Tag Archives: Virginia Woolf

The two-trick pony & the ghosts in her machine

28 Sunday May 2017

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Island Life, Word Birds & Process

Although I like authors who reinvent themselves, I’m partial to familiarity too. Publishers, agents & editors tend to like ‘more of the same’ & in my experience, readers lap it up. This is not to say a writer shouldn’t stretch herself. ‘RiverBook’ – the story I thought was going to be a follow-up to Ghostbird – has no ghost. It has a much older main protagonist too. I first abandoned it to write Snow Sisters – which came out of left field insisting ghost stories (& sister stories) are what I write.

With this book accepted for publication, the one-hit wonder is on the road to becoming a two-trick pony. And what larks that evokes! I’m a book-writer now & no mistake. I need new shoes at the very least!

While Snow Sisters waits patiently in the copy-edit queue, I have to write something. It made sense to reacquaint myself with ‘River’ which I did, only to be ambushed yet again by another ghost. Once more, poor ‘River’ has been usurped (there’s no other word for it) by a sneaky interloper dragging a spook behind her…

If the cap fits we are told, wear it. And so I shall. Once again my cap is made from mist & secrets & stretches of endless Welsh sky. It’s decorated with raven feathers & when I set it aside, I swear it whispers fragments of words which can only be the voice of a ghost…

Currently, it’s a muddle; the usual random scribbles but as I place them on the page, something more solid begins to emerge.

Naturally, there is a level of apprehension attached to writing ‘more of the same’ but I comfort myself with the thought that it’s good enough for some of my literary sheroes. And I have no particular desire to take a different direction. I have no need to reinvent myself – at this stage I’m barely invented! I know my place if you like & it suits. In the end, it will be down to my reader. If Snow Sisters suits then why not write another ghost story? Why not set another book in my beloved Welsh hinterland among the bones of dragons, conjuring spells and listening for the voice of a ghost?

And who knows, perhaps ‘RiverBook’ will one day make it out of the shallows. She has four drafts to her name & the tenacity of a terrier.

NPG Ax142596; Virginia Woolf (nÈe Stephen) by Lady Ottoline Morrell

How are we to account for the strange human craving for the pleasure of feeling afraid which is so much involved in our love of ghost stories?
~ Virginia Woolf

The private face of the public writer

20 Sunday Nov 2016

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Island Life, Word Birds & Process #26

‘If one is to deal with people on a large scale,’ Virginia Woolf said, ‘and say what one thinks, how can one avoid melancholy?’

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‘Melancholy’ is laying it on a bit thick although I take her point. If I had a pound for every time I’ve held my fire on social media, I’d be that proverbially rich woman. And never mind melancholic, I’d be in state of permanent fury. Since I’ve been published, not saying what I think had become an unexpected thing for me.

It’s a conflict of interests, frankly.

Promoting oneself as a writer via social media is a good way to get noticed. I appreciate my responsibility to my book and to my wonderful publisher, and do the best I can. It’s a fine line though – however small your platform, it’s too easy to allow yourself to be enticed into controversy, which may possibly do your book no good at all.

In days of yore I was vocally political and a committed activist. (Feminism has a great deal to thank the second wave for. You’re welcome.) It’s a different world now and online I’m choosing to take a back seat. It doesn’t mean my heart isn’t still on raging fire.

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Where social media is concerned I keep my distance from controvosy and avoid saying what I really think a lot. Not that it matters – I may have had a book published, I’m not JK Rowling – who cares what I think anyway? Well, that’s the point – people do (often they’re weird people) and it’s easy to get caught up in all sorts of scary malarkey.

Forty-eight people subscribe to this blog. Small-fry in the big old blogosphere scheme of things, but in my world, that’s a lot of people reading what I have to say – about anything. I’m not far off nine hundred Twitter followers too. I like Twitter; it’s been good to me in terms of promoting Ghostbird even though I know I don’t use it to its fullest capacity. I can’t; I don’t have time. And to be honest, if I was on it like a leech, day after day, I’d get no work done and have nothing to promote anyway. Facebook is fun and most of the time I like it too. Thus far I’ve avoided anything contentious, and managed to extricate myself from the odd contretemps by being polite.

For a woman who likes the sound of her own voice, I’m a very private person. I keep 99% of my personal life to myself. And this is the nub of the thing. I don’t know if there’s a line, and if there is, where it is. I think we draw our own and as a writer, I choose to walk a relatively gentle one. I stick to posts about writing and swimming and the view from my aerie. Don’t be fooled though – my private face often has its eyes narrowed and its lips pursed in case a snarky, radical, barbed comment is required.

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‘If you surrender to the wind, you can ride it.’
~Toni Morrison

Celebrating

25 Sunday Sep 2016

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Island Life, Word Birds & Process #21

Writers write every day? Kind of… Most of us write a line or two even if it’s only 140 characters (or less) on Twitter. We write letters & emails, make notes, do research & so forth. Some days we go to publisher parties (I know – cool huh?) or book fairs & frankly, that means NO WRITING OF ANY SORT WHATSOEVER. (Honno’s 30th birthday party is why there was no blog post last week.)

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Jane Aaron, Honno’s Classics Editor speaking with huge passion about the history of this invaluable imprint.

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Sister authors L-R: Me, Caroline Ross, Judith Barrow, Thorne Moore, Alison Layland & Juliet Greenwood.

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Today’s offering is brief because loads of people are posting about yesterday’s Book Fair in Tenby & who needs overload?

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Me & my book at Tenby

Mostly we do put in the hours & in between the high life I am editing – honestly. I’m scribbling like mad & loving it. After two weekends of ‘authorial’ fun & frolics, tomorrow I’m leaving birdseed on the windowsill, a tray of English Breakfast tea & buns for Mrs Woolf & turning back into a writer.

Onward & sideways.

Homework

28 Sunday Aug 2016

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Island Life, Word Birds & Process #18

Summer mist imitates autumn making me realise how close the end of the season is. Earlier, from my bedroom window, it was a proper Island Life scenario: the hills draped with mist, a sense of dream-like isolation. I drank tea with Virginia Woolf, reluctant to get out of bed.

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Now the sun is abroad, mocking my attempt at authenticity. Frankly, I wasn’t up early enough and the moment has passed. Unlike the weather, the Word Birds don’t vary their activity. They flutter and chatter, a constant murmuration of ideas. Draft three is upon me, dear reader – Process by another name. After a meeting with my mentor and editor, I am filled with joy at the prospect of a fairly intense rewrite of my second book. Weird maybe, but believe me, I mean it.

Janet never tells me what to write, she shows me my real story. It’s a magical process, a conversation driven by enquiries about my intention with regard to this or that character, and their intentions. I am never preached at – I’m asked why and it makes me think and dig deep. And now I have it – the story beneath so to speak – the  one I’m meant to be writing.

After the editorial lunch (I know – indulge me!) the process continued into the following morning, and my bath. (I have a lot of light bulb moments in the bath.) What pleases me most is that although Janet enabled me to see my story more clearly, in the aftermath I’ve worked out another lush strand which could become a recurring motif. One thing follows another and the story unfolds some more.

And at the risk of banging on – this is why writers need editors. Their job is to see what we miss. Not because we’re thick but because we’re often held too preciously in the original story vision. Editors are like school teachers. They dish out homework and if we do it we stand a better chance of passing the exam.

September is my favourite month. It’s the start of autumn and for me the best time to settle into a new writing project. Next Thursday is the first day of the month and it’s a new moon too. I’m taking a day or two to fix the domestic chaos, and write a new outline. Then I’m off into Draft Three with more excitement than I can adequately describe.

On reviewing (& reviews)

21 Sunday Aug 2016

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Island Life, Word Birds & Process #17

The other day I got my first 2* review. (Like many of them often are, it’s not entirely about the story or even the writing & therefore vaguely amusing.) That said, no writer wants them but in a way, they keep us grounded. Can’t please all of the people & so forth…

I never used to review books – not in detail. Whenever I enjoyed one, I star-rated it on Amazon & added a few lines. Once I began receiving ARCs, if I loved one, I made a proper effort. (It’s a privilege to be given a book for free – not an entitlement.)

Being published changes things – you realise how important reviews actually are. Not least in Amazon Land where ratings are God. (I keep my views on the politics of this to myself since I have no power to change anything.) Over the months, from publication deal for Ghostbird to release date & onward, I’ve made friends with many terrific writers on Twitter & Facebook. The reciprocal nature of the support network on social media has encouraged me to review good books in more detail.

I know very quickly if a book is for me or not, often after the first paragraph. As I’m fairly choosy, I’m rarely disappointed. In the event I am, I put it down to experience & move on. If I dislike a book I don’t review it. ‘Playing nicely’ is my online mantra & the view that ‘bad reviews are useful’ is one I strongly disagree with. Bad reviews can break vulnerable writers & where Amazon is concerned, really do affect ratings.

Currently, I’m reading Virginia Woolf in Manhattan by Maggie Gee. It was published two years ago to mixed criticism. (The hardback edition has a pretty dust-jacket reminiscent of the style Vanessa Bell’s adopted to illustrate her sister’s books.) To a degree, I accept that the premise of the book (Mrs Woolf returning from the dead & hanging out with a 21st century novelist in New York) is a colossal conceit. As a life-long admirer of Virginia Woolf I dislike any liberties being taken with her memory, but I have to say, I’m thoroughly enjoying this book.

And I intend saying so.

Maggie-Gee

Island Life, Words Birds & Process #2

24 Sunday Apr 2016

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This week’s highlight is a particularly nice one involving a guest appearance on Isabel Costello’s illustrious Literary Sofa. Like Virginia Woolf, I don’t believe in ageing per se and favour her inclination to ‘change my aspect to the sun.’ Writing a piece about being published ‘in later life’ was an exercise in acceptance. I am grateful to Isabel for the opportunity.

For the rest, I’ve been picking away at my SisterBook, managing at best a thousand words a day. I put it down to reclaiming routine after the excitement of being published and launched but sense this is about to change. I have it all – all but the filler and the nuances.  At least I think I do. One of my characters – whose nature it is to assert herself – is leading me into the dark wood, so to speak. I have a pocketful of breadcrumbs, just in case.

What concerns me most though is the quality of this new story and my fear that I may be repeating myself.

With Ghostbird, I never set out to write a ghost story and it took me a while to realise I was. Now I’ve embraced the ‘genre’ I love it. In terms of formula, a ghost story must naturally have a ghost. Readers need to be a bit (or a lot) scared. And teenagers (yes, I’m writing two teenage main protagonists this time), not least those living in remote houses in the middle of nowhere with eccentric mothers, are likely to run wild and be a bit ‘odd.’

So, what do I have? Another ghost story for sure. (“If you liked that you’ll love this?” Readers are renowned for wanting more of the same.) But when does familiarity become tedious or clichéd? I remind myself that the crime writer also follows a formula: Body! Murder! Investigation (maybe a maverick cop), red herrings and so forth. A love story insists that girl meets boy (or variations on this theme), obstacles to true love abound; misunderstanding and duplicity bedevil the lovers until the truth outs and they fall into one another arms.

Although I confess to liking some love interest in my own stories – love is all around us and so forth – the conventional ones hold little appeal for me. I’m drawn to flawed women and the men they often attract: it’s the survivors of ill-advised love stories that intrigue me. I write about the aftermath of these relationships and the women who, for whatever reason, proved too much for men lacking the emotional stamina for the dance. I write about the daughters of these unions and although it was never my intention, somehow now find myself making them the centre of my stories.

And then there are the ghosts…

In no way am I saying the way to make sense of your life – in the event your mother is slightly mad and you’ve grown up without a father – is to encounter a haunting. Far from it – in the real world it’s probably the last thing you need. But fortunately, fiction isn’t the real world. It’s the world of the imagination and making it up and I can create whatever situations and scenarios I choose!

Time will tell if I’m repeating myself or not…

In which the itch to write returns & I guiltily mourn the decline of the servant class

29 Tuesday Sep 2015

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It is a fact universally acknowledged that a man in possession of a completed novel has either a wife or a maid. I have neither. I am a woman who lives alone (by choice – I’m not sad or anything.) And in any case, even if I could afford one, my socialist inclinations make me feel slightly guilty at the idea of employing another woman to do my housework.

I am also a woman who has a love-hate relationship with procrastination.

Recent events have kept me from my writing. The timing was interesting. I’m waiting for my Editorial Notes (please forgive caps – still excited and can hardly believe I’m even due any.) With draft zero Book 2 tucked away for the duration I was at a bit of a loose end anyway. I had my notes for Book 3 to play with and an unexpected trip to Cornwall to visit my family fitted very nicely thank you.

I’ve been back for two weeks now and once again, the Muse nags. The other day I dipped into The Hours by Michael Cunningham and a scene near the beginning where Mrs Woolf (for it is she) takes herself downstairs in the early, seductive writing hour, helps herself to coffee and proceeds in the direction of her study via the printing room. Leonard (already at his proofs) waylays her.

“Have you had breakfast?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Liar.”
“I’m having coffee with cream for breakfast. It’s enough.”
“It’s far from enough. I’m going to have Nelly bring you a bun and some fruit.”
“If you send Nelly in to interrupt me I won’t be responsible for my actions.”

And this, dear reader, is where Mrs Woolf and I part company. I long for a ‘Nelly’ to interrupt me with a bun and some fruit: blessed Nelly, who would then disappear and attend to the chores leaving me free to create deathless prose. Or, at the very least, get to grips with the latest notes for Book 3. My scribbles are accumulating and I need to get them organised while I wait for my EN’s.

I can feel a return to work coming on. In the absence of a Nelly, I must make an effort.

Dancing with the word birds and making jam

01 Tuesday Sep 2015

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Book the Second is resting. Meanwhile, Book the Third takes shape. I have never, ever conjured a story this quickly. One day it was floating at the back of my mind, made up from the remnants of a largely abandoned tale and the hem of a ghost’s frock; the next it was pouring out of me. In the space of three days I had the outline and most of the chapters in précis. 

A friend recently suggested a theory which on reflection makes a kind of sense. Now I have a deal for Ghostbird (which translates as validation) and a publication date; now it’s real and happening, has some creative synapse in my brain clicked into place? Is a new level of confidence emerging and is this what happens to writers once they get that initial confirmation?

Or is it simply the word birds, daring me and flinging ideas in my path? Either way, as a writer, I’m happier than I’ve been in years.

I know I quote Virginia Woolf as if I have her on speed dial. (I don’t – that would be creepy.) I do have a copy of A Writer’s Diary by my bed and treat it like a daily meditation. One of the things Mrs W said was, ‘As for my next book, I won’t write it till it has grown heavy in my mind like a ripe pear.’

It’s as though this new story has landed in my lap in the shape of a harvest of pears. And apples, plums and peaches, and big fat juicy blackberries.

There is nothing for it – I must make story jam.

Meeting my muse in my bath

23 Sunday Aug 2015

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In my perfect, fanciful world, Virginia Woolf is my muse. In my real one, all she has ever done is lead me to abandon punctuation & paragraphs while I, in the mistaken belief that I understand ‘stream of consciousness’ well enough to make it a viable motif in my own writing, follow like a witless fool. I freely confess to having wasted a lot of valuable time in this pointless pursuit.

My actual muse is a creature who lives somewhere in my bathroom. (She is probably a Daddy Long Legs or a small spider. Or even a helpful cobweb.) I know this because, without fail, each time I run a bath with the specific aim of mulling over a particularly puzzling writing-related issue, once I lie down in the water, I invariable mull usefully.

It happened this morning. With Book Two finished (draft zero – see above) & tucked away in a drawer to marinade for a week or two, I need something to do. (I’m not one of those writers who can amuse themselves with a short story or a bit of poetry. If it isn’t the book I’ve finished, then it has it be the one I’m about to start.)

For the past two days I’ve been outlining Book Three. The idea has been hanging round for some time & all at once, I got it. Apart that is for a small but crucial plot strand.

Cue a delicious, lavender & rose scented Sunday morning bath…

Job done.

It’s embryonic of course, but I do think it has [Daddy Long] legs… And it’s another ghost story…

‘…a word is not a single and separate entity, but part of other words…’ *

17 Monday Aug 2015

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It is the lot of a first draft to be the dumping ground for sundry swathes of ‘darling’ destined for the verbal killing fields. As I draw to the end of this new draft zero I ponder what comes next. Run off a hard copy, read it through in as few sittings as possible in order to get an idea of how it works as a story. Next I’ll arm myself with a bunch of sharp pencils, a note pad, a highlighter pen and a willingness to laugh wryly at myself, and begin the second pass. This is when I start giving myself advice and hopefully identify any massive plot holes and structural issues.

By the time I get to the fine-tuning however, something more will be required.

Compelling prose requires big words – lyrical, signature words drenched in clarity; paragraphs stopping us in our tracks, causing us to pause and sigh before carrying on. That said, too many words are worn out by constant overuse. Small and seemingly innocent, they congregate in clichéd clusters waiting for a gap in the narrative. Within the spell of a lovely sentence, these words often have no meaning and serve no purpose. Their only function is to render a perfect sentence cursed. I don’t mean proud, exquisite, conjuring words. What I’m talking about are the little ones, expressing nothing more than the bad habits of language. A beautiful sentence is rarely enhanced by dull, irrelevant words. (See title for good ‘but’ usage.)

Ironic perhaps to choose a Virginia Woolf quotation: she was after all partial to a bit of wordage. She also had an acute eye for the lyrical and she understood style. The individual writer chooses her style. Our voice tends to choose us; style is something else and can be considered. We can edit our style as we edit our narrative arcs, poke around in our plots and ravage our purple prose.

I’m getting ahead of myself: there are miles to go before I’m ready for this level of close editing. It doesn’t hurt to be reminded though and to that end, I best get a move on…

* Virginia Woolf