. The flocks descended from the hill pasture in a sudden rush of goodness like the pour of grain, to pool in the shadows.
‘Stock are wealth,’ Aba said. Yos’ father was not a big or a loud man, but he was canny. He had a trim, iron beard that added point to his words. Every sundown he counted the river of woolly backs that flowed into the dry-stone pens. Propped on the gate, his eyes flicked in rhythm with the animals. The slanting sun pinked the pale sheep and the uneven limestone walls and kissed Aba on the high bridge of his nose. Yos thought it was like an evening prayer. Aba counted his living blessings – this many head of livestock, that many sons to manage them.
Actually, there were eleven sons. That was the first number Yos understood.
Name: Larissa van Gurchom-Colijn
Title: My lovely star and me
Genre: Picture book (concerning grief for kids)
Word extract:
My lovely star Says “Hop on. Come fly with me”.
Here we go! Through the clouds I spot the mountains and the sea.
We’re flying high, there’s nothing we can’t cross!
Nothing could ever get in between the two of us.
I look at all the vibrant colours of the rainbow,
While my lovely star tells me there are more places we’ll go.
In Norway we are talking to a reindeer,
After a while he is not so shy and comes near.
He tells me he lives in a herd with his family.
He says he loves them very much, like my lovely star and me.
I am learning that in winter his eyes seem blue,
But in summer they turn yellow, it’s funny but true.
In Africa we play tag with a baby elephant,
After a while he starts flapping his ears and rolls through the sand.
The elephant is doing this because he’s overheated,
So we found a good spot in the shade and got seated.
We like hanging out, talking this and that,
Did you know? He has a five-ton-weighing-dad.
We fly up to the Eiffel tower, I can’t believe I’m here!
Then my lovely star whispers something in my ear:
“Anyone who sees us can tell that we belong,
Forever together, our bond will always stay strong.
Please my little one, don’t feel sad,
It’s time to go home now, let’s tuck you into bed.”
We’re back in my room and my star says to me:
“Thank you for all the adventures we’ve had,
Know that I’m with you, when you’re happy or sad.
I will always look after you and light up your night,
I’ll make sure you’re safe, and stay by your side.”
name: hedi
title: The Crabtree Chase Murders
genre: Cozy Mystery
The western sun showed no sign of going. the sky was a space of pink and golden above the horizon.
‘Remember me?’ the woman said.
She looked up ,shielding her eyes from the sun with her hand,’ eehh…’
‘You and your friend came to the office 2 weeks ago. Remember?’
‘Oh, of course.’ Now she recognized the woman. The office here meant the one in UK.
‘Mind if I join you? said the woman in her swim suit under the white bleach shirt.
‘Do please. I shall be so glad of your company. Fancy seeing you in Hong Kong,’ she smiled, feeling a natural excitement as you do seeing a face from home in foreign places.
‘ The place is so busy. I was told to queue up outside. all I want is a cup of tea.’ The woman noted the half empty bottle and the wine glass, ‘drinking alone?’
‘ I was with two friends having lunch earlier, they left to another engagement. I decided to spend the rest of the day on the beach and in water.’
‘What luck, that’s exactly what I am planning to do.’
‘ Glad to have your company.’ She moved the bottle on the table, ‘ would you like a drink?’
‘No,thanks, alcohol does not agree with me, tends to come up with rashes on me.’
A waiter stopped by their table with an ordering-pad in hand. the woman gave him a big show of her teeth.
***
It was the girl in the motor boat who saw the body first, caught between the rocks at the bottom of the cliff.
Name: Suzanne
Title: The Mysterious Appearance of Isobel Walker
Genre: Commercial Fiction
The girl trudges home, shoulders hunched against the cold wind that whips up the fallen leaves on the pavement, her pace slowing as she nears her destination. A man with a phone pressed to his ear walks briskly past her. She watches as he crosses the street, so engrossed in his conversation that he barely turns his head to check for traffic. A cyclist with a pizza delivery box strapped to his bike whizzes past in the opposite direction narrowly missing him.
Isobel pauses at the front gate and looks up at the house. It towers above her, moonlight glinting off the darkened window panes. As she bends down to open the gate her school bag falls from her shoulder and bangs against the leg and the sharp corner of a text book digs into her flesh. Ignoring the pain the swings the bag back on her shoulder banging the gate closed behind her.
The garden is scruffy and overgrown and as she walks down the path she hears something scurry away into the hedge. She gropes around in her coat pocket for her key, nearly tripping over the rotting pumpkin on the doorstep.
She opens the door. The house is silent. She’s the first one home. She slips off her coat and shoes, dumps her bag on the black and white tiled floor and pads through to the kitchen. She opens the fridge, even though she isn’t hungry and the remains of yesterday’s takeaway stare back unappealingly. She sighs and closes the door, opens a cupboard, grabs a chocolate bar and heads upstairs.
Name:Kate Backhouse
Title:Whitegates
Genre:Women’s fiction
It was Whitegates. It had always been Whitegates and always would be. Everybody knew that. It didn’t matter how much he painted them that ridiculous gaudy shade of blue or changed the old wooden sign for that glass and slate monstrosity. “Faulkner Lodge” it said, when the sun wasn’t bouncing off and stopping you reading it. She allowed herself a smile at that. His no doubt very expensive designer hadn’t taken into account the prevailing light conditions. She hoped it irked him but suspected he hadn’t even noticed. Faulkner Lodge, who the hell did he think he was?
Of course she knew exactly who he thought he was. She had googled him as soon as he put the offer in. Peter Faulkner, founding partner of Faulkner, Barrett and Keele. Big shot city property lawyer. Well he could bugger off back to the city where he belonged.
Name: Anne Vitoria
Title: Lizzie Prebble
Genre: Crime
As the birds fly off, Lizzie becomes aware of a stillness and realises the afternoon bell has rung for tea. The garden is empty now and everyone is back inside. She drops to the ground and digs into the dry dusty soil with her hands. When she feels she has dug deep enough, she takes the shawl, presses it down into the black earth and covers it back up. Getting to her feet, she wipes her dirty hands on her dress and places the rickety stool over the disturbed soil. Then she walks with steady steps, to where the discarded skipping rope lies coiled snake-like on the concrete. She picks it up and returns silently back into the trees.
The broken stool leaves her no chance of a last-minute change of heart as her body jerks and strains against the rope thrown over the branch and it is barely a few minutes work for the noose to stop Lizzie’s chest straining for breath. The silver charm bracelet on her wrist flickers as it catches the beams of sunlight that cut through the trees, until finally it stills and Lizzie hangs silent. Her once shining eyes stare dimly down at the ground, where a tiny edge of the shawl can just be seen poking out from the soil.
Impetuous to the last, Lizzie never gave herself the chance to grow into that elegant woman fate had written into her genes. From its deep well of rage and impotence, her keening soul sings out, releasing its scream into the sky. Lizzie’s ultimate act of bravery and love, a mercy, so she thinks, to an unborn child, finally gives her the power and control she has never had throughout her short life.
Name: Sara
Title: I Let You Fall
Genre: Women’s fiction
Everything hurt. She tried to curl into a small ball, cocoon herself from the outside world, shield her body from the pain, but she couldn’t move. Arms were rigid at her sides, legs made of lead. And the darkness, like no darkness she had ever witnessed before. Darkness like the cold whisper of death.
What had they done to her? Buried her alive? She was in a coffin. Beneath the dank earth. Condemned to rot away. She would never get out. She was going to die here. It would be slow and painful. No one would know what had happened to her. That she was trapped. Couldn’t get out. Dying slowly. Blood pumping too fast. Heart pounding.
Then voices. People were there. Very close by. They were coming for her. Coming to get her. Dig her out of this hole. Prise open the coffin.
‘Help me. I’m alive. I’m in here. Get me out of this place. Please.’ Her plea was small and insignificant. It didn’t sound like her voice at all. Because her mouth wasn’t moving. The only voice she had was inside her own head. No one could hear her.
The talking stopped and there was a dull whoosh. A door closing?
‘No, come back! Don’t leave me! Please don’t go.’
When she stopped shouting she heard it. Someone was humming. A tune she recognised from the radio. How could anyone hum at a time like this? But at least someone was still here. That would mean they would get her out and she’d be fine. If she could hear people then it couldn’t be a coffin. A room? A prison cell? Dark, so dark. Terrible, terrifying darkness.