The Word Cloud

And so say all of us – well, at least I do. 

http://www.irishtimes.com/newspaper/weekend/2012/0128/1224310849897.html

After spending the past two years desperately trying to make a novel work, (last year my output was under 20k) I've finally thrown up my hands. I haven't abandoned it completely, but I've decided to move on, write a new book and tinker with the problematic one when I feel the desire.

My partner now appears to have lost whatever faith he had in me. He pulls a face when I mention my new book. This new story I can see unfolding in my mind. The 'old' one had gotten stuck in the middle, I didn't know how to end it, who the killers were, and I just didn't care. It didn't matter who they turned out to be, and if the writer doesn't care, how can the reader? I've got lots of ideas how to revive the bloody thing, most of which entail deleting half of my sweated-over scenes and basically rewriting the whole plot.
 
Am I wrong to start a new book? My partner now says he'll believe in the new book when I've finished it. I have finished books before, so it's not like I make a habit of giving up halfway through. I feel I've given a lot of time to a project I no longer have faith in, and that now is the time to do something else. I'm excited and enthusiastic about the new book, which feels amazing after such a long time of battling with my writing.

Of course, I took his criticism badly, and briefly considered an artistic tantrum of epic proportions. Far better, I decided, to prove him wrong by writing a fabulous new book, having a blast while I'm doing it, and then I can beat him to death with it when it's published!

I have just read a book today - a very small book with a content that is huge. Mind boggling really. And I would be very happy to share thoughts with anyone else on the cloud who has read it, over a cup of theoretical tea or even for a change a theoretical lunch.

TITLE - THE VICTORIAN CHAISE LONGUE
AUTHOR- MARGHANITA LASKI
DATE -  published 1953  though Persephone published it in 1999 

I will put the kettle on while I am waiting.... 

My evil twin has finally finished the first draft of her novel. I'm going to give it a quick proof and send it out to my readers for comments.

Now I have to decide what to do with it. I'll have a couple of months away from it before I start on rewrites. I could, conceiveably, try to publish it under my own name, but I think it is likely to sell better under a woman's name. It's also marginally heretical, which is an argument for using a pen name to distance myself from it.

Spending some time away from it, I should have time to spend on more serious pursuits, like rewriting and finishing The White Room, the first actual book of my sci-fi series - the prequel is finished, except for another rewrite, and the second book is in a less-polished 1st draft state. The third book is in a similar state to the first, about 2/3rds through, and in first person.

Mirror, Mirror also needs some more work, but I'm concerned that it is fatally flawed, so I'm not ready to spend more time on it. 

Of course, my evil twin has her own ideas, bashing me over the head with another 15K hulk of a sci-fi extravaganza. We she ever learn?

Will I?

Yesterday we surveyed the short story market, where you can find the right magazines for your stories, how you can sell the same story again as a reprint and to an anthology, why short story collections are such a hard-sell to publishing houses, and how and when you should self-publish them.

 

Today we are going to talk about novels.  There are only two real ways to sell your novel, and the choices are, for the most part, mutually exclusive, so you have a big decision to make.  The first way is to a trade publishing house (both large presses and small, independent presses), and the second is to self-publish.

Read the rest at:  Making Money From Writing, Part 2: Novels

Sebastian Faulks is presenting a series on the novel, Saturday nights, and is taking the interesting approach of concentrating on characters rather than novelists. So far so good. He tends to start well in each programme, saying lots of sensible things about Robinson Crusoe, for instance, or Tom Jones. It’s when he gets close to the present that his mind seems to blur.

For instance, he ended the first programme – on The Hero – by considering the protagonist of Martin Amis’s novel, Money, John Self. (Geddit? He’s all Self.) Actually he isn’t even that. He’s just a tube along which pass drugs, alcohol and fast food in one direction, and semen, vomit etc in the other. What makes him heroic in the Faulks view? The vigour of his language – an idea which would have its merits, except John Self is too much of a moron to be capable of it. So whose language is it then? The author’s (hang on, I thought we weren’t considering them). In which case, who is the hero – Martin Amis or his moist and sprawling protagonist?

Don’t worry about the question too much, though, because Sebastian Faulks assures us at the end of the programme that heroes may have decamped to crime or children’s novels, “but for literary novels it’s over, the hero is dead, end of story.” How does he arrive at this clever but vacuous assertion? I think we may sniff the scent of historiography in this. He wants to sketch a story over time: decline and fall of the hero. He wants a ‘narrative arc’ stretching from admirable beginning to contemptible ending. He wants to arrive at the standard ‘nowadays-is-shit’ mantra.

However, that’s his problem, not ours. I would say the scope for heroes (male and female) is greater than ever now. Why? Because widespread education and tolerant attitudes allow us to learn far more about people than we might have done in the past. We can glimpse great triumphs in cramped spaces, noble struggles in impossible situations, uplifting compassion in the midst of oppression.

We can, of course, see plenty of unheroic things too. However, as my mum kept quoting at me: ‘Two look out from prison bars; one sees mud and the other sees stars.’ It’s up to us what we wish to focus on, but to say the hero is dead is to give the victory to mud. 

Have a look at this. It’s the final of the 1972 Olympic 800 metres race, and the guy in the golf cap at the back is a total no-hoper, not even in the same race as the rest. But keep watching. Who’s the hero by the end?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cwGxLfWSnEM

That, for me, is an image to bear in mind as I look about me at life’s no-hopers. The hero can take many forms, some of them highly unpromising.

My unpublished novel, “Heart of the City,” has been named one of two finalists in the last round of Dorchester Publishing’s “Fresh Blood” contest.  The grand prize is a publishing contract with Dorchester’s Leisure imprint.  To win this would be my dream come true…but I need to ask for your help.

A panel of judges (including editors and published authors) put my book through to the Top 5, but the winner is chosen by popular vote, so I’m asking for your vote.  It would only take a minute of your time and would help to make my dream come true.

To vote, simply send a blank email to freshblood@chizinepub.com and in the subject header put “Fresh Blood Vote - Heart of the City.”  Voting will run through July 14^th at midnight EST, and they will accept one vote per unique email address. 

 You can find more about the contest at: http://chizine.com/freshblood/.  There you can also read more about the books competing, including the first chapters, cover copy, brief author biographies, as well as the judges’ comments for each round of the finals.

If you’re interested in hearing more about my novel, and my journey through the contest, please visit my blog at: http://writingonthinice.blogspot.com/.

Thank you to those who’ve voted for me in prior rounds and who’ve helped me get this far in this contest.  Your support has meant the world to me.  I appreciate each and every one of your votes.  And if there’s ever anything I can do to reciprocate, please don’t hesitate to ask.

Lisa

So I can't post the link to a piece I've just put on my own blog. So I'm putting the link here, instead, with thanks to whoever started the original thread, and apologies for not being able to credit you:

http://emmadarwin.typepad.com/thisitchofwriting/2010/06/wake-up-and-rewrite.html

Somewhere, somewhere, deep in the heart of Britain, perhaps slumbering sweetly, perhaps smelling flowers by a newly mown meadow, perhaps striding purposely through an urban car park, perhaps sitting at desk looking at an empty client list, somewhere, somewhere exits the agent who is meant for me.

Why so reticent?  Why so shy? Why don't you take me on?

I have been published in magazines.  I have written poetry. I am the only person I know who has had a story published in Time Out! I had a poem in Swift when I was seven. (It referred to my tortoise nibbling my sock , which was a lie but I prefer to think of it as creativity.) Beryl Bainbridge once said she admired the intensity of my characterisation. (True) Laurie Lee (yes, it was indeed he) once called one of my stories, 'somewhat sub Lawrence but nevertheless effective in its way', which I think was a compliment.  It certainly seemed like one at a time.

 I am now on my second novel.  Surely there is an agent, a dear little agent, a smart and infinitely wise agent, who will actually read my first novel and take a little interest.

I am not a nasty person.  I will not pester an agent with ridiculous queries.  I will revise and revise,within reason.  I will be kind.

Somewhere, I believe. in this tired old world there is that very person, that courageous and insightful person, that wild and wonderful person who will be the agent who is meant for me.  Call to me and I will come.

 

Edward was sat at his desk, hunched over, pen in his hand scribbling down on a roll of paper, a letter to somebody. Beside him, were several other pieces of paper, all of them addressed to the same person, all of them torn and scrunched into balls. Edward had spent along time writing this letter, for it was important to him. Strangely enough, he found writing this letter more important than work, so much so, that when he entered his shop ten hours ago, he had not opened it. Instead he sat down and tried to finish this letter.

He continued to writ the letter and so far he was happy with it. After writing a paragraph, he checked it thoroughly before continuing. He didn’t want to mess it up. He was so immersed in his writing that when the back door of his shop creaked open he did not hear it.

However, he did hear footsteps moving closer to him. He spun around.

“Who’s there?” he called out into the darkness. “Show yourself! I warn you, I am armed!”

But that was a lie. True, Edward did have a fine collection of swords in the back of his shop as well as three pistols and a rifle at home. None of these however, were reachable, for the sound had come from the back of the shop and Edward’s house was several streets away.

The footsteps grew in pace and soon they reached the door between the front and the back of the shop. Edward felt a strong surge of fear engulf him like a raging fire.

He picked up the nearest thing to him that would come in useful in a fight. Unfortunately the closest thing to him was a sharp fountain pen that would not come in very useful if the criminal had a knife, or maybe a pistol.

Nevertheless, Edward inhaled deeply and quiet as a mouse, he crept across the room so that he was next to the door. When the criminal entered, if they had a weapon, he would stab the quill into their jugular, if not; he would try and knock them out. Since he drew in his breath, he had still not exhaled.

There was a clicking noise as the door knob was turned and slowly the door opened. Obviously the intruder thought he still had the element of surprise. Once the door opened wider, Edward saw a flash of silver and assuming it was a knife he lunged at the intruder, the pen held firmly in his hand he aimed for the jugular with all his might.

The intruder put up his hand to block him and pushed him towards his desk. For a moment, Edward caught a glimpse of his attacker. He recognised them immediately; he also saw that it was not a knife the intruder was carrying, but one of the swords on display in the back of the shop. Edward did not have time to respond, for the intruder charged forward, the sword held in front of him.

Edward yelled as there was a slice in his chest. He fell back onto his desk and he looked up to see the face of his killer. The next thing he knew he was gone. Edward’s eyes were wide open and were looking blindly at the ceiling. His face was contorted in a mixture of pain and shear terror. Edward was dead…