The Word Cloud

Dead simple.  Just for laughs.  Which book (any one from history) would you be most proud to be the author of?

AND/OR

Which character from a book would you most like to actually be for a bit?

It's easy to believe that - as a pro author who runs a large editorial consultancy and is writing the ultimate reference guide on Getting Published - I know it all. Well, goldarn-it and diddly-osh-b'gosh, I truly don't.

One of the sessions at the Festival which really made me think was Robin Harvie's fascinating workshop on PR. In my mind (and remember that Robin used to be my publicist, before becoming my editor at 4th Estate) PR is all about old media. Radio, newspapers, mags. TV if you're lucky.

Yet he spoke almost entirely about new media: blogs, twitter, facebook & all the rest of it. He talked about how those things could directly drive book sales. And I realised that I wasn't doing my new media thing properly. Time to shake things up.

So I've started twittering. I'm returning to the blog - though this time it'll be housed by the good old Word Cloud, rather than in its old home at Toasting Napoleon. We're going to have a tab right at the very top of the page (where "Books" currently stands at the moment) which will link through to all my posts here. We're going to get that twitter feed a-feeding. We're going to go all 21st century, all post-noughties, all web 2.0 on you.

I'm not in all honesty sure what difference any of this will make, or how this new world is meant to work. But it does seem to me that 21st century authors need to be active here - and you need to start all that malarkey right now. If you wait until you get a book deal, you're probably already behind the curve.

So: new responsibilities for authors with no obvious revenue gain from fulfilling them. So what's new? Twas ever thus. But I'll be more tweety and bloggy from now on. I'll see you around, I guess.

I think all writers have a natural flow.  A style of writing that comes naturally to them.  But what if you have a story in your head which requires you to write in a style that doesn’t come naturally ie, a romance writer having a really gruesome crime story running around in their head? 

 

Do you think it is best that ‘we’ write stories that suite our writing style, or, if we have a good story to tell that doesn’t suite our writing flow, develop our writing to fit the tale we are telling?

 

I wonder if this is related to my Image v. Personality blog in some way?  That the ‘image’ is our story, and the ‘personality’ is our style?

 

Or, do you think a good writer can turn their hand to writing any story, no matter what it is about?

 

It’s got my brain working and wonder what other Clouders think?

 

Minxie !???  Confused [as usual]...

Certain dates have always held major significance for me. It's as though all sorts of events get caught up by them - like a piece of celestial fly paper. And one of those dates is 28 April. It's the birthday of a couple of people I've worked with over the years and who've had a big impact on me. And when he was alive, it was the birthday of a very special member of my husband's family.

Back in February, I decided that 28 April was a fitting birthday for the main male character (who's a publisher) of my current novel. I like assigning birthdays to my characters - it helps me to get a good sense of them. And 28 April seemed to suit this particular character perfectly. A couple of days after choosing that date, I was sent a big envelope which contained an invitation to the sort of party I would normally only dream of attending. Each year, Hatchards bookshop in London hosts a party for the authors whose books have sold particularly well for them during the past year. Sales of my latest book, Red Sky at Night, had made me one of their authors of the year. My agent was almost speechless with excitement when I told her. And the date of the party? What else but 28 April. 

My work has been going really well recently. On a personal level, it's been very sad watching my mother-in-law's health deteriorate dramatically. She was diagnosed with inoperable cancer last October and the doctors gave her between two weeks and two months. She was still with us at Christmas, pulling crackers despite being so weak that she nearly fell out of bed in the process. She was still here in January, to celebrate two family birthdays. She was still here in February, when I told her about the Hatchards party. She was so excited that she questioned me closely. What was I going to wear? How would I get there? Was my husband invited as well? (No.) She referred to it several more times. A month ago, by which time her voice was barely above a whisper and she didn't have the strength to lift a cup of tea without assistance, she rang me to ask if I'd like to borrow her best Bruno Magli shoes for the big night. Unfortunately, I couldn't take her up on her kind offer as she's a size 3 and I'm a size 7. It was a brief call and I knew it had exhausted her. Apparently she'd wanted to ring me at 6 that morning, as soon as she woke up, but she'd been persuaded to wait until a more civilized time. 

When I got back from the Festival of Writing at York, she could barely talk any more but she squeezed my hand when I told her how much I'd enjoyed myself. When we were alone, I told her that I'd let her know how the Hatchards party went, wherever she was when it happened. We'd already discussed her imminent arrival in heaven. 

We saw her on Sunday. She looked terrible and I felt that her essential self was no longer present. We got a call on Monday night to say she might not last the night. But she did. We visited her on Tuesday afternoon. She looked like a worn out shell that someone had discarded, but she was still alive. Yesterday morning was 28 April. And yesterday morning we got a call to say that she'd died. 

Although we'd been expecting it - and, in some ways, hoping for it because she was suffering so much and wasn't going to improve - it was still a shock. But I knew I had to go to the Hatchards party. I knew she'd be furious with me if I didn't. In a way, I was going for her.

When I got there last night, I was terribly nervous. I gave myself a pep talk and walked through the doors. Someone walked in with me, and I turned to see who it was. She looked so familiar that I said 'Oh, hallo!' She looked a bit startled but said hallo back. And then I realized that I didn't know her. Not in person. I recognized her face because I'd seen her in a documentary last year and had used her as a starting point for one of the central characters in my novel. Arriving with her reassured me that the evening would go well. And it did.

There were an awful lot of famous faces there. PD James. Clive James. Michael Frayn and Claire Tomalin. AN Wilson. Beryl Bainbridge. Helen Mirren. Penny Vincenzi. William Boyd. Antonia Fraser. John Simpson. Nicky Haslam. Wherever I turned, I saw someone I recognized. I didn't dare approach any of them because they were all chatting furiously to one another. But I also saw Alan Whicker, sitting on a chair. I've always loved his documentaries so I decided I'd tell him so. He got to his feet, shook my hand and was utterly charming. He asked me my name, and when I told him he nodded and said 'Oh yes', as though it meant something to him. I knew it didn't but I was captivated by his immense charm and courtesy. 

I shall enjoy telling my mother-in-law all about it when I feel she's ready to hear it. And I must make sure I remember to tell her about Alan Whicker. I know it will make her laugh. 
 

When I was fourteen and my sister Eleanor thirteen, we travelled with our elderly aunt and uncle to Jersey: an exotic addition to our limited holiday experiences. It was one of only a handful of times we’d stepped foot in a hotel, and we felt grown-up in our double bedroom. The hotel was hundreds of years old: a converted coach-house with history in its rough stone walls. On entering the room, a painting of a ballerina on the wall who bore an uncanny resemblance to me instantly fired our teenage imaginations.
We were allowed a glass of wine with dinner - though I can’t blame the night’s events on this indulgence. Back upstairs, we settled down into our unfamiliar beds, high on the illicit thrill of watching TV from beneath a duvet. It grew late, our film ended, and we turned our backs to each other to go to sleep.
Lying in the dark, the indefinable notion occurred to me that something was in the room with us. I’ve never been able to define it: the closest I can reach is ‘a feeling’. Like knowing someone’s watching you, with no way of explaining how. I felt we were being watched, and I felt it from the foot of our bed. Eleanor fidgeted beside me, I knew she wasn’t asleep.
 
“Elle.” I whispered.
 
“Yes?”
 
“I don’t want to creep you out, but can you…feel something?” I felt ridiculous, melodramatic. I thought she’d laugh at me.
 
She sat up and turned the light on.
 
“There’s something at the end of the bed and I hate it.”
 
Each of us was terrified. Each of us knew the other was terrified and tried to show she wasn’t terrified in order not to scare the other even more. Reluctant to leave what felt like safety, I forced myself out of bed and turned on every light in the room, and in the ensuite bathroom. I turned on the television, and found another film.
 
“If you go to sleep, Elle, I will kill you. I’m not staying awake in here on my own.”
 
2am. 3am. We were exhausted, but too afraid for the vulnerability of sleep. We watched programmes we never knew existed. Finally I heard Eleanor’s breathing deepen, and realised to my horror I was alone. Leaving the TV on – there wasn’t enough to distract me from whatever it was that had so scraped our girlish nerves, I chose a mix CD of upbeat songs. Plugging myself into my portable CD player, I turned the volume up and tried to forget myself.
 
Waking up with an earphone digging uncomfortably into my temple, I realised it was morning. Our fears seemed absurd in the rays of the next day. A knock on the door heralded our dignified aunt.
 
“Did you sleep well?”
 
“Not a wink. Our room’s haunted.” It was a long shot, but I tried the truth.
 
“What nonsense!” The truth failed.
 
“Not really – but it’s terribly noisy. We really didn’t sleep at all. We’ll have to change.”
 
On the next night, we slept in room with a landscape painting of wonderful blandness, and no indescribable feelings to it at all.

Once more I see sensibilities offended, hackles raised and insults flying. Being busy I was late to the party but I see that there are wounds and casualties once again. I almost wrote this, or something like it, on a previous occassion. This time as the miseries of my latest client diminish, I have time and I will, even if I may be a little late for the main event (story of my life).

Two hundred years ago and more when one was offended by another person’s opinions, words, actions etc it was necessary to send a friend to call on the other party and agree swords or pistols. Personally I am pleased that we seem to have progressed to the stage where the lead that flies, flies across cyberspace and the steel that would otherwise pierce vital organs has no greater effect than ramming a few keys into the keyboard, and perhaps out the other side.

In the interest of sanity and decorum some sense of proportion needs to take hold, I think. The internet, role playing games, chat boards and the multitudinous social networking sites are an opportunity for individuals to masquerade as someone else. And what’s wrong with that if it’s not intended to harm someone, be unpleasant or commit a crime? In my real life I am a properly boring engineer and I spend my days with properly boring lawyers making the money that my family rely on for food, clothes warmth etc. But I have a dream, one many of us have I suspect. I want to be a writer. On here I can be. Is it a masquerade? Perhaps it is. The person I am here is a writer and it’s not really me; is it! It’s what I want to be.

So, I don’t care if Wrathnar the Unreasonable is real, or for that matter if the Tony he fessed up to was real (although clearly not). Because they aren’t real. Wrathnar is a person with a real name who evidently drives buses, plays guitar and has had a colourful earlier life. Or is he? Is he really someone dead boring, like me, who has this alter ego who is in this case vastly more entertaining. The fact is I don’t care. I like him, real or otherwise. I also like Indiana Jones and he was certainly made up.

Writers write and they make stuff up. So what.

As far as I'm aware, most traditional authors still prefer to get to the end of their first draft novel using the time-honoured routes of alcohol, laudanum, or depressive self-disgust. But there are, it appears, other means now gaining traction in the 21st century. You can read about some of them in Alan Rinzler's  Carry On Smiling article here.

I'm not sure I exactly recognise his checklist. Meditation, rising with the sun and eating sprouted wheatgrass juice are not habits practised by a huge number of authors that I know. And retaining good mental health isn't always the best route to vigorous, imaginative prose. But it's a good list all the same. Me, I like writing those first drafts. They're not arduous for me, they're more like a holiday. But not everyone is the same, and Rinzler's list may well help some writers.

Just heard that Louise's novel, Honour and the Sword, is at #12 in the hardback fiction bestseller charts - in its first week. Wow! Fab outcome.

Well done Victoria Hobbs (from AM Heath) who sold her to Penguin. Well done to Penguin, for doing a great job with the book. Well done to Louise for writing a great book in the first place. And well done to Michelle Lovric who helped her with getting the manuscript into shape in the first place.

The novel is a terrific, seventeenth century swashbuckling romp. And you can find it here. And the great news about really strong hardback sales is that they guarantee an excellent retail platform for the paperback, which is where the real moolah will be made. Fingers crossed ...

So, when the bounty on my back becomes a deadweight, I almost wish that I was apathetic. Wander on without worry. I fathom faith but I cannot find it. I would blindly follow the moon if it would petrude from behind the clouds. Dare anyone offer a hand, when I carry the weight of everyone I have ever loved in my pocket? I feel as though I am confessing trouble into the wind, and for a second it soothes me, and seconds later it is beyond an echo away. The shitstorm harbours it's intensity for when I think I am walking straight. Wishes don't exist and neither does my backbone...I am late. I hear no voices, but I hear a thousand. Oh, a paradox. I'm on my own, but I'm not alone. Another. Look at me, though -- I am smiling against it; knowing I'll wake up soon in my bed, breathing, right?

I’m a new arrival to your site, but I couldn’t help noticing a heated debate about multiple POVs and other assorted nonsense. The first thing you need to ask yourself is: do we really need to hear the opinions of each and every one of your characters? What are you writing here? A book, or the minutes of your local PTA meeting? Sure, everybody is entitled to their point of view (even your fictional creations) but chances are, some of them are going to be complete assholes and I won’t want to hear their point of view on anything.

I also noted some debate about an omniscient narrator. Now at the other end of this spectrum you’ve got your passive narrator.  I hate this character. This is a guy who’s  prepared to let life take him wherever it will. Passive = loser. Well, in my book anyway. So I can understand the appeal of some guru-type guy who knows everything that’s going on in everybody’s heads – but a cool idea can often make for a very boring story. Your guy should be up against something – I know, I know, I’ve already said I’m no fan of fancy literary theories, but there are exceptions – and a fellow who knows what everybody’s thinking isn’t the sort of guy I feel like cheering for. Why?  Because he’s always going to out-smart his opponents. After all, he knows exactly what they’re thinking at any given time.

‘Nuff said.