Not As Bad As You Think (I bloody hope)

Amid the debris littering my desk (scraps of paper, half-drunk cups of coffee, pens so old and mashed they vomit red, blue and green and lie in the little lakes of their own making, war-torn Lego men courtesy of my son…and yes, I do believe that is a regurgitated fur-ball - eewwww) I am determined to find a prominent place for the notice ‘It’s not as bad as you think’.

Why? Because trust me, over-writing can suck the very life blood from your work, leaving it in much need of a laxative.

Try and remember your reader is reading your story for the first time.  Their eyes and minds will be fresh and eager rather than bleeding.  Chances are they won’t give a flying-f about the correct use of the Oxford comma, or occasional lapse in the sequence of MRUs, not if your story flies, not if your characters rip free from the page and not if you have succeeded in transporting them into a world they never want to leave.

If you have done a half decent job on your story (getting the GMC up front and central helps), they will not be bored stiff  to the point of applying leeches to their eyelids and throbbing temples. Chances are they will be too engrossed and therefore forgiving of little tics and errors.  (Best to avoid sloppy typos and spelling though, they’ll skin you for that or worse, abandon your book).

So, don’t hate your manuscript. Recall the verve that rushed through your veins as you punched out the first draft. Because that is what it means to write from the soul and that’s what will give your book its unique personality.  All over-writing ever achieves is frustration on your part as the writer, and a Mogadon-effect in the reader.

Hence my new mantra:  It’s not as bad as it looks…maybe?

Caveat: This mantra does not excuse crap writing! 

Second Caveat:  Those elipsey things (brackets) are all mine, and I'm on trend.  My own trend.

Bloody Afflictions!

Of all the afflictions a writer might hope to avoid, ‘memory like a sieve’ must rank near the top.  I have a tough job with names (even have to run through the register when addressing one of my own kids), and book titles too.  This makes it hard to share/recommend/enthuse about a good read.

And it’s no bloody fun when you’re trying to track your own work.

I do a lot of my writing in my head. Driving to work and home again. Zoning out in meetings so tedious I want to open a vein. Even sitting here blogging right now. One part of my mind is always preoccupied with the story I’m working on.  Problem is, the minute I hit the computer, it all seeps away, can’t even find the thread to tie a knot in it, half the time.

Carry a notebook, you might advise.  Ah, no thanks. I already have three points on my licence (for doing 34mph—yup, still pissed off cos I forgot to send off the fine and got hit for £230 rather than the original £60), and have you ever noticed how in a meeting, your closest neighbours are always checking out what notes you’re taking. Besides, I’ve tried scraps of paper and lose them every time only to come across them months later, to wonder WTF.

Yet I plod on, always back-reading what I’ve already written (which takes hours) in the hope that something will stick for good or better still trigger some random thoughts from earlier on.  Why? Cos that’s another affliction of mine, a cussed stubbornness not to yield any ground.

Yes this all makes me a difficult person to live with but I do have one saving grace, I value my friends, and damn straight, I never forget them.

Got any afflictions you want to share?

Weird Shit...

Exploring your earliest memories can produce some weird shit. Here’s one of mine:

When I was three, four at the most, I would climb a tree at the bottom of the garden (more a wasteland really, as I was born in Zimbabwe), straddle a branch and argue the merits of flinging myself into the prickly shrubbery below. Why? Because the fairies had promised to reward my bravery with a little red suitcase if I did.

I didn’t have any particular need for a suitcase, red or otherwise. I’m not sure I even wanted one. But every day, I’d climb that damn tree and the argument would commence.

‘Wow, a red suitcase. From the fairies. Just gotta jump.’

‘Hmmm. It’s a long way down. It’s gonna hurt.”

“No pain, no gain.”

“I don’t want to die.”

“The fairies won’t let you die.”

“They might if they find out, I’d much rather have a pair of red shoes than a stupid suitcase.”

“Careful. They can probably read your mind. Quick jump before they reach up and drag you down.”

I never did make that jump and to this day, I  wonder regularly what would have happened if I had.  Would the existence of fairies have been irrefutably proven? Was I demented even at that tender age? Would the fairies have been offended if I’d asked for twinkly red heels instead? Did I fail some kind of divine test by not jumping? What the hell was it about a bloody red suitcase?

Being me, I’ve got plenty of other little memories like this that tease and torment but this remains the strongest and I revisit it a couple of times a year in search of some answers.  To date without much luck.

So what’s your earliest memory, does it haunt you still? Feel free to share, I just have.  

Hark, is that knocking I hear? Men in white coats you say? Okay I’m outta here. You lot be brave.

Triumph of the Vagina

I’m not known for my subtlety hence I ‘try’ to steer clear of contentious issues. So when:

US citizen, Todd Akin, the plonker, committed political suicide by claiming women’s bodies have a natural defense system against the possibility of pregnancy in cases of ‘legitimate rape’, I bit my tongue and stayed out of the fray in the belief he'd get what was coming to him.

Enter George Galloway, the UK version of the plonker, who appears to view rape as ‘really bad manners’ and ‘bad sexual etiquette’. By now my tongue was a shredded mess and entering the fray looked like a long glass of chilled water after ten days in the desert.

Then in rode Lani Diane Rich, NYT and USA Today Bestselling Author, with quite the most erudite piece of writing I have read in many a year, and my tongue is now recovering and I still have a job.
Here’s what she wrote:

Psst. Politicians.

My vagina didn't bankrupt this country or send all the jobs off to other countries. My vagina doesn't work 17% less than a penis, yet it gets paid 17% less. My vagina doesn't call anyone who disagrees with it a socialist and expect that to end the discussion. My vagina also considers the entering of said vagina without express permission as rape. PERIOD. (BTW, that includes transvaginal ultrasounds.) My vagina reserves the right to defend its borders, so to speak, and if you're gonna complain about all the babies on welfare and wax indignant about abortion, perhaps you could shut the hell up about birth control, which prevents everything you seem to have a problem with, except the fact that my vagina has sex, which is none of your damn business anyway.

Please remember that no matter what stupid ass legislation you try to pass to prevent it, my vagina will be voting this November.

Bloody brilliant!  On behalf of my tongue (and women everywhere), I thank you Lani Diane Rich.

Check out Lani's work at www.lanidianerich.com

Cocking the Halo

You know you are not a bad person :-

·         When you can drive for an hour along unfamiliar, too-narrow. traffic logged roads, up hill and down dale, with a squalling baby (make that screaming) and still comfort the mother with a ‘don’t worry, all babies do this’.  A big fat lie, most babies sleep. My teeth are 5mm shorter from the gritting and grinding.

 

·         When you want to throw your arms round all those young people receiving exam results (and failing) and tell them to stuff the system, to go out and define themselves.  I hate the fortnight during which A Level and GCSE Level results are released.

·         When you keep your weak platitudes to yourself and just listen when a distraught man of 87 years tell you his wife of 50 years is unlikely to live beyond the weekend and you miss an important meeting.

 

·         When you really, really want to write so bad, blood is oozing from your pores and you forbid yourself to go near your ms for at least a week because your family come first. (Hmm, wonder if working between 2-4 in the morning would be excusable?)

·         When you smile sagely instead of picking up a knife and slicing the people dancing on your last nerve ‘because it’s not their fault’ – my ass.

 

·         When you agree to a birthday party you really don’t want (in fact, the very idea of it channels thoughts of self-harm) because it means so much to those throwing it.

This list could continue but frankly, reading it back, it’s a little bit too navel gazey.  Think I’ll take my tarnished halo, twirl it round my forefinger as a stripper might a g-string, release and leave it where it wherever it falls (hopefully close to a pub or for a laugh, on a bald bishop’s head.

So what act of contrition have you performed today (ok, this week)?

Knock me on my ass – I beg you

We are told that to throw a reader out of the story, to have them pause, lose their thread and need to re-read a passage is a massive author fail.  Hmm…I’m sure I can think of worse sins, not least boring a reader to death but that would take this post in a different direction when, for a change, I’d like to celebrate. Celebrate the exquisite moment of being tossed out of a story and knocked flat on your ass.

For me all it takes is a certain turn of phrase. It might be that the choice of words is shockingly original, or humorous, or beautifully cadentic* but more often than not it will be down to the image painted.

 …she watched as black cinders showered, like so many dead moths…  ­

This snippet stopped me dead in my tracks and haunted me for months.  It still does. It’s so damn powerful.  The piece from which it is lifted was crafted by recently contracted, Shehanne Moore, writer of romantic historicals, and I thank her for that very special moment when, as a self-confessed speed-reader, I skidded to a halt, re-read the line (many times) and thought…bugger me, I want to be able to write like that.

I’ve taken the liberty (with Shehanne’s permission) of including a fuller extract here, but for me, it all comes down to that single sublime image.  Fury (the heroine) has a contract for Flint (the hero) to sign.

  “After all, I wouldn’t like to make it difficult for you, or suffer more in your embrace than necessary. No.” She smiled and tilted her jaw.  “Now, why don’t you just make your mark on the paper?  So we can...how was it you put it again...get to it?” she said, tossing him the pen.

    He caught it and stared, for a long brittle moment. Then with an abrupt movement he tossed it on the floor, where it clattered and rolled, blobbing ink across the tiles.  Wordlessly he walked to the end of the dressing table and held the paper in the candle flame.  Flames came from it and she watched as black cinders showered, like so many dead moths, onto the marble surface of the table.

    “What....what do you think you’re doing?” she gasped,

    “What you said, Fury. Making my mark. Now, that’s your terms. Here’s mine.”

*Cadentic is one of those words loathed by Spellcheck because I’ve made it up.  Basically on my planet, it means the beat of a pulse or rhythm.

Kaboom – Unashamedly Dropping the F-Bomb.

My instinctive reaction to the smug who dismiss foul language as lazy and symptomatic of a restricted vocabulary is an elegant, Fuck Off!  

Elegant because it’s uncluttered, immediate and leaves no room for misunderstanding, surely the Holy Grail for writers.

There aren’t many reactions that can be captured in two short words and fuck used on its own can convey myriad emotions – physical pain, surprise, shock, anger, despair, amusement, pleasure – so why use a string of unnecessary words when one will do? To avoid causing offence?  Nowadays?(Please refer to my reaction in the opening sentence.)

Few words work harder than fuck. I haven’t been able to think of one, so maybe the dissenters are right, I’m vocabulary challenged. But used in the right context fuck reigns supreme. Four letters of the alphabet combined into a single word that can world-build, reveal character/personality, carry emotion like no other. I am in awe. Somehow other epithets lack the same class.

However, please note the caveat ‘used in the right context’.

And there are certain words over which I do hesitate, ‘God’, ‘Christ’, or ‘Jesus’, because I don’t wish to offend or disrespect an individual’s sensitivities – but fuck isn’t and never will be one of them.

Which word works hardest for you?