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: Pete Hepworth
Title: We Are Stardust
Genre: MG sci-fi comedy
Toilet training my puppy was always going to be difficult, but in zero gravity, it was an absolute nightmare.
There was a screeching and a grinding noise, like cutlery being thrown into a rocket engine. In a recording of a long-dead voice, the ship’s neuro-computer announced the latest fault in its spin system: Gravity paused.
Three thousand and twenty-six years away from a dying Earth, our vast spaceship Rainbow Pigeon is the only home I’ve ever known. It’s a bit knackered and getting worse.
A bright lance of light dimmed. My dad had stopped welding yet another broken heating pipe, pushing his protective goggles up. Along the steel corridor, a single bulb swung from the ceiling. Our shadows swayed.
I felt a shift beneath me and a lurch in my stomach. As my boots started to leave the floor, I realised I’d forgotten to do something really important.
‘Stardust!’ my dad shouted.
‘That’s not my na—’ I started.
‘Dog lead,’ my dad continued. ‘Now.’
I reached out for the rail on the wall and brought myself to an expert stop. As I floated, hair wafting in front of me, I issued a command.
‘Stay.’
Daisy, my cocker spaniel, as black as space, ignored this command, but in her defence, it’s difficult to stay in zero gravity. I named my puppy Daisy despite never having seen one. I’ve never seen any flower. Not in actual real life. And at this rate, I’m never going to.
Name: Lynn Love
Title: The Attic Diary
Genre: Supernatural Mystery
Courbeau. Cuervo. Crow.
Matt counted fourteen black birds clinging to the roof. Some turned hunched backs to the sea, others flapped and hopped, torn by gusts but reluctant to fly. Silhouetted against blank clouds, they resembled Morse code, though their message was unreadable.
Elizabeth stood in the road a few feet away, staring up at the house and the flash of oily black birds. She’d shrunk. On the ferry crossing, her frame had bowed as she gripped the railing with white knuckled hands, challenging the chalk cliffs with unblinking eyes. Now she was pressed between England’s slate clouds and flint sea, Elizabeth was ageing by the hour.
‘Anything?’ she said.
The taxi was already halfway down the hill, their one shared suitcase listing drunkenly on the broken tarmac.
Rien. Nada. ‘Nothing.’
Her voice came louder. ‘Matthew. Anything?’
The Channel was all he’d tasted for twenty-four hours—salts, strange metals, engine oil—but now other sensations picked at him, ones Elizabeth was greedy to taste vicariously because she was incapable of experiencing them first hand.
He let his mind lose its focus, let his consciousness sink, a rock drifting to the bottom of a pond. Settling himself, the petrol fumes, the scent of the ocean, the barking of the crows, drifted away, allowing other things to rise in their place…
Overripe oranges—sticky sweet, the musty scent of mould breaking through the pocked skin. A nursery rhyme weaving between the roar and hiss of the waves, a golden ribbon through the grey that mutated into birdsong. A flash of yellow down. And sorrow. Sorrow spoken in many voices, heavier than the sea, dense enough to suffocate.
There was something desolate about the house, about the town for all its faded seaside quaintness. Each home an island, a place where a person might die alone and not a soul would notice until the flies clouded the windows.
Name: Sharon Gee
Title: The Edwardian Ghost
Genre: Supernatural Thriller
Chapter One
Waking in this room feels wrong. The building is wrong. The room seems familiar – I have stayed here before with my parents and brother Jack. Yet… I am certain we left. The quiver in my chest tells me this is not where I fell asleep.
And I am alone – which makes the tremor grow and tighten, threatening to cut off my airway. It is all wrong but I’m not sure why.
Confusion pins me to the bed, or is it weakness? I can hardly raise my head, maybe I have a fever. But how can I be sick … I am wearing my ballgown and shoes. Why would my maid have let that happen?
The surrounding sounds are different, muffled, as if my eardrums have burst and the air is whooshing in and out. I can’t stop trembling – my feet are so cold there is enough room for them to rattle in my shoes. My hands are numb, every part of me is numb. From the cold? I cannot feel anything. How can that be? My hand shakes as I raise it, it looks solid but everything beyond it appears faded, covered by a sheer layer of silk.
And my head; creatures are clawing at my brain. I lay, too scared to move, too weary to think before I drift into darkness.
Sometimes the sun creeps around the curtain, hinting at a tenuous normality, then the blackness comes – a space without sides, where I float freely before losing all awareness again.
Name: Angela Cowan
Title: Shut The Flock Up
Genre: Romantic Comedy
The vicar walked to the head of the grave and waited while we all shuffled around, jockeying for position and trying not to stand on neighbouring plots. He was dressed in flowing purple robes decorated with silver swirls, topped with a long black cape.
I whispered to Sue, “He looks like a cross between Prince and Count Dracula.”
“I’ve heard about him,” she said. “Wait ‘til he starts spouting. He’s very High.”
“On what – crack cocaine?”
“High Church, you heathen.”
The vicar began intoning, appropriately, in a voice borrowed from Vincent Price. “Dearly Beloved, we are gathered together to mourn the passing of the dear departed soul from this realm…”
The droning carried on for some time and then paused. Six mourners stepped forward and were handed black silk tasselled ropes, each attached to the side of the coffin. The boards were removed from below, and they took the strain. Apart from one nervous moment when it looked like a tiny, elderly gentleman might lose his balance and join the dear departed soul, the coffin lurched to its final resting place.
The vicar resumed his Hammer Horror audition:
“In the midst of life, we are in – hunnhhh.”
He buckled at the knees, pitched forward, and fell into the grave. There came the dull, heavy sound of a body hitting solid oak. Everyone jumped, gasped, and looked at the large, black, hairy dog which had bounded up behind the vicar and now stood in his place, tongue lolling and tail wagging.
“Jesus.” Sue grasped my arm and we inched forward and peered over the edge of the grave. The vicar lay spread-eagled on top of the coffin, out cold, like a huge, flamboyant bat. Hammer Films would have a field day with that one.
Name: Ed Jones
Title: Girl Out of Tune
Genre: Musical fiction/coming of age/thriller
I remember the day I first sneaked into Mum’s bedroom and discovered the photograph. How old was I? We were still at Auntie Sandra’s so no more than seven or eight. It was in a shoe box at the back of a draw. I lifted the lid and there it was, locked inside a silver frame, hidden like a guilty secret. You standing behind Mum on a beach somewhere, your hands linked together around her chest, both of you smiling as the wind blew through your hair. Hers: long, wild, flowing in a hundred directions. Yours: short, spiked, standing firm against the elements. A black guitar case was aimed skywards, strapped to you like a rocket launcher. I begged you to answer my questions: why did you go, where are you, do you still think about me? I discovered shapes in the clouds floating above your heads: tortured faces, strange creatures, outlines of imaginary islands in a faraway sea. I could hear the sound of the waves in the background, smell the sea air, but you remained mute. I knew that behind your smile lurked an unspoken sadness, otherwise why did you leave us? It may have been subconscious before I was old enough to articulate such thoughts but from the earliest age, I think I understood that happiness comes at a price. With light there must be shade.
I always carefully placed the frame back and tidied everything away perfectly so that Mum wouldn’t suspect I had been searching for forbidden treasure. I began to realise that part of me, someone I hadn’t met yet perhaps, could be hidden inside the photograph. Somewhere. At least I knew where to look.
Name: Steph Reeder
Title: (Untitled)
Genre: Light Romance
“Morning,” he smiles, lifting his coffee, “How are you feeling?”
“Clearly worse than you” I grumble, going to make myself a much needed coffee.
“Yours is on the side”, he says, pointing to the breakfast bar, “strong and black, perfect for that hangover”.
“Thanks” I sit down on the sofa next to him. Ginger turns her head towards me, then deciding I’m not worth it, nuzzles back into Kevin, purring loudly.
We sit in silence for a while, watching some sort of cooking show as I sober up. I am feeling pretty awful, but the coffee and tablets are starting to kick in.
“Han,” Kevin says, shuffling around to face with, with Ginger protesting. “Would you like to have dinner with me tonight?”
“Like a date?” I ask, trying to keep my voice level. I feel like I should have known this would come eventually. Why can people never just stay friends with benefits, why do they let feelings get involved?
“Yeah, I mean the sex is great and all, but I would love to spend more time with you, outside of this flat.”
“I can come round yours?” I raise an eyebrow seductively, despite the pounding head threatening to push it back down.
“You know that’s not what I mean” he looks miffed now. Well, he should know the deal.
“Kevin, look. I really like you, you know that, but I am not looking for a relationship, and certainly not an exclusive one.”
His face falls, and Ginger, sensing the mood change, dismounts and stalks off to the bedroom to, I can only imagine, mess up my pile of clothes.
“I should go.” Kevin starts to stand up and gather his shoes and keys.
“Kev, wait!” Kevin turns to face me, looking hopeful. “You forgot your wallet”.
Name: Sibo Makuza
Title: Spark— The Return to Earth.
Genre: YA sci-fi
Spark was not in Los Angeles. Or trying to survive in the jungle. And she certainly wasn’t dancing with the stars. She’d even given up her hopes of being rescued by James Bond. In a 7 billion populated planet, not one person could be found. So no, Spark was not lost in Time Square.
Blue curtains, a security camera, the bed Spark lay on, and a closed white door— that’s all that was there.
“Hello?” Spark called out for the 5th time. “Hello? Er, I’m awake now. Is anyone there?”
Her heart thumped in her chest. Should I try the door? Can’t hurt to go out, I won’t poke around. I just want to know where I am.
Unfortunately, the security camera still glared her in the eye. She didn’t want to cause any trouble, so with clammy hands, she stayed put.
Then the door opened. Spark stared— did the door have a telepathic feature? You think about it long enough and then it opens?
Three teenagers entered. Spark sat up. Were they the ones she’d tried to save? Thank the heavens they were okay. But had they realized what she’d done? Did they even know it was a spaceship?
Well they know something was about to crash on them and then I appeared and it moved in the opposite direction. Spark prayed they didn’t realize she was telekinetic. But she collapsed, then so did the spaceship. What other explanation was there?
“Hello.” One of the boys said.
What in the… He had huge arms and legs of hard rippling muscle, with an outright chest and broad shoulders. He was as muscular as a pro wrestler, but only a teenager.
If they understand what I did… I’m done for.
The Army’s Daughter – Meg Barber – Georgian Romance
Portugal 1800
Chapter I
The first time Louisa fell in love she was nine. She was playing catch and ran into a cannon because she was looking back to see how close Billy Tyler was. Her giggle of laughter was cut off and she was felled like an oak. Billy and Pump (his family name was Waters) shoved through the legs of the gunnery crew to reach her. Louisa was out cold. Despite the adults around him, fourteen-year-old Billy picked her up and carried her back to her mother, Pump running protection, in that, he wasn’t going to let anyone of any age or rank pluck Louisa from Billy’s arms. They had caused the accident. They would own up and take her home.
Louisa woke with a lump the size of a pigeon’s egg on her brow and a black eye that reached half-way down her cheek. In later years, when her father told the story the bump grew to the size of a hen’s egg and she was out for a week. No matter, from that moment on Billy could do no wrong in her eyes. She helped him steal baccy for his pa and whisky for his ma and food for the gang of them. Life for an army child was good more than it was bad and with Billy to hero-worship Louisa was as happy as any.
It didn’t last. Before she had time to fall out of love with Billy she was packed off to school in England and not allowed to return until she was sixteen. …
Amber Mae
Cassie Vs. The Curse
MG Fantasy
Right after, you’re allowed to hurt. A week later, you’re expected to cry. At two months people are patient. . . ish. But a year later? By that time everyone expects you to be all better, or at least okay. It had been exactly ten months, three weeks, and two days. Cassie was not okay. Not. Even. Close.
She sat scrunched up in the back of her closet, a laptop resting on her legs. Cassie pressed noise-cancelling headphones tight over her ears. There was no music coming from them, but her fingers danced across the keyboard anyway.
CBUG856: The Wizards is the dumbest series ever. All the characters are ugly, I mean, seriously, I get having a few uglies here and there, but what is it? Ugly people unite? And none of them are fun to read. S.H. Hawthing is a hack who lucked into his fame and fortune.
With a forced chuckle, Cassie pressed submit and popped her knuckles, waiting. It only took a few seconds.
BEOTHEBRAVE21: Troll!
Yes, the first victim.
CHARMERED892: If you hate The Wizards so much, get off the fan site.
Exactly the reaction she was looking for.
LAKITTEN4: “Guys, chill, it’s probably just a rogue Vampire Gypsy fan.”
It was so easy to get to these guys. She was a puppeteer with a keyboard instead of a string. Type away, then watch as people do exactly what you want them to. Cassie scrolled through the conversation, taking in all of the usernames. Who should she pick on today? She smiled when she saw LACYSAV239’s avatar. She always gave the best reactions.
Name: Sabra J. Jenkins
Title: Gehlahnos, The Legend of Edraseia
Genre: Adult fantasy
“The Master sent us on a useless mission. It’s been two hundred and twelve years of looking for–”
“And finding!” snarled the dark figure in the heavy cape, baring his jagged teeth. “We’re close. There aren’t many Monarchs left. Our prey is here!” He secured a hard stare on the other warrior of inferior rank. The warrior dipped his chin and resigned from the conversation without another word.
The dark figure backed into the swirling fog, his steps lithe in comparison with his hulking body. The thick gray devoured him as he turned and left the beach. He glanced over his shoulder while the other warrior rowed away from the shore and quickly disappeared. He pulled the hood of his thick, leather cape over his bald head, shielding it from the air. The Monarch had better be on this island . . . if he is here, then it will be here . . .
The town was like every other island town: gullible. There were no guards and the gates were never locked. Easy. As the warrior walked through the street, he took little notice of the city’s patrons. He was here for one reason only: to find the Monarch. It wasn’t hard to locate the city’s most popular gathering place. It was close to the docks, like in every other town, and like all the others, this place leaked obnoxious sounds of ignorant seafarers. Islanders followed patterns, and patterns were every human’s weakness. Finding his target shouldn’t have been so difficult . . . except that this time, his target followed no rational pattern at all. Time was running out. It was past time to end the chase. He ignored the few sideways looks that grazed over him as he walked boldly through the raucous crowd. He feared no one. He was the very embodiment of fear; they just didn’t know it, and he knew it would remain that way. It had for thousands of years.