Monday 9 December 2013

Crisis!


Those of you who are waiting for my submission - it’s almost done.

I wanted to read the new version of Into the Snicket several more times to make certain the chapter by chapter synopsis was up to date and accurate. During this process, I made sure that the domestic abuse element did not overshadow the murder. These two elements now drive the plot naturally to the right conclusion rather than make it seem contrived. The subjects I write about don’t suit flowery covers, but the sort with daggers soaked in blood. I have achieved what I set out to achieve. Publishers can’t doubt the genre of this book anymore.

Transforming Into the Snicket from literary/crime (with a dash of romance) into crime/literary (no bullshit) has required a lot of concentration. I’ve worked my arse off, rewriting, rethinking and, at times, re-inventing the rules. Fortunately, my brain has managed to handle the pressure of this rewrite. However it can’t deal with extra burdens. Christmas, for example, has sent my cerebrum into overload, forcing me to compartmentalise and prioritise. I did wonder if Santa could re-schedule it to the 1st February 2014, but my kids weren’t too chuffed about that idea. So something had to give. Not only has my novel changed, but I have too.

I want publishers to buy Into the Snicket, so I’ve decided not to waste time writing Christmas cards. I’ve adopted a ‘fuck it’ attitude to this tedious task. If anyone should worry that I’ve not sent one this year, they need to understand that this unpublished author has endured numerous trials and she’s not going to let anymore chances pass her by.

I’ve produced a novel that I’m proud to submit. I can’t delay the process any longer. I don’t want it to get into the wrong hands. This is MY work, which has been five years in the making. MY ideas have been drawn from aspects of MY life. It means a lot to me to get this right. Don’t take it personally if you don’t get a Christmas card. My festive spirit might return next year.

Wednesday 20 November 2013

Revision, Revision...




After years of submitting work, I should be cruising in the fast lane instead of being stuck on the hard shoulder; waiting for recovery to give me a tow. Into the Snicket required methodical attention. If I was going to give the publishers something they couldn’t refuse, I had to review the beginning, middle and end. 


Into the Snicket was always a realistic account of domestic abuse, but the plot needed to focus on the murder if it was ever going to become a crime novel. There’s no room for fluffy sentiment in this genre, so I’m pleased to report that I’ve done what I set out to achieve. The time has come to get a trustworthy car with a good service history so I can hit the road once again. 


It’s been tough. I seem to have developed a permanent grimace on my face; one that’s not too dissimilar to an elderly woman in excruciating pain. After going through so many ‘trials’ I have come to resemble someone who needs urgent intervention: an enema, a good curry and several bags of prunes. You’d think people would take pity on me. Excuse the pun, but no one seems to give a shit. I might have aged considerably, but I’ve become very wise. I’ve learnt to be patient. I've worked hard to produce a manuscript that will take the fickle publishing world by storm.
 
I’ve been here before, so I’m fastening my seat belt and getting ready for a bumpy ride..... 

 

Wednesday 6 November 2013

Time Management


 

Into the Snicket is ready for agent submission. I know what they are expecting: one synopsis, three chapters, chapter outlines and a letter. I presumed that I’d have a theme for this week’s blog, but I’ve not made much progress. Unfortunately, there isn’t an awful lot to report. As you know, I’m a dedicated unpublished author, so it’s not my fault. The blame very clearly lies in the hands of Guy Fawkes. Quite simply, the gunpowder plot couldn’t have come at a worse time for me, just after Halloween and a few weeks before Christmas.

 

Thankfully, Halloween is over, but I’m still finding wispy bits of decorative cobwebs, clinging onto plants, over architraves, under staircases and sofas like sheep’s wool on barbed wire. I had to leave all the authentic cobwebs in place just to get on with the synopsis. However, I’m not making headway with the rest of the submission requirements. Five days post Halloween party and four days after my very bad hangover, I came across a half eaten apple from a bobbing game. I can’t even remember this ever taking place. The same goes for my involvement in the dressing up chocolate game. All that chocolate was probably the cause of my iffy tummy as I can’t recall drinking that much wine....Suffice to say, I’ve not been able to dispose of the green jelly that is still blobbing about in our fridge - taking up permanent residence on the top shelf with gelatine insect-sweets creepy crawly-ing out of its innards.

 

I’d managed to write the main synopsis, but Bonfire night was looming. I needed to check the sell-by-date on the black treacle and set to work making Parkin. The kids were given a gingerbread men baking kit thinking this wouldn’t require adult supervision. They did a good job really. I shouldn’t panic so much. They only spilled a bit of flour, onto sticky golden syrup dollops, which somehow spread all over the work surface, floor, kitchen cupboards - indeed - the whole house. And, why did I have to worry so much about them eating most of the raisins when they'd already come up with the ingenious idea of making aliens instead. Creatures from outer space need only one eye and no buttons – problem solved!

 

It is November 6th.  Finally, I’ve got time to do the submission. Or maybe, I should get the Christmas preparations out of the way? Why couldn’t Guy Fawkes have done all his plotting around June/July, after Easter and before the summer holiday? That would have spread out the festivities and given me a break.....

 

Saturday 26 October 2013

Mixed Genre Puzzles


It’s a difficult task writing a crime/thriller in first person, especially when the protagonist isn’t the victim, murderer, witness or part of the investigative team. You could argue that the writer who attempts this is rather stupid. To me, it was a puzzle that needed to be solved.

 

I’ve had to think long and hard about which novel to take forward for submission. It would have been easier to concentrate on Ghost Towns, because the issues from the first draft have been resolved and it’s ready to move onto the next stage. However, I felt compelled to review my first person, crime/thriller novel. Into the Snicket deserved another chance. In its original form it received agency representation and was sent to publishing houses, which is no mean feat. Eight out of sixteen publishers responded, but the consensus was that it lacked the pace required for a crime/thriller genre. It required an overhaul and this would take time, but I couldn’t shelf a project which had got this far.

 

This task necessitated a certain amount of determination, but I have all the right attributes. When I couldn’t fathom out how to complete more than one side of a Rubik’s cube, I wasn’t one of those cheats who peeled off the stickers to glue them back into the right place. Neither did I dismantle it, piecing together the same coloured squares - taking the easy way out. Instead, I made a resolution to keep clicking at that bloody cube until it was done without the aid of adhesive or a geeky friend. Forty years later, I’m still working at it. I’ll win in the end, but unpublished writers don’t have time for trivial games. I’ve had bigger fish to fry, namely, the mixed genre puzzle, which blighted Into the Snicket.

 

The matter was finally resolved. It was simple really. So bloody simple, I don’t know why I didn’t do these things in the first place! To create pace, I’ve built up the tension in the first ten chapters. Also, I deleted characters that were getting in the way of crucial elements - such as the murder, the body and the murderer’s identity. However, I knew that it lacked a certain something else.

 

I couldn’t pinpoint the problem until I attended an Off  The Shelf event in Sheffield. Here, Mark Billingham said that crime writers don’t stick cuddly kittens into their books and if they did they’d kill them! How true! His endearing words made me even more of a fan. Then he spoke about the importance of dialogue and I realised that this was the missing link. I should have told him that he’s my hero. Instead, I was star struck, unable to speak, stuttering and blushing unable to explain that his advice has saved my book. Into the Snicket was resuscitated with dialogue. The additional voices allow more perspective: a bigger picture, which enables the reader to take part in the investigation - ticking the crime/thriller box.

 

It was important that my protagonist’s vulnerable voice doesn’t grate or bore. This isn’t a cute book - it’s about domestic violence for goodness sake. So I took MB’s advice and added more dialogue, planting subtle clues within conversation. This enabled me to delete the clunky murderer’s voice, which had originally made an appearance after every fifth chapter. Now, the murderer’s viewpoint is in the prologue only – serving as a device to show that there has been a murder.
 
Into the Snicket is ready for agent submission. I know what they are expecting: a synopsis, three chapters, chapter outlines and a letter. Something tells me that I've got a theme for the next blog.....

 

Monday 14 October 2013

Confusion


Continuing on the same theme as my last blog, I will try to demonstrate the daily trials of an unpublished writer using the self-builder as an allegory. It is no secret that I have amassed a portfolio of unfinished projects and need to focus on successfully completing one. Therefore, I’ve returned to an old property with intentions to spruce it up for re-sale.

 

The revised plans are kept under lock and key in my study, which for the purpose of this allegory will be referred to as an on-site caravan. There are days when I sit within those flimsy four walls, frozen to the bone, wondering if my work will ever manifest into the stuff of dreams. I often wonder why I’m putting myself through such stress - up to my knees in rubble and mud, with nothing to show for my labours; except the bags under my eyes. I’m slightly overwhelmed by the task ahead - losing sleep – worrying that my grand design might not even pass the building regs.

 

The self-builder can assess their profit margin, whereas the unpublished author has no way of knowing the value of their work-in-progress. When and if they get published, they’re expected to work for free while promoting their book. Quite rightly, Philip Hensher has recently refused to write an introduction to an academic’s book for free. In the light of this news, many authors have expressed similar frustrations, which is understandable considering they have already spent many hours working for nothing in order to get a book published in the first place.

 

An unpublished author is required to master their craft by attending workshops and creative writing classes. Then they will need to copper up more money to pitch their work at conferences and festivals. It is also highly advisable to enter numerous competitions, which all require entry fees – of course. And, if the bank has not already stopped their Mastercard, they will be compelled to increase their debts by buying other people’s books to check out the competition. In fact, the unpublished author will build up a vast collection of literature including a ton of guide books and manuals that claim to know the secret of slush pile avoidance. All this expense will be accumulated before they’ve even got around to sending their first three chapters to literary agents. Inevitably, once the unpublished author reaches this stage they must be prepared to suffer the heartbreak of rejection - followed by more rejection - over - and over again. All this sorrow will inevitably come at a cost, not only to the mental health of that person, but also, a small fortune will be frittered away on printing ink, stamps, brown envelopes and SAE’s for receipt of bad news. If the unpaid/unpublished author is fortunate enough to get a contract with an agent, they will have to embark on the daunting task of attracting an editor. This whole process from idea to final publisher submission can take years. I’ve notched up a total of five years and haven’t had a sniff of an advance.

 

Therefore, I return to my cold caravan to wade through paperwork. I will weigh up the costs that have been incurred against income that may never come my way. I’m growing weary, sinking into unstable ground – subsiding at a rate of knots - in urgent need of some serious underpinning and nerves of steel.

Friday 6 September 2013

Confidence low. Scaffolding in place.


I have spent the summer holidays cabbying kids around, clearing their mess, breaking up fights, packing suitcases, putting up tents and taking them down again. I've fended off flies on camp sites and suffered sleepless nights in sparse motels situated directly below flight paths or overlooking the M1.  
 

Thank goodness I’ve got the house to myself. Now I can indulge in a little ‘me-time’. Well, actually, there’s no time for any of that nonsense, not when ‘Ghost Towns’ is far from being complete and in need of representation.
 

It shouldn’t take long to sort out the first draft. The hard work has been done. I’m not daunted by the fact that I am working on this project alone. I am the writer, after all. I know exactly what needs to be done. The unpublished author has to stay focused. We are used to a bit of confidence bashing. It happens all the time.
 

I'm well on the way to completing my second book, which is commendable, I suppose. I’ve dug the foundations and laid every sodding brick. The scaffolding has been removed, piece by piece. All I have to do is add a few final finishing touches, which isn't difficult. I’ll soon brighten the place up with a lick of paint, flooring and fabrics - nothing that I haven’t done before.

 

When I stand back to admire my creation, I’ll feel like an unkempt self-builder who has been ‘roughing it’ in an on-site caravan for the past year. However, he’ll be able to sell his work for twice as much as it cost to make the damn thing. The unpublished author has no way of judging their valuation until an offer comes their way.  

    

Tuesday 27 August 2013

Rejection!

In this industry you have to develop a thick skin. Don't let your guard down. Never trust anyone. Remember that saying, 'As tough as old boots'.....

Let's consider one old boot in particular. It has been thrown away onto a wet slush pile with seams torn apart - a worn out 'soul'. If I add the fact that it's got leathery skin, which is flopping all over the place, perhaps I've given you a clue as to how I'm feeling right now? Yes folks - I am that discarded boot!

In my attempt to focus on a specific genre, I've unwittingly taken a different path to both agents who were involved with my first novel. The time has come to look for representation again. Yet another trial for the unpublished author and one that is apparently all too familiar in this business.

In one of my recent tweets, I asked if I could borrow Jane Harris' crampons after she had confronted her 'story book mountain'. She's in no need for them any more, but I'm clinging onto that mountain, teetering over the edge, dangerously close to a slippery slope. Enough of the metaphors. Cut the crap! I need a crime/thriller agent. Will somebody save me?

Undeterred, I continue to work on the second novel with more determination than ever. I've added more twists and turns to the first draft and deleted waffle (admittedly, there was a lot). This one categorically fits into a specific genre, so I'm leaving base camp to trawl through the final editing stage. Onwards and upwards with crampons at the ready. Wish this old boot a bit of luck....

Wednesday 31 July 2013

Still waiting and it's torture...


This week I played my part in the torture and subsequent demise of our fifteen year old cherry tree....

 

I instigated this murder, encouraging my husband to hack at its thick trunk while I wrapped cord around a wart-ridden sprouting, below the neck.

 

From the corner of my twitchy eye I saw our neighbours peering through their nets or cowering behind fences. All were too afraid to mock. Very probably they were in awe of our strength and sheer determination. We were unfazed by the heat, wiping sweat from our brows, yanking and sawing at the cursed tree, refusing to give up. It dug in its roots, putting up a good fight, but we had weapons that we were not afraid to use. I stood back as my accomplice sliced through the torso with a circular saw. Then, together we took hold of the noose and gave the good-for-nothing eyesore one final heave. It landed on the lawn with a thump, shaking the ground, sending a colony of ants into frenzy.

 

My husband stood proudly over our victim believing his task was done, but I had another job lined up. ‘Finish it off once and for all,” I egged him on. “Pour the root killer into its stump and make sure it chokes on the lot.”

 

All year, the tree’s off-springs have been shooting through our front lawn, but they are all wilting now, keeling over as the poison sets in. While I wait for the roots to die, I calmly take hold of Sarah Hall’s, ‘Carhullan Army’....now this is disturbing stuff....

 

....Wow! That’s what I call a good ending....

 

I wonder what my agent thinks of my denouement?  

 

She’s had Ghost Towns for three and a half weeks now. It feels like an eternity......

Friday 26 July 2013

Waiting for news....


 

I attended the Harrogate Crime Festival last week and collected a fine array of business cards. As I handed back my name scribbled on pieces of scrap paper I realised the Lynne Blackwell/ Author brand didn’t look very professional. Therefore, I’ve finally got around to creating a Twitter and Facebook account, which I intend to add to my very own business card. The only problem is that I haven’t been able to put my mobile down ever since...

 

If something is habit forming, compulsive and obsessive then we can assume it is addictive and I can’t focus on anything else. Surely, I’m not an addict? I only take the odd glance, every few seconds or so, in every waking hour...

 

Maybe, I’m in denial, which is another sign of addiction. I’ve got to face up to the truth and wean myself off Twitter and Facebook. I’ve learnt to ignore distractions in the past. I can’t recall the last time I visited a horoscope website. So, it shouldn’t be too hard finding the will power to stop pressing like buttons... if only for a day....

 

I last looked, all of two minutes ago, which seems like an eternity. All sorts could have gone on in the world and I’m missing out! OMG! I can’t leave it alone. I find myself checking how many followers I’ve got, which is only a handful. Does that mean I’m boring? Oh surely not me! I’m so ‘with it’. I’ve become hip and trendy. I’m doing what all the young people do. Social media is the rage and I’m part of it....But, I’m still not published.

 

My agent has the first draft of Ghost Towns and I haven’t heard from her since it landed on her desk. Perhaps, she doesn’t like it? She’ll have noticed those once agains cropping up, over and over again. There might be other mistakes. I’m so nervous.

 

Am I the only unpublished author to get so tweety and twitchy after the hard work has been done? Perhaps I should share this thought with my Facebook friends? Maybe the twittering community will empathise.....or perhaps I should get out more.....?

Monday 22 July 2013

Once again...again and again....


 

 

When my husband proof read Ghost Towns, he cried and laughed in all the right places, telling me it was a rollercoaster of emotions. But was he biased? Did he want to keep up my fading spirits? After all, we were due to go on holiday and it would be unbearable sharing a hotel room with a grumpy unpublished author. That’s when I decided to have another glance before sending it off to my agent and, obviously, I couldn’t help but make further improvements.

 

I emailed it onto my agent a week later, leaving only a few hours to pack the suitcases. Our plane was almost ready to take-off and I couldn’t find the energy or motivation to move a muscle. I found myself consumed by an overwhelming sense of relief that I’d sent off the first draft, which made me sink into a lethargic stupor. It was as if I’d been transported into a yoga class, absorbed by the sound of mating whales, allowing every inch of my body to go numb. My brain was shutting down, switching off. I could have easily closed my eyes and keeled over.

 

After six months of hard slog, the time had come to leave the parallel universe of Ghost Towns, escape from this other life and concentrate on the real world. We were going to seek out a sunnier climate. Viva Espania....well Mallorca actually. Soon, there’ll be plenty of time to relax, but not until we’re on the plane.

 

I hollered out instructions to the family, delegated tasks and surprisingly they all got on without complaint.  This obedience allowed me the time to consider having another look at the sent mail box. It was tempting to peek at the manuscript, which was on the agent’s desk, just a little peep, only the first few paragraphs. Then, I’d be able to go away in the knowledge that my agent was going to be so impressed. I’d be drinking pina coladas by the pool, confident that she’s in London securing a deal with a hefty advance. 

 

Then I remembered the many changes I’d made after my husband had proof read: little additions that were now in the hands of David Higham. The urge to check them took precedence over packing. I soon found the first stupid mistake. In page one of the prologue, I’d written once again...again....and again.

 

At the airport, I recalled those words once again, then again on the plane and once again after checking into the hotel. The all-inclusive beer helped take my mind off the mistake for a few hours until I woke up in a hot sweat, repeating those words, once again, all over again. I became preoccupied by this error throughout the holiday, believing that in all probability there must be more!

 

I’m home now, concerned that those once agains have spoiled the agent’s read and that my chances of getting published might be diminished, once again......

 

Friday 14 June 2013

Ctrl F


14th June, 2013
 

Okay, so I reached a point where superstitious malarkey is becoming nothing but a distraction. If I’m going to get Ghost Towns published I now need to fully concentrate and read through the first draft.  

 

I’ve stuck to the plan all week, remaining focused on the job at hand, completely oblivious to the number of magpies in my garden and not giving a damn about what my horoscopes have to say. The spell of hot weather is now over. It’s cold and wet outside. My lucky clover didn’t get me the NWA or a national lottery win. I’m through with distractions. My agent is waiting for the manuscript. There’s no time to waste.

 

I’m taking every interruption in my stride. The kids seem to have all sorts of things on at the moment from residential holidays to theatrical productions, sports days and parties, but I’ve got it all under control. My family are plagued by twenty-four hour bugs, the Norovirus, migraines, hay-fever and still I’ve managed to get to the half way point. So what could possibly go wrong? Technical issues - that’s what!

 

Every time, I switch on the computer, it decides to shut down for no obvious reason other than it’s got it in for me. I’m saving work every two seconds, paranoid that the manuscript I’ve been working on for the last six months might suddenly disappear into virtual cyberspace. Now a continuity issue has cropped up to put a spanner in the works. I’ve noticed that one of my characters is helping himself to an alcoholic drink in a pub after I’ve just sat him down in his car. And for some reason I keep adding an R to another character’s name, transforming Faye into a Fayre.

 

Thank you, ctrl F - without you, it would have taken me weeks to replace all those Aunt Fayres. Technology is a godsend after all......

 

 

Sunday 2 June 2013

WHAT'S LUCK GOT TO DO WITH IT?


2nd June, 2013

 

Last week, I found a five leaf clover. Then, the very next day I came across a four leaf one. Thinking my luck was in I got a lucky dip on Wednesday, which came to nothing. I coppered up another pound and bought a ticket for the Saturday lottery only to get two matching numbers. My lucky clovers couldn’t even win me a tenner! I’ve tried not to get too disheartened. Maybe my luck will come in a different form?

 

I managed to manoeuvre around the growing numbers of people on their hands and knees looking for lucky clover on our lawn to go inside and check my emails. All sorts of news could be heading my way: maybe my first book has been sold or I’ve won the Northern Writers Award? This monetary award would allow me to go on courses, pay for workshops and continue writing until I get published. And of course the acclaim would enable me to finally hold my head up high....no I’m not published yet, but I’ve just won an award....No such luck! I have got more chance of winning the lottery.

 

All is not lost. I can still pin my hopes on the second book. After all, I have finished the denouement for Ghost Towns and it is pretty good. I’ll read through the draft and send it off to my agent. If she doesn’t like it I’m chucking those lucky charms into the compost heap or feeding them to the guinea pigs...

 

Before I sign off, I should congratulate the winners of the Northern Writers Award. I have to admit I’m very jealous. This is a great scheme, run by lovely people who seem to organise some fantastic conferences and loads of parties. [www.northernwritersawards.com].

 

Maybe some day I’ll be invited to a bit of a do, anything to get me away from this laptop. In the meantime, I remain an unpublished, un-awarded, poverty stricken, would-be author, but I’ll get there one day. I’m heading out now, walking under every ladder that happens to get in my way, making damned sure I step on all the cracks in the pavements and straining my fingers so wide apart that they can’t cross. Maybe, sheer determination is all I need to bring me luck in the end....?

 

 

 

Friday 17 May 2013

The Killing Spree...


Friday 17th May, 2013

 

I’ve killed so many lovely characters in the past seven days from little old ladies to numerous teens. I think it’s time my protagonist and I had a break from it all. She’s laid out several bodies and gone to far too many funerals. If only this had been a fairy tale, then I would have created a happily-ever-after. God knows she deserves some peace after starring in this book! I’m dying for my Friday night curry, and the obligatory bottle of wine is sure to settle my nerves. A celebration is in order now that I’ve completed the first draft. My killing spree is over.

 

However, I am a glutton for punishment. While flicking through this year’s Arvon programme, an event in Moniack Mhor (July 22) caught my eye. The rather aptly titled, ‘Killing People for Pleasure and Profit,’ will be led by the multi award winning author, Val McDermid. This week-long course will also investigate commercial considerations relating to selling crime. I’ve realised first hand that a crime novel will not be published if it wavers from that genre. So after working on my second novel for six months solid, I hope I’ve come up with the goods this time. Surely, all this death, blood and gore will appeal to the crime editors who rejected my last submission.

 

I’m thrilled to have reached my favourite element of the novel writing process. I look forward to taking my time editing the first draft of Ghost Towns. Firstly, I’ll double check the denouement. Perhaps, I’ll add extra snippets of information, but I need to be on the ball and not give too many clues away. Thank heaven for cut & paste and ctrl+f. The heart wrenching part in this stage of writing comes when there's a need to delete good work, because it is no longer relevant. Therefore, I’ll need to be prepared to make ruthless, but necessary decisions. Before I settle down for the night I’m off to kill a few ‘babies’. Someone’s got to do it. There’s no time to lose....

Friday 10 May 2013

The Final Furlong - Novel Two


10th May, 2013

 

I’m distracted again, this time not by horoscopes but a trail of splashes on the wall. I’ve deduced it is tomato pasta sauce, last eaten by my children, a day ago. It’s not coming off with water. In fact, my effort to wipe it clean has only gone and made it look worse. I’ll have to go over it with a lick of paint, as if I’ve not got enough to do.  Perhaps, I should investigate the case further. I’ll interview my kids individually, determine the truth and make the culprit do the painting. I’m getting visions of emulsion dollops on the floor and little white foot print trails from the kitchen to the lounge, all over the carpet. Second thoughts! 

 

I’d do it myself, but I am past the halfway mark on my second book. I really should be writing. The whiteboard is now a series of block headings, detailing my character’s activities during every month in the last year. It’s allowed me to figure out how they each fit into the denouement. There is light at the end of the tunnel. I must focus.

 

Our whining cat has just jumped on my lap and is padding for attention. I’ve read somewhere that they can live for days without food, so why is he so persistent? The claws are digging in, clicking at my Levis. Enough is enough. He’s heading north, straight out the door. I note various little gravelly stones on the floor, together with food crumbs and blobs of that bloody tomato sauce, but I will ignore it all. There’s a rotten cabbage smell coming from the overloaded kitchen bin, so I open a window and let in some fresh air. I’ve also decided to leave the clothes on our washing line, even though an overnight frost is forecast. Each item will stiffen to a board, but at some stage the sun will come out and defrost everything. It’s almost five. The kids can make their own tea – they only splash it over the walls instead of eating it, so it won’t matter if it tastes crap. Mummy is on roll – don’t stop me now......

 

I’m going to finish Ghost Towns. However, before I sign off I must make an important announcement. At no time whatsoever during the writing of this blog were any animals or children injured in anyway. Cheerio! I’m heading for the final furlong, just another few chapters to go. Don’t anyone disturb my concentration. I get the feeling I’m going to be writing all through the night. I hope it’s worth it. What if no one wants to publish the second book? What then? I wonder what my horoscope has to say for tomorrow........

Wednesday 1 May 2013

Driven to Distraction


Friday 26th April, 2013
 
Is it just me or do other writers get a little distracted half way through writing their novels: unable to focus on the book because that huge ironing pile and the dirty dishes have suddenly taken precedence?  I should be researching forensics, fathoming out how best to decompose my fictional victim. Instead, I find myself searching the net for an encouraging horoscope. If I don’t like the sound of one, I’ll try another. I desperately want the stars to align themselves into some kind of auspicious position so that this Libran will get her second novel published.  
 
Things must be looking up, because none of these pearls of wisdom are telling me to call it a day. I’m told the lunar eclipse is going to give me a chance to reboot my life, that I’ve got a lot of balls up in the air and the cosmos has definite plans for me. Apparently, I need to factor in some spa time too, advice which will have to be ignored – how much time do they think I have? I’ve got another 30,000 words to write and I can’t get past chapter twenty for reading all this predictive nonsense.
 
Another Astrologer writes that Libra has been a patient writer. How true! Perhaps there’s something in this horoscope malarkey after all. So I read more. It very accurately states that there were opportunities in 2012, but nothing happened as it should. It’s as if they know just what I’ve been through. I feel I’m in safe hands, listening to a good friend, someone who understands me like no one else. So, I take comfort in the knowledge that Librans are going to be thrilled by what takes place in June. But can I wait a whole two months for something exciting to happen? No! I’ve been a patient writer for far too long. I’m getting really sick of being an unpublished author.
 
Maybe, I need to take another approach: stop reading horoscopes and buckle down to some work. The cosmos has plans for me. If I complete the second half of Ghost Towns by June then I’m going to be thrilled by what takes place. Only time will tell......
 
 
 
 
18th April, 2013
 
I received an encouraging email from my agency a few weeks ago. Such compliments keep an unpublished author optimistic. They remind me not to get too disheartened, even though the first novel hasn’t found a home.
 
People who don’t know this business keep asking when is your book going to get published, as if it’s a simple task to get this far. I’m sure Joe Public takes turns wiping away the grime on my windows to see what I do with my time. They’ll get distracted by the sight of abandoned breakfast bowls and an ever increasing ironing pile when they should be impressed to find a hard working professional, writing amongst kid’s toys and clutter.  Call me paranoid, but I think everyone has taken to staring at me in a questioning way, wondering why I continue to write about gruesome discoveries in snickets and ghost towns when I’m still not getting paid for it. I could easily admit defeat and do something which they’d deem more useful, like the washing up. So, I must say a big thank you to Laura at David Higham Associates. Without a little bit of praise every now and again I’d be chained to a kitchen sink and no closer to ever getting a book published.
 
Now I have incentive. I’m able to stand tall. I walk two paces to my left, pick up the trusty dry marker and aim it at the whiteboard, but some strange occurrence has taken place. Somehow the plot for Ghost Towns has turned into a complex mapping chart, comprising of criss-crossing lines and a jumble of notes. There’s also an asterisk, which presumably once highlighted something of significant importance. Only one thing makes any sense: the word BODY, stuck in the middle, the core of any crime novel. And now even those four letters are getting a little blurry, turning into a blob, which is surrounded by unrecognizable scribbles - a pile of rubbish – a piece of crap! Am I up to the job? Why do I choose to do this: bent over a laptop every spare minute of the day, scratching at my scalp, fretting over whether that last paragraph was too telling and not showing?
 
I’ve got this far. There is no going back. I remind myself that I have the support of an agency. Perhaps I should frame their last email, stick it to my forehead and show the world that someone in the publishing business thinks I’m right to let the dishes pile up.
 
 
 
 
12th April, 2013
 
In the week following Margaret Thatcher’s death I’m somewhat bemused to hear reports that she advocated policies which encouraged choice. During the winter of 1987, I worked several shifts on a male medical ward with just one other nurse. In those days, patients didn’t get the option of receiving any more than a quick face wash in a morning. I felt like a car washer lathering up someone’s windscreen at the traffic lights. Three years later, I witnessed first hand a situation which hadn’t improved when the lack of NHS nurses had a detrimental effect on the care of my first child. Is it just me, but I recall a miserable decade bombarded by high interest rates and cuts to public expenditure? My living quarters in the nurses home could best be described as a prison cell - complete with bars at the windows. On low trainee wages I was expected to pay the same poll tax as someone who owned a mansion. During Thatcher’s reign, we saw national companies privatised and council houses sold. Inevitably, this right to buy scheme led to a shortage of rental accommodation, which left few options for those people without the means to obtain a mortgage.
 
I should be busy writing my second novel. It’s not as if all this talk about Thatcher’s legacy isn’t relevant. One of the Ghost Towns in my book is overshadowed by a black slag heap; the bleak remnant of a once thriving coal mining industry. It seems to me that the New Right weakened institutions to get rid of obstacles which had got in their way. Suddenly, my mind’s awash with everyday words from the 1980’s; such as redundancy, negative equity and repossessions. During Mrs. Thatcher’s state funeral we should mourn the loss of communities where people were not privileged enough to have choice.
 
Before I sign off, I must give one word of thanks to Mrs. T. My rant has given me the incentive to write chapter fifteen. I’ve worked out that Ghost Towns should be finished by May or June, but gosh, look at the time. It’s almost midday and I haven’t had breakfast yet. The words on my screen are blurring into one big jumble. I’ll need a coffee to keep me awake. Then the kids will have to be picked up from school. My quiet haven will soon be turned into a mad house and I’ll never get any writing done. Perhaps I’ve been a tad too optimistic. Maybe completion time is more June than May.....watch this space!
 
 
 
 
 
 
5th April, 2013
 
All aspiring writers are encouraged to find a literary agent. It is a vital first step on the road to publication, although it can be a huge feat securing one. There are many figures flying around, but agencies receive between 400-1,000 unsolicited queries per month, which goes to show how much competition there is out there. No wonder many fall at the first hurdle.
 
Fortunately, I have managed to stagger over this obstacle, but self promotion is a necessary second step in order to complement publisher submissions. Therefore, after several years of contemplation and with the help of my computer wiz of a son, my website is now up and running. At first I was quite apprehensive about showcasing my work. As an unpublished author it felt fraudulent, somewhat jumping the gun. I am also technophobic, scared of pressing the wrong buttons and therefore indebted to the 12 year old who can fathom out web design, but is unable to make his own bed. I’m also very protective of my ideas, an unfortunate trait when it comes to sharing blurbs. I used to spend hours shredding reams of draft outlines for fear of the dustman bringing out my novel first. I’ll bet I’m not the only one to have done that.
 
Actually, I’m not a gambling person, which is why I won’t be betting on a horse during the Grand National this weekend. I don’t like the idea of all those horses falling at Beacher’s Brook either. Instead, I’ll be celebrating the fact that I’ve cleared a hurdle of my own – I’ve plucked up the courage to post my blurbs on-line!
 
All this equine talk reminds me of a rather odd image that kept popping up on the web last week - one which can be described in many ways: from the backend of my little pony to an old pink mare. Was I dreaming, or has this fellow author grown two extra legs and a couple of high heeled hooves? No wonder her pink Range Rover is up for sale. Who needs a car when Katie Price can just trot around making an exhibition of herself? Maybe she should run in the Grand National, fall at the first hurdle and be put out of her misery? Please forgive me. I am a bitter unpublished novelist after all. And I promise that’s the last time I’ll bring her up - it’s left such a nasty furry taste in my mouth.....
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
28 March 2013 – This is a milestone date! I’m one third of the way into my second novel. So I should have finished the first draft by May/June. That’s when I’ll feel most relaxed. From then on, its plain sailing – I’ll need to make a few revisions before sending it off to my agent, who’ll get back with brilliant suggestions prior to publisher submissions. Then finally, my novel will appear on the book shelves...well, this should be the final piece in the jigsaw, but it wasn’t the case for my first novel.

 

Unfortunately, Into the Snicket, is still waiting for an editor to take a punt on a first time novelist with a cross genre book. It’s times like these when you wish your sister had married a Prince, because that appears to open doors into the publishing world.  I’d not only obtain an advance for my novels, but if I whipped up some drivel about party planning I’d guarantee a lucrative deal on that too. It doesn’t seem to matter if you don’t know much about your subject either. Although, I’m more qualified than most to write about organising parties having arranged my own children’s birthdays. I’ll have to ignore several successful piss-ups where details are vague and impossible to fully recall, but I can confirm that I’ve notched up an impressive amount of Easter gatherings, bonfire parties, Halloween get-togethers, Christmas dinners and the odd christening to boot. In fact, I’ve cooked for more kids in my lifetime than Nigella. If only my father had been one of Thatcher’s chancellors....

 

Too many celebrities get hefty advances, which leaves little money in the coffers for would be novelists. So, am I wasting my time? Should I give up and accept that people like me never get published?  Not bloody likely! Not when there are still options out there. I could write about ponies, get silicone breasts that look like barrage balloons and make some ghost writer do all the hard work.  No! God forbid! I prefer to wait and get published on my own merits. It’s much more satisfying to earn your advance.

 

So is there anyone out there willing to take on a hard working unpublished author with naturally pert c-cups? Come on! The mortgage needs paying, bills are mounting up and my sanity is fast diminishing. If only my sister was more Prince Harry’s age, then maybe an introduction would be in order. My Dad’s always going on about how he could run this country’s economy better than any government. But perhaps it’s too late to send Daddy into politics?

 

I’ll stick to the old tactics: avoiding ladders, single magpies, cracked mirrors and black cats - keep your finger’s crossed.....