Tag Archives: Writing

Less a resolution … more a plan…

05 Sunday Jan 2020

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I’m an Aquarian – I love a plan. And it is this: after some thought & a number of steely glares from that there Janey Stevens, I’m committing to the book that’s been abandoned so many times it’s now in therapy.

At midwinter, at our last writing group of the year, Janey asked me what was stopping me writing the book that has, for several years, affectionately been known as RiverBook. She was having none of my, ‘Well, there’s this other story & it won’t leave me be…’ nonsense. Conscientious writing partner that she is, she challenged me to look at why I was prevaricating.

In the end, it was simple – it was the beginning.

I’ve changed the trajectory of this story many times, abandoned great swathes of it: plot lines, format & so forth. Introduced a new & relevant character. And simplified it. What I hadn’t done was pay attention to the beginning. I thought I knew where this story began but I’d missed an important trick.

Magic notwithstanding (if you hang with witch women who write, expect spells, dear reader) I’ve learned many valuable lessons since I began this writing lark. Not least from my mentor & my editor. One is to know the provenance of my stories – the root of them if you like. Most of mine offer some sort of nod to legend or fairytale. RiverBook is no exception. In it, I’ve played with the old selkie tale & given it a different slant. I like my version & that aspect – the essence of the story – has never been in dispute.

Once I knew (what I’d always known because we do – we just need a nudge from a friend) it was easy. Begin at the actual beginning. And why would I abandon over 80k anyway? You only do that if the story has no legs. This one can swim… And that’s where I must begin: in the water…

Now I have it, that’s my plan. Finish RiverBook & call it by the name I conjured some time ago: Underwater the Stars Shine Brighter. It’s a bit of a mouthful so I may opt for an acronym… A hashtag even. #UTSSB – go me.

Writing the wrongs

15 Sunday Dec 2019

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It is highly likely, dear reader, I could be tempted into wordy confabulation (see?) when it needs only my best & simplest words to adequately convey what I feel. The hell in a handcart shenanigans I predicted have occurred. It gives me no pleasure to be proved right. Being right about something so wrong is awful. Like almost everyone I know, this feels like a dark time. I’m not in the mood for hopeful memes or well-meaning platitudes – hope for too many people has been ravaged. Our hearts are hurting.

Saddened by what I see as a squandered political opportunity, I turn to that which gives me, on a very personal level, a measure of hope. When despair strikes, write. Reach for the words.

Mistress Crow has been ubiquitous. Landing in the skeletal birch tree, her feathered finery silhouetted against wintry skies, she’s been eyeing me for a few weeks now. Or so it seems. I try not to anthropomorphise wild creatures & resist the temptation to second guess a bird. But the version of me who toys with the idea of a muse can’t give up on the idea that some of the words I conjure arrive via some magical, possibly birdy, portal.

My next quest, should I choose to accept it, is to write the right book. Finish #Book4 – all 89,000 words of it? I still don’t know & the reason is simple: the singular voice of #Book5 will not be still. Like Mistress Crow, she perches, peripheral & illusory, whispering her intriguing, scary first person present words in my ear. And I can’t shake her off.

Come the next new moon – Boxing Day therefore perfectly placed – I have a decision to make. The write one… Right?

Onward & sideways, as my mother used to say… Not least about shenanigans.

Learning curves

22 Sunday Sep 2019

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My initial idea for this post could be summed up in the cliché: If I’d known then what I know now. My list of pre-conceived notions about How Publishing Works is as long as the proverbial piece of string.

In the early, heady days of securing a book deal, I thought I knew a lot of things. How editing would be a matter of having my story checked over for grammatical errors & perhaps shifting the odd scene or one. Even when I understood the purpose of a copy editor, I still had some vague notion it also had to do with ‘checking things’ – in some random, nothing-to-do-with-me sort of way.

Lol, as they say…

Working on my first book was an enormous learning curve & soon disabused me of many notions. In spite of the terror, I began to enjoy the editing process. At heart, I’m a reviser & have never found it a chore to listen to my inner critic. And formal editing has taught me to respect & be in awe of the professional editorial side of creating a book.

Another preconceived notion of mine was, you get the cover you want & nobody will question the title of your book. I am here to tell you, this is only partly true. As someone published by an almost unique press that meets its authors more than halfway, I’ve been inordinately lucky with my titles & covers. There have been a few changes & tweaks but I love all of them. I know there are authors still weeping because they hated the covers imposed on them. I can’t imagine how that must feel & it took me a long time to learn that in Big Press World, it is industry practice. Small presses rock, in more ways than one!

For years I was a cover/title snob. All those books with ‘Girl’ in the title & all those girls, wandering off, away from the camera. I swore I would never, ever become part of that particular club. I was yet to grasp the fact that it’s what happens in the bookshops that counts. It’s shelf appeal, dear reader, pure & simple. (And there are copyright reasons why so many girls & women on covers have their faces concealed. Apparently it can cost more if the model’s face is visible.) Add the fact that readers prefer to make up their own minds about how characters look & it all falls into place.

Back in April last year, I wrote this:

Like it or loathe it, Girl in the title of a contemporary novel, however ubiquitous, appears to sell books. As a woman who writes largely about women (albeit about girls as well), I have long eschewed reaching for the Girl word. And yet I find myself unexpectedly in love with a title I conjured several months ago for this story.

(You can read the entire post here.)

‘This story’ is my third book, Wild Spinning Girls. I’ve broken both the rules it seems, & gone plural, but for all the right reasons. The details are in that previous blog post. Suffice it to say, telling the story of Ida & Heather; discovering the title within the finished narrative, convinced me Girl is good. Girls is even better.

Here then is my new book with its lush cover. With its pretty title.

Showing up: let me count the ways…

15 Sunday Sep 2019

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Being here for starters. It’s been a month since I wrote a word. Not because I have nothing to say, more that I have too much. As I count down the months until my third novel, Wild Spinning Girls is published, I could write reams about how exciting the process is. But the authors amongst you know – while we wait, we write.

Most days then, I clock on for Book 4. (And, for a brief time, I showed up for the fifth one too. Until I ordered myself to get back to doing what I do best: one thing at a time.)  

Showing up are the two words that make up my daily writing mantra. Unless we put in the graft at the typeface, the road to publication is likely to be strewn with rocks. (Full disclosure: makes no difference – it will be littered with them. Boulders, bedrock & concrete slabs the size of dragons; Very Big Brick Walls & even bits of the earth’s crust.)

So you may as well show up. This is my current, favourite ‘Showing Up’ image. Words birds obviously, a nice frock & a beak.)

Image: Sarah Young

Like many writers, published & unpublished, I put in my ‘Time Before’ – years when the rejections piled up & I convinced myself I was comforted by the generic phrase: ‘You write well/interestingly/can’t quite place you on our list/we’ve just signed something similar.’ Or words to that effect. They’re all code for ‘No.’

It’s over seven years since I first pitched my debut, Ghostbird, to the woman who was to become my mentor. Back then, Janet Thomas was still an editor at Honno, the Welsh Women’s Press. She was the first in a galaxy of women destined to show up & have a huge impact on my life.

Initially, it was the Honno Sisterhood who embraced me & made me feel part of the best gang ever. Post-publication, many of them have become dear friends.

Some of the Honno sisterhood: from L round the table, my editor/publisher Caroline Oakley, Juliet Greenwood, me, Judith Barrow, Alison Leyland, Janet Thomas, Thorne Moore, Hilary Shepherd & Jan Newton

And then, in real life & virtually, out in the wider world a myriad brilliant, fabulous authors & bloggers have shown up. The kindest, most supportive human beings it’s my privilege to know. As I look forward to being published again, I count my blessings.

If I counted them – the kind, generous fabulous lovelies – I’d be here all day.

 

My Welsh heart

11 Sunday Aug 2019

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In my various author profiles I claim Irish blood & a Welsh heart. The latter is possibly more relevant than the former. I’ve never lived in Ireland & the last time I set foot in my mother’s homeland (my father’s heritage is half Irish) I was a little girl. Wales on the other hand has been my home for decades. I live here from choice & I love it. I love the people, my home town, the landscape & the language (even though my command of it is abysmal.) It pleases me to say, ‘I’m from Wales.’

Needless to say, the scenery, culture & folklore of my adopted home informed my writing. In terms of place, when I began seriously making up stories, I wrote about what I knew. Welsh villages & their often idiosyncratic inhabitants, the surroundings & a history shaped as much by mythology as fact. I wrote my Welsh books from my Welsh heart & dreamed of being a ‘Welsh writer’ – at least by association.

Being published by a Welsh women’s press was the realisation of that dream.



I’m proud to be published in Wales; to be called a Welsh writer & to have people ask me about the genesis of & settings for my stories. Along with many other writers living in Wales & published by a number of brilliant presses, I feel very strongly that we & our publishers are constantly fighting to be visible. Our books (fiction in particular) are often sidelined in Welsh shops as ‘of Welsh interest’ strongly & erroneously suggesting they are written exclusively in the Welsh language. They’re tucked away in this niche category rather than being displayed in ‘general fiction’ alongside the rest of the best of contemporary fiction currently flooding the market.

As authors (alongside our publishers) we’re doing our best to change the perception of Welsh fiction as particular or anachronistic. Where our books happen to be written is deeply important; being Welsh matters but it doesn’t make our books exclusionary, inaccessible, odd or of no interest because somehow, a largely London-centric publishing industry has decided, ‘no one’s interested in Wales.’

And the bookshops have to take some of the responsibility. Good books alone do not sell themselves. This is as mythical a perception as my dragon bones & ghosts! In Wales we struggle to promote our books. And it’s promotion above all that ensures visibility. However good a book is, without promotion no one will know about it. The big chain retail book outlets need to be kinder to us. Give us window space, inclusive shelf space, table top space & above all – the right to be seen as viable & as good as the rest! Their till receipts might cause them to be pleasantly surprised.

HONNO is a Welsh word meaning ‘that one (feminine) who is elsewhere‘ & it’s lovely & evocative.

But Honno authors & Welsh authors generally ought to be everywhere. I will never stop being proud to be a ‘Welsh writer’ albeit it one with Irish blood. (After all, we’re all Celts!) And I’ll bang on about being a proud Welsh writer until the dragons return to Wales!

Where to now?

28 Sunday Jul 2019

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With Wild Spinning Girls waiting her turn with the woman who makes me a better writer, my thoughts turn to what comes next. My current Book 4 has had an erratic passage. It was first usurped between Ghostbird & Snow Sisters then again by WSG, getting periodically abandoned like an unwanted rag-doll in the process.

I’ve always believed some books aren’t meant to be written. As writers we have to learn this & know when to let go. In the past I’ve had no qualms about discarding stories & stuffing them in a dark drawer, or worse, killing them off completely.

This one though – the one I call RiverBook – simply will not be silenced. Regardless of several long interludes, it’s survived. At one point I was a hair’s breadth from dumping it. The main protagonist – a woman I think I may be slight scared of – was having none of it. She knew what was wrong with ‘the story so far’, but better still, what was right with it. She knew what was missing & what needed chucking.

A while back I did a big rewrite & decided yes, this is the one. I have 75,000 words which is almost a complete manuscript. Be rude not to finish it, frankly. No problem then…

You think?

One of the reasons for writing this down is so I can’t easily back-track & abandon the book yet again. And the reason I could be tempted is because there’s another one. A new story that excites me so much I can’t stop thinking about it. An altogether new way of writing, an almost entirely character driven story with virtually no plot, written in first person present…



I know… mad or what?

The plan – for plan I must have – is to potter until the New Moon on Thursday. See which of the word birds offers up the best pitch… They clearly love RiverBook & have stuck with it like a precious egg baby in a nest.

But they have a rival.

Yesterday, out & about, there was a wee spider in my hair. A friend spotted it & grinned when I said to leave it be; it was probably writing stuff. About her… the new one…

Onward & sideways…

The cup with the golden bird

19 Sunday May 2019

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Once upon a time, my oldest friend insisted mugs have personalities. She had (& still does have) a superstitious nature & wouldn’t dream of drinking her coffee out of a boring brown earthenware mug for fear of repercussions.

I’m not quite so choosy although I do have favourites. In one of my kitchen cupboards sits a selection of mugs with very definite personalities. The Virginia Woolf one, the sweet narwhal one (“I am not a unicorn” – quite), the bee one & several decorated with birds. And my “Girls Are Best” Girl Guides mug discovered in a charity shop a decade ago. Best of all though, are the cups. And saucers. I’m my mother’s daughter & I like a cup & saucer.

My writing rituals are many. And my first daily one begins in bed.

B BED 2

With a tray of tea. Because I wake early, I can usually manage a good half hour with my current book before the lure of notebook & pencil claims me. None of this happens without the tea though. Made in a teapot with different cups for different days.

Weekends tilt to the laissez-faire edge of writing – no one likes a swot – & the cup & saucer combos reflect this. On Saturday it’s the red rose one with forget-me-not sprigs idling like a lazy summer day. On Sunday I take tea from a charming old china cup & saucer, decorated with violets & a slender golden filigree of stems. My daughter bought me this set & I adore it. It’s tiny & delicate so of course, it gets saved for Sundays.

Come Monday though, it’s an entirely other cup of tea. (Sorry not sorry.) Monday through to Friday, I take my tea from the cup & saucer gifted to me by my writing sister, Janey. She knows me well. A golden bird is painted on the side of this cup: a golden hummingbird in full, fanciful flight through blue flowers.

hUMMONGBIRD

And as I drain each cup of good English Breakfast, scribbling & anticipating the morning’s work, there’s another one, a small blue bird in the bottom of the cup. I like to think she’s the golden bird’s sister, a less showy word bird, reminding me to get up & get on with it.

BLU.jpg

And to that end I must. To those of you who ask about these things – thank you. #Book4 has taken a tangent. A satisfying one & currently, the writing word of the day[s] is ‘immediacy.’

In word [birds] & deed.

 

 

Defining procrastination

05 Sunday May 2019

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Procrastination is a big word – it has a lazy ambition & is, frankly, a bit pretentious. I do my best to ignore it, in the hope it will go away. The other day though, I owned it. Hours past Virginia o’clock I was still messing about on Twitter. (I’d spotted a sister writer doing the same so what was good for the goose?) Nonsense of course & in any case, two geese are the beginnings of a gaggle & that way lies chaos. Eventually, we both flapped off to our respective typefaces & cracked on.

It’s easily done – disciplined or not (& I usually am) the temptation to lollygag around the interwebs is ubiquitous & wasteful. And me, in the middle of resurrecting an old story.

SCRIBBLING 2

Rewriting an existing story is complex. You might be forgiven for thinking that if you have the makings of an entire manuscript down, it’s just a matter of tweaking. The thing is, I abandoned it twice, because two other stories insisted on being written first. But I did, effectively, discard it which suggests there was something about it that wasn’t quite right.

There is a lot about it that isn’t at all right. Grace, my main protagonist, knows it too, which is why she doesn’t mind if I take my time to get it right. Just as long as I do, albeit, murdering most of it en route. (She doesn’t seem to mind that either – anything that makes her look good.) She knows she still retains the starring role & that the essential premise still works. It’s the detail that doesn’t.

Grace is like a determined gypsy with a basket of lucky heather. She shadows me & there is no respite. Having survived being dumped twice – her story all but relegated to the Dead Darlings File – Grace is persistent. She’s not a young woman – far from it – she’s old & something of a curmudgeon. Grace doesn’t care that her story is ‘old’ – her certainty of her place on my modest list of books is such that she makes it hard for me to resist her.

I read a quote by Harper Lee the other day: “To be a writer requires discipline that is iron fisted. It’s sitting down and doing it whether you think you have it or not. Every day. Alone. Without interruption. Contrary to what most people think, there is no glamour in writing. In fact, it’s heartbreak most of the time.’

Harper Lee

Until that last line, I agreed with every word. Showing up, regularly, is what writing is all about, but heartbreaking? Not that, not for me. Writing feeds my soul. It makes me happy. Even when I’m embroiled in a massive rewrite, messing about in my river (there’s a river in this one, dear reader – a tricksy one), wild-eyed & certain I’m never going to get it right, I somehow manage to wing it.

Out with the old then & (Grace notwithstanding) in with the restructured, reshaped new. If, on the way, I take time out now & then to have a bit of a dally (tea, cake, Twitter break, more tea/cake), it’s only because writing is sometimes quite hard & every now & then I need time to think about it rather than actually do it.

I shall keep at it mind, & keep an eye out for my stray sister doing the same. I know exactly what she’s up to. Procrastination is the new research. Trust me, I’m a writer, I know about this stuff.

river water crow foot

In search of an analogy, or do I mean coincidence?

21 Sunday Apr 2019

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Writers love metaphors, analogies & all manner of  parallels. We thrive on them. And frankly, it’s easy to mix them up. For the purpose of this post – which references a connection to the central theme of my third book – Wild Spinning Girls – & my recent altercation with a pavement pothole, analogy will have to do. (Coincidence is in the eye etc.)

Fourteen weeks ago, when I broke my leg & found myself temporarily disabled, it ‘coincided’ with a point in my pitch-to-publication journey when ‘waiting’ (every writer’s superpower) was called for. The deal for this third book has been confirmed, but there is still work to be done. (Quite right too – I rely on my editor to iron out the creases, with, if necessary, an industrial trouser press.)

Wild Spinning Girls is a story with several strands. The main one concerns a young woman – a ballet dancer – who believes herself too broken to ever dance again. (It’s based very loosely on the fairytale, The Red Shoes.)

WSG RED SHOES - Copy

As I nursed my own damaged leg, felt it heal, only to be told I have smashed ligaments (which could take months to mend), with far too much time on my hands, of course, I saw the similarities.

WSG - Copy

Struggling at first to get back to writing – pick up the threads of Book 4 – I spent several weeks thinking about the nature of coincidence. Another interesting figure of speech, albeit it one I’m reluctant to countenance. I’m someone who has worked on the edge of magic for most of my adult life. On rare occasions I’ve dived deep – into it’s resonant heart – experienced things so profound I have no real explanation for them; only my conviction that magic & reality are closely linked, if only we have the courage or imagination to accept we are part of nature so why wouldn’t it speak to us? But it’s more than simply the sudden beat of a bird’s wing, an unexpected ripple on water or a shiver down the spine. You have to go deep to discover authenticity.

1395334251-Line-of-Hawthorns rob piercy
© Rob Piercy

I digress – I do that, dear reader. My question is, as I don’t ascribe to the notion of coincidence, does art imitate life? Are there moments when a book writer (artist, poet, musician et al) sees tangible threads connecting what they are currently creating to what they are experiencing in real life?

The question’s largely rhetorical, although your views are always welcome.

 

You say imposter, I say impostor; let’s call the whole thing off?

31 Sunday Mar 2019

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Even Google doesn’t know. Impostor appears to have the edge & to be honest, those word birds change their minds at the drop of a feather. Either way, we writers are familiar with the syndrome.

Yesterday I had a conversation with talented artist, Mags Phelan Stones. (She’s a wise woman too & knows a thing or two about a thing or two.)

BIRD HAIR mags phelan stone
© Mags Phelan Stones 

We found ourselves in agreement. In spite of our achievements, we still sense the impostor within: the ‘other’ woman waiting to pounce, tell us it’s all been a cruel joke. Mags said, I keep expecting to have my collar felt, and be told to clear off for being an imposter. 

I knew exactly what she meant. After my first book was published it took a long time for me to let go of the notion that the ‘other’ woman was lurking; about to demand her life back. She’s like a ghost version of me – only more talented & with a better sense of her own worth.

(And it’s a great metaphor frankly, what with me & my penchant for ghosts & so forth.)

WSG 2 - Copy

A dear writer friend & I often remark to one another how gibbering, for an author, is de rigueur. Throughout the entire process, from drafting, editing, submitting, more editing (the scary structural kind) & finalising a book, there is no peace! We are rendered blitheringly idiotic by doubt. I’ve yet to meet a writer who doesn’t experience this, to a greater or lesser degree, even after she’s published. And I have no real idea why it should be so.

I try not to wear my heart on my sleeve (needy is a terrible look) but my work means everything to me & I like it when people tell me I can write. I’m a realist though – I know my limitations. I have no pretensions toward making literary history. I write my stories from a fiercely passionate love/need & an everyday quiet urge to sit down & do it. I’ve published two books & had some amazing responses to them, not least from several writers whose work I admire & whose endorsements still amaze me. (I’ve also had a couple of stupendously cringe-making one-star reviews, so that’s me told.) My third book, Wild Spinning Girls, is scheduled to be published in February next year. And with a fourth in draft – I’m not doing too a bad job.

And still I sense her – that bloody ‘ghost woman’…

Is a lack of self belief false modesty? A conceit to make myself appear humble? As I’ve never aspired to humility, I refuse that label. But I do think I need to aim for something a bit more gracious. Get over myself. Stop gibbering & get a grip.

You’d think…

It’s April Fool’s day tomorrow.
I wonder…