Mortification

Writers' stories of their public shame, edited by Robin Robertson.

I didn't believe in schadenfreude until I read this. For example: even though it's the funniest show on earth, I have to force myself to sit through an episode of Curb Your Enthusiasm: I don't get any pleasure from other people's misfortune.

But most of these stories of awkwardness, disappointment and embarrassment gave me a warm feeling inside, and I'm not sure why. Maybe it's jealousy? These authors have 'made it', so they somehow deserve it. Maybe it's optimism? If these idiots can make it, so can I. Or maybe it's recognition. These particular neuroticisms are mine as well! I've certainly picked the right ambition.

There's another pleasure here, besides schadenfreude: I love reading about writers. I read about writers all the time, but those accounts are usually about very successful writers, or newly practising writers, and are sometimes fictional. The writers and poets in Mortification cover the wide gamut of success, but are mostly from the obscure middle: they write, do tours and do readings, but they are not well-known.

For someone who wants to be a writer but is scared of success, it's great to know that this strangely obscure middle exists, and functions, and is even fairly well-populated. It's less great to realise how few of it's members I've ever heard of -- and I am a representative of the bookier end of the public spectrum.Maybe I do want success.

Still. It's good to know writers spend the times between writing getting fully immersed in mortification, over-analyzing the minutest moments in their lives, and honing every minor event into a perfectly sleek anecdote. Once I sell a novel, I'm there. I won't have to change at all.

Book Cover Series

Aren't these beautiful? There's something about book covers designed in series that sends me wild. I love it. I have frequently considered buying a copy of a book I already own just because it goes better with the other books by that author.

They don't even have to be that spectacular. The collective, bordered covers of Michal Chabon's novels are fantastic, but these fairly simple Christopher Brookmyre covers still make me sick with envy when I browse them in a bookshop.

The fact that the amazing McCarthy covers have blurb-quotes as part of their very design is no coincidence, I think. A major draw of the uniform covers is the badge of excellence they represent. This author is good enough to have his back catalogue reissued; and this author's back catalogue is expected to appeal to a more intense reader -- the sort who care that their books match. Cormac McCarthy's novels, by the way, are expected to appeal to the type of reader who runs his fingers across the embossed bumpiness of words on covers.

If I'm entirely honest, I don't just appreciate these covers; I aspire to them. They are how I concieve of writerly success. An author has made it when they have arty-designy uniform back catalogue reissues. My real ambition as a writer, then, is not to get millions of readers (it's more vain), it's not to write the Great Novel Of Our Time (much less ambitious), it's to look pretty damn fantastic oin my own shelves, if nobody elses.

microthought: cleverness

Cleverness is not an advantage in an aspiring writer.

People talk like it's a headstart.

It's as much of a headstart as wearing stilts is to a mountain climber.

You might be two foot closer to the summit, but you're much going to trip yourself up repeatedly.

Cleverness: good or bad?

Time Is Runing Out

It's cards on the table time. I'm 23, and have yet to finish writing a novel. I've got to the end of the story a couple of times, but never to the end of the writing process.

Terry Pratchett had his first novel published when he was 23. Not just finished, not just sent off, not even just accepted. Published, in shops, the whole caboodle.

Panic time: IT'S TOO LATE FOR ME NOW IT'S ALL OVER OH MY LIFE WOE ET CETERA WHAT WILL BECOME OF ME.

I might as well give up and get a job in a bookshop. I even have the job already, all I need to do is stare into a mirror and say 'I don't believe in CS Lewis' three times. I won't be a writer anymore.

Okay, maybe not. But it's become an obsession of mine recently to look up when the author I'm reading had their first novel published. Then I work out how long I've got, realistically, if I want to stand any chance of beating them.

It's not pathetic, I promise. It's motivational. Here's the league table:

The Wonder Boys:

1. Terry Pratchett, 23
=2. F Scott Fitzgerald, 24
=2. Mark Watson, 24
=4. Michael Chabon, 25
=4. David Lodge, 25
=4. Evelyn Waugh, 25
7. Tom Holt, 26
8. Christopher Brookmyre, 28
9. Toby Litt, 29

The first half of that list is already way out of my reach, once you factor in agent/editor/publisher turnarounds. And when you factor in writing quality, the second half is pretty much out of the question as well. So, ignore the spectacular young guns, they probably burned out before they were 40 anyway, am I right? Terry who? F Who Fitzgerald? Well... moving on. 

The Second Wave:

 =1. Agatha Christie, 30

=1. David Mitchell, 30

=1. Kurt Vonnegut, 30

=4. David Markson, 32

=4. Cormac McCarthy, 32

6. Andrew Crumey, 33

7. Stephen Fry, 34

8. Mick Jackson, 37

9. Lynne Truss, 39

10. Jasper Fforde, 40

I'm aiming for Markson and McCarthy, I think. Though anything before Stephen Fry would count as a lifelong brag.

What Happens In Polaroid (Stays In Polaroid)

I'm almost done planning Polaroid, and it's not a good feeling. I want to keep working on it, I know I'm not ready to start writing it (and hey. It's October), but I don't know quite what's left to get on with.

For various reasons (over at the NaNo site) I've written a synopsis, a plot outline, and a one-sentence summary. And even though all of those were simply summaries of information I'd already got in bulletpoint form, writing them really helped. I'm still getting to know the novel, it turns out. And talking about something is a lot easier than thinking about something.

You know what's coming. All this means I will now talk about the thing, all over again. Rather than trying to reduce the whole mess into an intriguing and sensical blog post, I'm going to dig up that watery, curious skeleton, Michael Owen. Ask me questions, Michael, and I shall answer.

MO: Why is it called Polaroid? Are you sure you're writing a novel, not a photograph?

I'm fairly sure it's not a photograph. It's called Polaroid because... Well, it's not completely clear.

There is a Polaroid camera that plays some role in the plot, and a particular Polaroid photo that plays a bigger role. It all kicks off from there, in a way. There might also be something semi-deep about instants in time that take time to develop/show themselves, and the phrase 'a snapshot of youth' may dirty my lips when I'm feeling outrageously uncreative.

The main character, David, is a portrait artist, and he is obssessed with capturing peoples likenesses. Grab your wax crayons and colour that fact relevant.

MO: So it's all about David? He's the main character?

I think he's the main guy, but there's a cast of four who are pretty central. David has the extra edge, in that a lot of the story is told through his eyes. His is the only true instance of first person narration.

There's Fenton, who the book might be said to be more truly about. He's David's oldest friend, and is a bit of a dick. Parts of the story are told through his journal entries.

There's Charlotte, who is also, somehow, the centre of the novel. We hear from her through intermittent blog posts. The key triggering event (remember that Polaroid photo?) involves her centrally, and the climax of the novel involves her centrally. I guess I would say she is somehow central.

There's Sam, who isn't even around for the most part. We hear his thoughts through the letters he sends the others, most often to Charlotte. He gives us something of an outside perpective on things, but he is neck deep in the same issues at his end, too. And by the end, he's right back where it counts, everything intermingles, and he gets a letter that is necessary and sufficient for the final clincher.

MO: That answer was too long. If I was on a payphone... That's all I'm saying.

You're not on a payphone, Michael, I can see you sitting right in front of me. And you're on a landline.

MO: Nobody thinks you're clever, Ben. One last question: what's the releveance of all this 'dressing up as zombies' talk I hear you talking about?

I wish you hadn't asked that. Like the old Polaroid factor, this got into the novel in the early days, when I was just chucking in things I liked the sound of. And now it's too deeply caught up in events to let go. I don't want to let it go, either. It gives trhe novel a little bit of character, something to stop it sounding like EastEnders.

The gang all dress up as the undead, and spend an afternoon mime-stalking people through the city centre. It's a fun, harmless, and ill-thought-out (BLAME THE CHARACTERS, BEN) prank, before they all go separate ways after the summer. It's meant to draw them together, but the after-party gets messy. There's fallout.

These guys all have a desperate desire to belong -- they're at that age -- but not much competence in that field. It's about the lengths people will go to to feel part of a group, and how much they are willing to change themselves. David, the least belongy, is also the least comfortable with this.

The fallout from the first zombie dress-up splits the group. Rather than finding new places to belong on the back of the confidence they got from having a great base group of friends, they scatter, disperse, and generally fail to take root anywhere. (As I write, I'm wondering if I should somehow smuggle this metaphor directly into the novel, too.)

The second zombie dress-up is a desperate attempt by Fenton, who suffered most from the fallout of the first, to get the band back together. He wants to rescue that feeling of being part of the group, and he wants to fix a lot of things he has caused to break. But this time, the fallout is a lot worse.

MO: That sounds like a weirdly unarced narrative.

I was just thinking that. But it works, honestly. There's going to be more going on in the book. The problem of belonging isn't going to be fixed by dressing up, and rewinding to the point when everything went wrong isn't the same as taking responsibility for your actions. It might turn out that shared responisibility is what brings people together and makes them belong, without giving away too much. 


That's me thinking aloud. I would love to hear anyones reactions to any  idea I've mumbled across here. I'd much rather hear a criticism now, than when I've written 80k and spent all my savings on a two-page spread in the TLS.

The Story Of Polaroid

Polaroid is the novel I will write for the first time this November. I have written it once before.

It was towards the end of March, I think, that I reached The Point with my last novel-attempt, Who Ever Heard Of Applecake? The Point comes when you know you need to change more of the book than you need to keep; when you've learnt lessons that are so big, they undermine everything you've done so far; when you'd do better to stop trying to write that particular novel, and start again from scratch. So I ditched it. Over. Done with. Full period.

I didn't expect to jump straight back in with another novel, but history shows I must have. I had this rough idea... I would write a summer novel. Over the summer. It would be about summer, which for me involves guitars and treehouses and that old plaguey bird, interacting with other people.

Somehow that little fragment became a fully-grown, if underfed and shallow-framed, book idea. By the 5th April, according to this blog, I was officially planning. The next bit is fuzzy, but by the end of May I had a finished first draft.

By June 14th I had 1/3 of a second draft, and had reached The Point. Remember? -- Ditch the bitch and start again.

Only this time, I hadn't learnt anything. I'd learnt the book didn't work, but I didn't learn why. Nothing useful. After that, I sort of ducked out of thinking about anything novel-related. Oh, the misery. Oh, the universal darkness. We're retreading old ground, now, but in my lowest moment of not-really-thinking-about-novels, when I had even stopped reading them in favour of outdated biographies, I got an email from NaNo, thought something along the lines of, 'actually, in fact, maybe so,' and sat down too quickly.

I didn't want to start another novel. How many unfinished good ideas do I want on my track record, I asked myself, rhetorically, not expecting an answer?

So that's why I'm having another go at Polaroid.

It's different, this time around, and it's better, and it's a little bit surer of it's own identity. What's more, it turns out it never actually reached The Point at all. Flicking through the first attempt while planning for the second, I was struck by something. Once I got past the clunky, overly-intended first section, it stopped being bad. By the time it got to the Teen Ultimate Melodrama Moment Of Climax (yes, it had a TUMMOC), it was good. In places.

That's the first time that's ever happened. Too bad the TUMMOC will get a little sidelined in the second attempt, but still. The bad doesn't outweigh the good. I can run with this, I thought to myself, rhetorically, not expecting a response.

NANOWRIMO

Well, actually, hello.

Here's the (actual) thing. I'm working full time from now till Christmas. And here's the other (actual) thing. I'm going to write a novel in that time as well.

I'm sure it doesn't need explaining, but November is National Novel Writing Month. NaNoWriMo to its friends, acquaintances and concubines.

The idea is to write a first draft of a new novel, in the 30 days of November. 50,000 words. I like to think I have enough motivation of my own to write, so don't need to partake. I like to think I've worked out my own habits and writing schedules, so don't need to participate. That's what I'd like to think. But I got an email from the site at the exact point I was at the bottom of a writing slump, and there's nothing like a challenge to get you out of one of those bad boys.

I would urge any of the curious to check out the forums. I'm not into the cheering, or the plot bunnies, or the dares, or any of that. What I am into is thousands of people talking about writing. There's loads of beginners on the site, but a whole load of people who know far more than I do about how to write a novel, and I love reading what they have to say.

Tomorrow I'm going to blog about what I'll be writing. And hopefully this week I'll also catch up with blogs for the last couple of books I read, Agatha Christie's Three-Act Tragedy and Charlie Chaplins's autobiography. Both inspired songs, as well, so I might post those.

Don't do anything hasty.

On The Why Of Books

It should be obvious, to any regular readers (good afternoon, by the way) that I like books. I like reading them, mostly, but writing them as well. And, of course, talking about them. But I don't know why.

So I've been thinking about it. I've got a few ideas.

There's entertainment. Sometimes reading a book can be like hanging out with a funny or fascinating friend. And with books, you can put them down for a bit without offending them, read them on the toilet or in the bath (doesn't work with friends) and you never have to buy them a drink.
It's not why I like them, though.

There's escapism. Books have the ability to take you out of your head. One of my biggest problems in life is that I am always AWAKE in my head, always thinking or telling myself a story or arguing or remembering or swearing. It might sound nice, but it drives me into weird, frustrated madness. Getting to sleep is a long, long process.
Books, occasionally, can turn that off. The link is sometimes so strong between the narrative on the page and the little man who sits in my Cartesian Theatre that all other functions switch to stand-by. It's like a shortcut to being unconscious.

Not quite the same as escapism is distraction. That's when the book doesn't turn off the AWAKE, but changes the scenery. So you still have to deal with the heavy, weightless nonsense of being aware, but you're not aware of the things you normally would be.
It happens rarely, but sometimes a book can stick you right inside somebody else's head, and you busy yourself with the Malkovichian task of staring out of their eyes.

Distraction is more on the money than escapism, for me. But it's not the answer (though it might be a part of it.) It can't be the whole story, because I often don't get that involved in a book, but still enjoy it. Some books don't even try for distraction, and I still enjoy them.

I think it's basically to do with people. People are great, generally, but I'm pretty useless at them. Dealing with them, understanding them, all that nonsense. And all books, ever, are essentially about people. (Yes, all of them. Even if they don't have characters, they are all written by people. Knowing the 60,000+ words someone has chosen to publish tells you a lot about them, at least.)

It's not people in the sense of, 'oh, I get it. People do A when B and C happen, and they can't find any D. I now understand that.'

It's people in the sense of getting to know the individual world that each person inhabits, sharing the similarities and differences to your own, and generally attempt to deny that truth that you can never experience any world other than the unique one that is you.

Here's the L2R First Principle, then: I am reading to learn. (Clever, eh? That's the same words, if you look closely, as the name of the blog. But sort of... swapped. Read back and see.... told you so! Ahh, the things I do with words.)

The inversion of that inversion is not that I write to teach. It's that I write to learn, as well. I might talk about that more another time. What's important is that the sort of learning I'm talking about isn't passed on; it's shared. In fact, it's is nothing more than the act of sharing itself. Shared sharings, rather than taught learnings.

Books are great for this. Entertainment, escapism... there are better mediums for those things, probably. But sharing? that's where books win hands down. They don't even come second place to life itself. Because they're not an alternative to learning through experience, but a tool of it.

Books are not a window on the world, or even a mirror. They are a telescope, or a microscope, depending on the scale.

On Perseverance

Here's the problem:

I didn't do any of the writing I intended to after work last night. Then I woke up early today, but was realy groggy. I got some writing done but it didn't feel good.
Then I got distracted by recording a guitar part for a certain song that a certain forum is writing and recording for a certain in-need-of-cheering comedian. Recording anything other than my little acoustic ditties is one of the most stressful things I know of.
Then my lunch-break became really long because I started rewatching Doctor Who.

A bad day for writing, all round. I felt like giving up.

Here's the solution:

But then after lunch, I sat back in front of my computer, and started to write. Not quickly, or well, but a bit. Then I did that again. Then once more. And so on.
The thing is, there's so many hours in a day. I've never tried counting, but there must be nearly fifty. So I don't have to write a lot, I don't have to write quickly, or even well. I just have to persevere, and write often.

And I have a new technique, too. Instead of writing a list of all the basic plot points, then trying to write as much for each one as possible, I write a list of all the necessary plot points, then try and write as little as possible for each one.
So instead of stressing about how much to write (and getting a novel full of stuff I will immediately cut out,) I am energised by my writing, and will (hopefully) get something slightly novel-shaped at the end. Of course, there's still a lot of unnecessary crap in there, because I usually forget the 'write as little as possible' thing. I forget a lot of things.

So there it is: a thought. Just keep swimming. There's more time than I think.

A teaser: we here at Learning To Read are dedicated to giving you, the reader, the most fulsome and weight-conscious blogging experience we can.
It is with this in mind that tomorrow we will be announcing a new regular feature, and explaining an upcoming project, and formally introducing a new member of the team. Or, as we like to think of it here at Learning To Read, The Team.

Some Lessons

The book I'm reading at the moment is a long one. It will probably take me another week to finish, which is a long time to go postless. So instead of posting about a book I've read, I'm going to share a few thoughts that have reared their balloon-shaped heads recently, in the evil soup of my mind, on the topic of writing.

These thoughts have been appearing recently for a couple of reasons. Firstly, I'm planning a novel at the moment: and planning is the part of the writing process where I really think about whatI'm doing. I do some thinking when I revise, but not as much. When I'm doing the writing itself, I hardly think at all (true story.) But when I plan, I think.
Secondly, I got an email this morning from a writer friend who has been on the blunt end of a couple of things I've tried writing before. The email was a critique of the last thing I sent her, the opening chapters to a novel I put to one side a while ago. Apart from being very positive, it made me realise two things. (1) I'd learnt a lot since the first thing I sent her. (2) There's a lot I can learn from this second lot of criticisms.

So that's why my thoughts are full of how to learn about writing, right now. It's such a complex and ineffable skill that learning it can be a bit of a mystery. Other than just getting on with it, and hoping Mr Subconscious is picking up on everything as you go, there's not much obvious to do. So it seems to me, anyway.
Learning how to write is foggy. But what it also is, is very personal. I've picked up a few good things so far in my novice attempts, and I'm about to share them. But as much as they have been useful for me, they may be the opposite for someone else. These are things I've learnt about how I should write, and I say nothing about how anybody else should.

(I've read a bunch of writing advice in my time: my experience is, for every three Absolute Rules Of Writing you read, two will contradict each other and the third will be absurd.)

Anyway. Here are some things that I've picked up. Again, this is advice for me as much as it is from me:

1. Revision is pretty powerful. The book will get better in the second draft, in almost every way. The writing, characterisation and plot will all tighten up considerably. It might seem obvious, but I was surprised by the depth and extent of the effect. Second drafts are more than twice as good as firsts, as a rule of thumb. But note: this is revision as in 'complete rewriting'; not as in 'correcting typos'. A sister point to this is:

2. Your first draft is naked. Don't hand it out too readily. If you can, don't had it out at all until you've put some clothes on it: you'll only get embarassed later. Okay, sometimes it is good to get an outside perspective early on, before you get carried away with a bad idea, but be cautious.
When you're writing the thing, a part of your brain will (has to) believe that what you're writing is actually not bad at all, and so why not show it off? A confident, likable voice appears in the back of your mind, saying you should let people know how good this thing is, and let them know that you didn't even have to revise it to make it special, like most other writers. IGNORE THIS VOICE. IT'S THE SAME VOICE THAT TELLS YOU TO DO YOUR SPECIAL DANCE WHEN YOU'RE DRUNK. IT WILL END UP ON FACEBOOK. Nobody wants that again, Ben.

3. Confuse the issue. Different problems happening at the same time will bounce off each other, distract and escalate. Your hero will have to decide on their priorities and make decisions between the problems, which tells the reader some interesting things about them--and the reader has to make their own choices, too. All good stuff.
On the other hand, if it's really obvious what the problem is and what should be done, it's no fun at all. Either it's obvious to the hero as well--in which case you're limiting how heroic they can be, as you've done half their job for them: or it's not obvious to the hero--in which case, your reader will shout swear words at the idiot as they watch him or her run around in circles when it's clear they should be running in straight lines.

4. Write like it's your job. That's what you want in the end, isn't it? For writing to be your job? So get up early and spend eight hours at your computer, when you can. None of this 'waiting for inspiration' talk. Yes, there are good writing days and bad writing days, but the only way you tell the difference is by making yourself sit down and write for ages. At 9am, you're always going to think it's a bad writing day. Most times, you're wrong. A sister point to this is:

5. Know when to let yourself off. You need to have the confidence to admit when a day is not going well, and act accordingly. If it's 4.30pm, you've written nothing you're happy with, and you're going slightly insane... stop. It's a bad day, don't beat yourself up about it. Have the evening off, or write something else.

So there's a few things I've learnt about how to get the best out of myself so far. I've got a lot more to pick up. Are any of these true for you? Or is the opposite the case?