This isn't a moan, honest. Well, maybe it is a bit. I am very proud and thankful that something I've written has made it into print, I genuinely am. But, the process of getting there isn't always pretty, or fun, or stress free, or in any way enjoyable at all. Thought I'd share my own experience:
WYLMT - a history
In 2005 I spotted an ad in the paper for a competition called Undiscovered Authors. I hadn’t finished WYLMT at that point (I was about halfway through), but the comp only asked for a single chapter to be sent in, so I thought I’d give it a try.
A couple of months later I was informed that, although not a winner, my chapter had been shortlisted for the West of Scotland region, which was nice.
In 2006 I learned that the competition was being run again, and this time they wanted full manuscripts. I had finished WYLMT by that point and failed to get any interest from agents etc, so figured I might as well have another go, sending the book in, I think, October 2006.
In around March/April of 2007, I learned that WYLMT had been placed first in the Scottish region, and come third in the UK overall. The prize was a traditional one book publishing deal plus £1000. Happiness!
My contact with the publishers was a lovely, helpful lady called Natalie. She informed me that over the course of the next few months I would be assigned an editor and cover designer to work with. Cool!
The initial plan was to roll out all the winning books, one per month, between autumn 2007 and early 2008. The order of publication to be decided by which manuscripts were ready first. Fair enough.
Then the contract arrived. I had an actual publishing contract in my hands. I did read it, and noted that the prize money wasn’t due until ‘within’ six months of the book’s publication. It would have been nice to get it there and then, but bugger it, I could wait a few months. I signed.
The draft I entered in the comp was 145k words long (hey, the first draft was 170k!) and Natalie gently suggested I might want to try to cut the word count a little by myself, before it went to the editor. Being a naïve idiot who knew nothing about the publishing world, or average first novel word counts, I was of course incredibly offended by this. Still, I figured she must know what she was on about, and duly started combing through the MSS for bits I wouldn’t miss too much. Every lost word, phrase, sentence and scene was like being stabbed in the heart with a knitting needle, but I struggled manfully with the task set to me, and, eventually, managed to get it down to around 138k. That was the absolute minimum I was prepared to accept.
Then it went to the editor, who promptly cut another 12 thousand words. Some of the bits she got rid of were, I thought, essential to the story, and couldn’t believe they wanted me to take them out. I was wrong, of course.
Ah well.
Then, in, I think, September 2007, I got an email from the cover designer assigned to work on the book, and, over the next few weeks, we worked together (by which I mean he did all the work, and I made a couple of colour suggestion so as not to look too stupid) and came up with a cover that I am still extremely proud of. It was the highlight of the whole publishing experience up to that point, seeing that finished cover layout.
Unfortunately, it turned out to be the only highlight I was going to get, for quite some time.
At around the same time as the cover was being put together, Natalie informed me that she was taking an extended sabbatical from the company. I was sorry to see her leave, even though she assured me she would be back in a couple of months, and that her boss, Jennie, would be looking after me in the interim.
Fair enough, I thought. After all, the edit and cover were locked, so there wasn’t much more to be done, and I was looking forward to seeing the book published within a month or two. I joked with Natalie that it would be out before she returned. I turned out to be right about that. I never heard from Natalie again. At the time I didn’t realise this was about to become a trend.
I received an email from Jennie in October 2007, letting me know everything was on schedule and she would let me know the publishing date soon. I was on my way! I was about to become a published author and, the painful edit aside, I had loved every minute of the process.
And then, well, nothing happened. A lot. For ages.
I emailed Jennie, oh, about 3 dozen times over the next month or two, but got no reply to any of my queries. Christmas came and went. The seasons changed, but the silence in my inbox didn’t.
Being a level headed, mature and sensible individual, I of course started panicking quite considerably. Where was Jennie? Why was she ignoring me? Why wasn’t I a bloody published author yet?
By February, I was a wreck. I had googled the publishers, and discovered they were being lambasted by writers, customers, former staff members, by pretty much everyone. They were called a fraud, a vanity publisher with delusions of grandeur they couldn’t follow through on. They owed people money, they owed former staff wages, they owed everyone.
They owed me a bloody published novel!
With a little more digging, I learned that they’d lost their partner/backer and their finances were in a mess.
Throughout all of this, I was still emailing Jennie, desperate for a response, for some reassurance.
Finally, it occurred to me that phone calls are slightly harder to ignore than emails, and I made the call. The person who answered the number I had for Jennie was a. not Jennie (the clue was in his name, Alan), and b. said a completely different company name to the publisher’s when he answered. I was not encouraged by this.
I explained my situation, and he assured me that yes, the publishers were still active and in business and that he actually worked for their sister company, a wholesalers, and was just manning the phones temporarily. He also explained that Jennie had ‘moved on’ several months previously and that the reason I hadn’t got an answer to any of my emails was that her account, although not cancelled, wasn’t being monitored. Bit of a screw up that, I thought but didn’t say. Alan assured me he would pass on my details to the appropriate person that day, and someone would call me back by the next morning at the very latest.
Three weeks later I still hadn’t heard anything. I phoned back. I’m convinced it was Alan who answered again, though he denied any knowledge of having spoken to me previously, and subtly failed to give me his name. Again, I explained my situation, and again I was assured that the appropriate person would call me back within the day. Have a guess if they did.
Another three weeks later, this was repeated, exactly.
Somewhere in between all of this (I can’t quite remember when, possibly December 07) I did get one email, from a lady who’s name I can’t recall, telling me that she was now in charge of my book, Love You Tomorrow [sic]. I answered her enthusiastically, relieved at this lifeline. She never answered, and I never heard from her again. I presume she also ‘moved on’.
By April/May of 2008, I had given up. It was over, I decided. It was a nice dream but it wasn’t to be. My thoughts turned to figuring out if I still owned the copyright of WYLMT, or if that was lost, too. This was not a happy time.
And then, in late May/early June, I got an email from Michaela. She was, apparently, now in charge of my book, though she didn’t have any of my previous correspondence, a copy of the MSS or the edited version on file. She had the cover though, thank God!
I pulled a bit of a sneaky at this point, I have to admit. As she didn’t have the edited version on file and needed me to send it to her, I took the opportunity to put back in a few of the bits the editor had removed. I know it was wrong, but it was only a few hundred words, a particular scene I was very fond of. Okay, maybe a couple of scenes. Okay, it was 2000 words worth. Bugger it, it was still nearly 50k shorter than the first draft!
Suddenly, we were back on track. I would have a proof copy for me to check within a matter of weeks. Result! I was elated, obviously. Then the proof copy arrived. The cover looked great, it has to be said.
Instead of sending me digital galleys (is that the term?) to proof and correct, they sent me a physical copy of the book, and asked that I list any corrections required and send them to the typesetters. Okay, how hard can that be, I thought? Well, discovering that every single instance of italics had been lost somewhere in translation made it pretty bloody hard, to be honest.
It took more than two weeks to list all the corrections. As well as the italics there were missing quote marks, missing para indents, line breaks where there shouldn’t be, no line breaks where there should, etc etc.
The final list of corrections ran to 32 pages and 12,000 words. Not my happiest writing experience, that.
Still, I got it done, and we were on our way again. Michaela estimated we could publish by September. She even asked if there was a particular date around then I would like to go for. Well, my birthday’s October 1st, so I figured I’d give myself a present.
And that was it, it was a done deal. I would become a published author on 1st October, 2008. Nothing could stop me now!
My thoughts turned to organising a launch. Well, more a celebration party, to be honest. In the book I mention a few Glasgow pubs, and a couple of real life local bands. One of those bands happen to play every Thursday in one of those pubs. Seemed an obvious choice. I booked The Scotia Bar’s lounge for Thursday October 9th. Mary, the lovely manager, not only gave me the venue for free, but let me bring my own wine and did some sandwiches on the house. Plus, as the band were playing anyway, the entertainment would be free, too. Result!
Then Michaela went on holiday for the entire month of September. And, you guessed it, no one monitored her emails while she was away. I needed forty copies of the book to sell at the launch. I sent email after pointless email, to no avail. When, by the last week in September, I’d still had no response, I had to cancel the launch. Mary very kindly offered me the option to rebook at a later date.
When Michaela returned she was hugely apologetic. Although the ‘official’ publishing date would still be 1st October, it would take a couple of weeks to actually get some copies together. She assured my that if I rebooked the launch for Thursday 23rd October, all would be well. She was nearly right.
She did indeed arrange for my forty copies to be posted up to Glasgow in good time. Unfortunately, she put the wrong address on the boxes.
I spent the 22nd, while I should have been at work, touring the greater Glasgow area desperately trying to find the delivery company’s depot. Finally, at 6pm the evening before the launch, I got my copies.
The launch, incidentally, was a great night. The band were great, the sandwiches were great, the pub was great, and they were all free! I had shrewdly avoided the necessity of doing a reading by hiring an actress friend of mine to do it for me, and she did a great job (she wasn’t free, cost me a bottle of Jack Daniels and a bag of chips, that one). All forty copies were sold, and I was a happy man.
And that was it, finally I was a published author. The book was there for all to see on Amazon and everything! The price was wrong, right enough. And it was worryingly showing as ‘out of stock’.
I had cannily asked a few friends and family members to order the book through shops, rather than buying it from Amazon. The publishers being not too large, established or, frankly, competent, I figured this was a good way to bring it to shop managers’ attention. As writers will know, to get a book from a shop it has to go via a wholesaler, in this case, Gardners.
Shouldn’t be a problem - the shop places the order with Gardners, they order it from the publisher, the publisher sends it to Gardners, Gardners send it to the shop, and the job is done.
Seven weeks later, not one of the shop ordered copies had arrived.
Turned out Gardners had been making the same fatal mistake I’d made myself in the past - sending the order to an email address that no one in the publishers thought it wise to monitor. Oh, how I didn’t laugh.
For the first time (amazingly, not sure how I held my temper up till then) in my history with the publisher, I sent a very rude email, detailing just how disappointed and shocked I was at their apparent lack of even basic business acumen.
That did the trick (I sent it to the MD).
Now, the book is readily available on Amazon (at the correct price), Gardners have a holding stock and it’s on the shelves of a number of Waterstones stores. It’s even in libraries. It got reviewed in the biggest selling Scottish daily newspaper (The Daily Record), where it was described as one of the best debut novels of 2008.
So, all’s well that ends well.
Heh.
The prize money (you didn’t think I’d forgotten about that, did you?). The book was ‘published’ on October 1st, 2008. Which meant that, according to the publishing contract, my prize money was due to be paid on, at the very latest, April 1st, 2009.
Want to bet if I’ve got it yet?
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
People Are Lovely
Don't worry, I've not become a weird hippy, everyone's still a bunch of bastards, of course.
I may be a slightly more normal sort of hippy, though.
Children and impressionable people look away now, I'm about to get x-rated again and say something unconscionable:
Talking to strangers can be good.
Not the puppy worrying sort, obviously, but I met a man with a whippet at the weekend, and he turned out to be a very fine fella indeed.
He had been battling food poisoning and small town apathy for days, yet still managed to be the finest host a drunk could ask for. I have never before witnessed such an expanse of bottled beer and, eh, ... something else beginning with 'B' ... oh yeah, books.
The launch of Moffat Book Month in the Chambers Gallery in Moffat's High Street was an invitation only do, and I was one of the lucky ones. Put it this way, if you weren't invited you wish you were. If you were invited and didn't turn up, you're a fool and I hope you're already making plans for next year.
A very successful art gallery has decided to devote one month a year to the art of writing, as opposed to that stuff people do with paint and pictures.
If you're a writer and you're reading this, get yourself involved.
Not only did I get the opportunity to discover some very interesting books, I also got to have a few beers with some very fine writers, some of whom I'd met 'online' previously, and some I hadn't.
Biggest surprise of the evening for me: There's not a single one of them I wouldn't happily go for a pint with, or trust with my dog.
People are lovely, it seems.
It's hard to be cynical at times like this. I hate nature for that.
I may be a slightly more normal sort of hippy, though.
Children and impressionable people look away now, I'm about to get x-rated again and say something unconscionable:
Talking to strangers can be good.
Not the puppy worrying sort, obviously, but I met a man with a whippet at the weekend, and he turned out to be a very fine fella indeed.
He had been battling food poisoning and small town apathy for days, yet still managed to be the finest host a drunk could ask for. I have never before witnessed such an expanse of bottled beer and, eh, ... something else beginning with 'B' ... oh yeah, books.
The launch of Moffat Book Month in the Chambers Gallery in Moffat's High Street was an invitation only do, and I was one of the lucky ones. Put it this way, if you weren't invited you wish you were. If you were invited and didn't turn up, you're a fool and I hope you're already making plans for next year.
A very successful art gallery has decided to devote one month a year to the art of writing, as opposed to that stuff people do with paint and pictures.
If you're a writer and you're reading this, get yourself involved.
Not only did I get the opportunity to discover some very interesting books, I also got to have a few beers with some very fine writers, some of whom I'd met 'online' previously, and some I hadn't.
Biggest surprise of the evening for me: There's not a single one of them I wouldn't happily go for a pint with, or trust with my dog.
People are lovely, it seems.
It's hard to be cynical at times like this. I hate nature for that.
Friday, July 31, 2009
Moving Across the (On)Line
I'm going to this thing tomorrow, in this place, where I'm going to meet these people.
I'm a bit worried.
It's a thing I know about but have never seen; it's a place I've heard of, but never been; they're people I know of, but haven't yet screened.
The thing and the place aren't the issue, to be fair. The people, though...
I spoke to them all, but only looked one in the eyes. We've all shared our secrets, and sometimes our cries.
I'd better stop rhyming, as I've just realised ... that this isn't a bloody poem. Sorry.
In actual fact, I'm looking forward to tomorrow a great deal.
Perry Isles, a good guy (I surmise) and a great writer (I know for a fact) is hosting a writing event in his shop/gallery in Moffat, during August.
The month will be dedicated to celebrating (and hopefully selling a few) books by authors who have found their way into publication by the less traditional routes, i.e. via indy publishers, competitions and self-publishing, etc. Perry has very kindly invited several writers, myself included, to the launch party tomorrow.
I envisage a piss-up of great magnitude, as does Perry, given the amount of alcohol he's apparently bought in (yay!).
But, I am going to meet in person for the first time, a few people I've only known online up till now, including the aforementioned Perry.
I'm not overly worried about this, as, so far, my experience in this area has been positive.
I have, up till now, met two people in 'the flesh' who I'd previously only encountered in the ter net. I'm delighted to report that, on both occasions, it went well and I have, hopefully, made a couple of good friends there.
Tomorrow I'm going to meet a few more. All at once. And they're all writers. And (shh, don't tell anyone) better writers than me!
Some are published, some are self-published and some are unpublished, but they're all bloody good, I know that.
Is this, I find myself thinking, when I get caught? Is this when it becomes obvious, to people who know, that I don't have a bloody clue what this writing malarky is all about; that I've been winging it?
I don't know the first thing about literature, never have. When I was writing WYLMT I had to keep a published novel at my side at all times so I could check if I was formatting the paragraphs properly (and I still got it wrong). I was on chapter 28 before I finally figured out the its/it's thing, and still don't have a clue about passed/past.
I'm the guy who read somewhere that all writing should be double spaced when submitting to agents etc, so put two spaces between each word, for an entire novel. It never occurred to me that it meant an extra space between lines. That was not a fun edit, believe me. Took me months to get out of the habit of hitting the space bar twice.
The writers I'm meeting tomorrow, on the other hand, are, well, clever fuckers.
The one thing I do have going for me, thankfully, is that, a. one of the two people I mentioned earlier I've already met is going to be there, so I can hide behind her if it gets dicey, and b. I get the distinct impression that everyone else who's going is intending to get really drunk too, so hopefully they won't remember a thing I say.
Thank Christ for alcohol (which is hopefully what those folks at that wedding did).
Anyway, once again I've completely failed to make a point. Becoming a habit with me, that.
I'd hate to be an advocate for meeting up with people you've met online, because there are so many ways that could go badly, but, for me, so far, it's actually been a very positive experience, and I have no doubt Perry's event tomorrow will only reinforce that.
Which just goes to show, I'm a rubbish moral guardian. Shit, I've never even robbed or stabbed anyone when I've been drunk or on drugs.
KIDS - Don't listen to a word I say, ever!
Moffat Book Month, Chambers Gallery, High Street, Moffat (it's in Scotland)
I'm a bit worried.
It's a thing I know about but have never seen; it's a place I've heard of, but never been; they're people I know of, but haven't yet screened.
The thing and the place aren't the issue, to be fair. The people, though...
I spoke to them all, but only looked one in the eyes. We've all shared our secrets, and sometimes our cries.
I'd better stop rhyming, as I've just realised ... that this isn't a bloody poem. Sorry.
In actual fact, I'm looking forward to tomorrow a great deal.
Perry Isles, a good guy (I surmise) and a great writer (I know for a fact) is hosting a writing event in his shop/gallery in Moffat, during August.
The month will be dedicated to celebrating (and hopefully selling a few) books by authors who have found their way into publication by the less traditional routes, i.e. via indy publishers, competitions and self-publishing, etc. Perry has very kindly invited several writers, myself included, to the launch party tomorrow.
I envisage a piss-up of great magnitude, as does Perry, given the amount of alcohol he's apparently bought in (yay!).
But, I am going to meet in person for the first time, a few people I've only known online up till now, including the aforementioned Perry.
I'm not overly worried about this, as, so far, my experience in this area has been positive.
I have, up till now, met two people in 'the flesh' who I'd previously only encountered in the ter net. I'm delighted to report that, on both occasions, it went well and I have, hopefully, made a couple of good friends there.
Tomorrow I'm going to meet a few more. All at once. And they're all writers. And (shh, don't tell anyone) better writers than me!
Some are published, some are self-published and some are unpublished, but they're all bloody good, I know that.
Is this, I find myself thinking, when I get caught? Is this when it becomes obvious, to people who know, that I don't have a bloody clue what this writing malarky is all about; that I've been winging it?
I don't know the first thing about literature, never have. When I was writing WYLMT I had to keep a published novel at my side at all times so I could check if I was formatting the paragraphs properly (and I still got it wrong). I was on chapter 28 before I finally figured out the its/it's thing, and still don't have a clue about passed/past.
I'm the guy who read somewhere that all writing should be double spaced when submitting to agents etc, so put two spaces between each word, for an entire novel. It never occurred to me that it meant an extra space between lines. That was not a fun edit, believe me. Took me months to get out of the habit of hitting the space bar twice.
The writers I'm meeting tomorrow, on the other hand, are, well, clever fuckers.
The one thing I do have going for me, thankfully, is that, a. one of the two people I mentioned earlier I've already met is going to be there, so I can hide behind her if it gets dicey, and b. I get the distinct impression that everyone else who's going is intending to get really drunk too, so hopefully they won't remember a thing I say.
Thank Christ for alcohol (which is hopefully what those folks at that wedding did).
Anyway, once again I've completely failed to make a point. Becoming a habit with me, that.
I'd hate to be an advocate for meeting up with people you've met online, because there are so many ways that could go badly, but, for me, so far, it's actually been a very positive experience, and I have no doubt Perry's event tomorrow will only reinforce that.
Which just goes to show, I'm a rubbish moral guardian. Shit, I've never even robbed or stabbed anyone when I've been drunk or on drugs.
KIDS - Don't listen to a word I say, ever!
Moffat Book Month, Chambers Gallery, High Street, Moffat (it's in Scotland)
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Critiquer's Guilt
There's a tacit agreement between writers on various critique sites across the cyberland. The deal is - you do your bit, we'll do ours, i.e if you have something you want some help with, you should be helping out others with their stuff. It's not a tit-for-tat thing (or shouldn't be, at least). It just says that, to make the world a fairer and more just place, you should put in as much work helping others as you expect others to put into helping you.
It's not important who you actually help, as long as you're seen to pull your weight, in a pay-it-forward sort of way.
This is a great system, relying as it does on people's inherent altruism and faith in human nature, which is always going to work out for the best, after all.
A problem occurs on those sites where there's an element of competition, of course. What if you need the goodwill of others to push your work up the chart/ladder/pyramid of misery? But, they're all also trying to find their way up there. How does that work?
Is it actually a crit they're looking for, you find yourself thinking, or just a shove up, a nudge closer to the perceived prize?
Is it possible that, by trying to help and point out things you may think aren't working in their work, you could actually be seen as a saboteur? You'd think not, but ....
You said you quite liked it, but didn't give me 5 out of 5 in every category!
You mentioned problems I don't agree with, and only gave me 3s! Don't you know how this site works? By not giving me 5s in every category you've destroyed my chances of ever...
... ever what? Winning? Winning what, exactly?
There are other sites where numbers aren't involved, you just 'back' a writer, or you don't. Sorry, got that a bit wrong, there, you 'back' a book, not a writer.
Yeah, of course you do.
I imagine you're now expecting me to gibber on about how 'good' writing never rises to the top under such circumstances.
I wouldn't know 'good' writing if it slapped my syllables.
I just like the stuff I like, no intellectualism required.
For me, anyone who professes to be 'literary' is already so far up their own arse that I fully expect to see them peering at me from inside their own mouths, as they scream in outrage at a world that dares to ignore them.
Bugger, did I have a wee rant, there? Sorry.
The original point I so clearly failed to make was this: I cannot, for the life of me, be arsed doing any more critiques. I honestly can't, at least not for a while. And I feel bad about that.
There are sites where there is no competition, and the only goal is to help writers become better at their craft. These are places where you know anyone offering a crit is sincere and truthful, and has taken a lot of time and effort in order to help you out. There are many kind people who've held up their side of the bargain and critted my stuff, even when I'd forgotten I'd put it up there (which is no excuse). I know I owe them, or at least the sites, the same amount of effort.
And yet, I can't be arsed. I'm at a point, currently, where I don't want to read stuff and be critical, I just want to, well, read.
I want to read for fun, not for work. Is that bad? I don't know.
It shouldn't be, I don't think. Surely it's okay just to want to read, for reading's sake. Why on Earth should I feel guilty about that?
Must be the Catholic in me.
It's not important who you actually help, as long as you're seen to pull your weight, in a pay-it-forward sort of way.
This is a great system, relying as it does on people's inherent altruism and faith in human nature, which is always going to work out for the best, after all.
A problem occurs on those sites where there's an element of competition, of course. What if you need the goodwill of others to push your work up the chart/ladder/pyramid of misery? But, they're all also trying to find their way up there. How does that work?
Is it actually a crit they're looking for, you find yourself thinking, or just a shove up, a nudge closer to the perceived prize?
Is it possible that, by trying to help and point out things you may think aren't working in their work, you could actually be seen as a saboteur? You'd think not, but ....
You said you quite liked it, but didn't give me 5 out of 5 in every category!
You mentioned problems I don't agree with, and only gave me 3s! Don't you know how this site works? By not giving me 5s in every category you've destroyed my chances of ever...
... ever what? Winning? Winning what, exactly?
There are other sites where numbers aren't involved, you just 'back' a writer, or you don't. Sorry, got that a bit wrong, there, you 'back' a book, not a writer.
Yeah, of course you do.
I imagine you're now expecting me to gibber on about how 'good' writing never rises to the top under such circumstances.
I wouldn't know 'good' writing if it slapped my syllables.
I just like the stuff I like, no intellectualism required.
For me, anyone who professes to be 'literary' is already so far up their own arse that I fully expect to see them peering at me from inside their own mouths, as they scream in outrage at a world that dares to ignore them.
Bugger, did I have a wee rant, there? Sorry.
The original point I so clearly failed to make was this: I cannot, for the life of me, be arsed doing any more critiques. I honestly can't, at least not for a while. And I feel bad about that.
There are sites where there is no competition, and the only goal is to help writers become better at their craft. These are places where you know anyone offering a crit is sincere and truthful, and has taken a lot of time and effort in order to help you out. There are many kind people who've held up their side of the bargain and critted my stuff, even when I'd forgotten I'd put it up there (which is no excuse). I know I owe them, or at least the sites, the same amount of effort.
And yet, I can't be arsed. I'm at a point, currently, where I don't want to read stuff and be critical, I just want to, well, read.
I want to read for fun, not for work. Is that bad? I don't know.
It shouldn't be, I don't think. Surely it's okay just to want to read, for reading's sake. Why on Earth should I feel guilty about that?
Must be the Catholic in me.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Bring the Funny
Someone (her name's Phillipa, feel free to have her shot) asked me to talk about writing comedy, recently.
Huh?
How can you talk about writing comedy?
What does it even mean, the word comedy? What's funny, to you? Yes, you, the person reading this. What do you find funny? I'm serious, please tell me.
I learned what was funny through my dad. He introduced me to Monty Python, and Peter Sellers, and Spike Milligan and, through all of them, the art (and it is an art) of being daft.
Then he allowed me to meet Billy Connolly (I was six and terrified, bloody Banana boots), and Rikki Fulton; and Chic Murray, and Dave Allen and, basically, some of the funniest people who had ever lived till that point. My dad introduced me to all of these guys before I reached double figures.
To be fair, I was only really interested in Spider-Man, back then.
Still am, if I'm honest.
But, something must have leeched through because apparently I write funny stuff now.
I do remember, when I started on the first scene of WYLMT (a suicide scene), getting to a point where I wanted to make a joke and having to make the decision - should I? Is this a situation where a joke is appropriate? What's this book about, for God's sake? (at that point I thought it was going to be boring). And I do remember very deliberately saying to myself - fuck it, make the joke. So I did. I wrote the words -
The geriatric GP had, after overcoming his instinctive urge to prescribe a course of antibiotics, embarked on an epic journey of discovery in a bid to find out just how many different combinations of anti-depressants and sedatives it was possible for one man to take without noticing any beneficial effect whatsoever.
Not that funny, I know, but that was the exact moment I became a writer of humour as opposed to a chronicler of mental illness. Funny how that works. Antibiotics made me the writer I am. Weird (cured a couple of embarrassing infections too, so I can't complain).
After that point, WYLMT became a determined exercise in trying to make tragedy funny, without dismissing the tragedy. It's for others to decide if I managed it, but that was the plan.
Then came Scratch, book two. That started as a short story about my memories (very fond memories) of my first love, and an internal debate about what's best - first or last? You know, first kiss/last kiss, first hug/last hug, first fantasy/last fantasy etc. The phrase Champion the Wonder Horse appeared, and suddenly that was a comedy, too.
Scratch then, for various bizarre reasons, became an exercise in comedy (cos laughing at it was easier). And, oddly, it seemed to work - people laughed, a lot, apparently.
And that was it. I was a 'funny' writer.
And now I have people asking me to talk about writing comedy. How the hell did that happen?
What do I know about it?
Eh, at best I know this - people are funny. REAL people are funny. Every conversation I have, with anyone, everyone's going for the joke.
Doesn't matter if it's at work, in a meeting, in the pub, with a mate I've known for twenty years or a manager I've only just met - everyone's looking for a joke. It's human nature.
Bottom line - How does one person make another person like them/not hate them/ feel predisposed not to axe-murder them? Make them laugh, that's how.
So, how do you write funny stuff? Easy, write about real people. It really is that simple.
And, if you need a couple of your characters to have a boring conversation to move the plot along, give one of them a hangover or, at the very least, make something else be happening - a lost necklace or a bitey pet should do it.
So, having managed to write an entire post about comedy without a single laugh (told you it's not something to be talked about), I should probably end with a joke. Very well:
In a small town, an elderly couple had been dating each other for a long time.
At the urging of their friends, they decided it was finally time for marriage. Before the wedding, they went out to dinner and had a long conversation regarding how their marriage might work. They discussed finances, living arrangements and so on.
Finally, the old gentleman decided it was time to broach the subject of their physical relationship.
"How do you feel about sex?" he asked, rather trustingly.
"Well," she said, responding very carefully, "I'd have to say... I would like it infrequently."
The old gentleman sat quietly for a moment, then, over his glasses, he looked her in the eye and casually asked ...
"Is that one word, or two?"
sorry
Huh?
How can you talk about writing comedy?
What does it even mean, the word comedy? What's funny, to you? Yes, you, the person reading this. What do you find funny? I'm serious, please tell me.
I learned what was funny through my dad. He introduced me to Monty Python, and Peter Sellers, and Spike Milligan and, through all of them, the art (and it is an art) of being daft.
Then he allowed me to meet Billy Connolly (I was six and terrified, bloody Banana boots), and Rikki Fulton; and Chic Murray, and Dave Allen and, basically, some of the funniest people who had ever lived till that point. My dad introduced me to all of these guys before I reached double figures.
To be fair, I was only really interested in Spider-Man, back then.
Still am, if I'm honest.
But, something must have leeched through because apparently I write funny stuff now.
I do remember, when I started on the first scene of WYLMT (a suicide scene), getting to a point where I wanted to make a joke and having to make the decision - should I? Is this a situation where a joke is appropriate? What's this book about, for God's sake? (at that point I thought it was going to be boring). And I do remember very deliberately saying to myself - fuck it, make the joke. So I did. I wrote the words -
The geriatric GP had, after overcoming his instinctive urge to prescribe a course of antibiotics, embarked on an epic journey of discovery in a bid to find out just how many different combinations of anti-depressants and sedatives it was possible for one man to take without noticing any beneficial effect whatsoever.
Not that funny, I know, but that was the exact moment I became a writer of humour as opposed to a chronicler of mental illness. Funny how that works. Antibiotics made me the writer I am. Weird (cured a couple of embarrassing infections too, so I can't complain).
After that point, WYLMT became a determined exercise in trying to make tragedy funny, without dismissing the tragedy. It's for others to decide if I managed it, but that was the plan.
Then came Scratch, book two. That started as a short story about my memories (very fond memories) of my first love, and an internal debate about what's best - first or last? You know, first kiss/last kiss, first hug/last hug, first fantasy/last fantasy etc. The phrase Champion the Wonder Horse appeared, and suddenly that was a comedy, too.
Scratch then, for various bizarre reasons, became an exercise in comedy (cos laughing at it was easier). And, oddly, it seemed to work - people laughed, a lot, apparently.
And that was it. I was a 'funny' writer.
And now I have people asking me to talk about writing comedy. How the hell did that happen?
What do I know about it?
Eh, at best I know this - people are funny. REAL people are funny. Every conversation I have, with anyone, everyone's going for the joke.
Doesn't matter if it's at work, in a meeting, in the pub, with a mate I've known for twenty years or a manager I've only just met - everyone's looking for a joke. It's human nature.
Bottom line - How does one person make another person like them/not hate them/ feel predisposed not to axe-murder them? Make them laugh, that's how.
So, how do you write funny stuff? Easy, write about real people. It really is that simple.
And, if you need a couple of your characters to have a boring conversation to move the plot along, give one of them a hangover or, at the very least, make something else be happening - a lost necklace or a bitey pet should do it.
So, having managed to write an entire post about comedy without a single laugh (told you it's not something to be talked about), I should probably end with a joke. Very well:
In a small town, an elderly couple had been dating each other for a long time.
At the urging of their friends, they decided it was finally time for marriage. Before the wedding, they went out to dinner and had a long conversation regarding how their marriage might work. They discussed finances, living arrangements and so on.
Finally, the old gentleman decided it was time to broach the subject of their physical relationship.
"How do you feel about sex?" he asked, rather trustingly.
"Well," she said, responding very carefully, "I'd have to say... I would like it infrequently."
The old gentleman sat quietly for a moment, then, over his glasses, he looked her in the eye and casually asked ...
"Is that one word, or two?"
sorry
Monday, July 6, 2009
Writing
Writing is funny. By 'funny' I mean 'odd and distasteful', not actually humourous, obviously.
I'm not talking about the end result, but the act itself. The end result could well be funny, or thrilling, or enlightening, or beautiful, or scary, or rubbish, or, well, any number of things. That's for readers to decide.
The 'act' of writing, though, is weird.
I've had what I believe is known as 'writer's block' for an age, now. I finished Scratch two years ago. I kept editing it for another year or so. I think it's finished, now. It isn't, of course, but I'm sick of it so chose to move on.
What did I move on to? Eh ...
I moved on to Facebook. And Twitter. And stuff.
Writing wise, I didn't move anywhere. I was resolutely stumped.
I remember, long before I was pretending to be a writer, the phrase write what you know.
I assumed that was a credo, and followed it.
In WYLMT I wrote what I knew, or some of what I knew at least. I knew about being an unsuccessful musician, I knew about working with people with learning disabilities, I knew about, sadly, depression. I knew about dogs, I knew about drama students, I knew about disappointed but ever hopeful parents. I knew how it felt to get a terrible haircut. All the serious stuff, I knew.
That was a pretty easy, if painful, book to write.
Then came Scratch. What was left to write, that I knew about? Hmm...
Dead end jobs? Yep. Being a barman? Yep. Not knowing the meaning of the word 'adult'? Yep. Managing to screw up relationships, even the second time round? Yep.
That was a pretty easy, if painful, book to write.
So, what's next? What else do I know? What else do I have to comment upon? Answer - nothing. I'm done. The shallow quarry of me has been fully excavated. Two novels did it, they were enough. There's bugger all left in there, it's a vacant lot.
But, I apparently still want to write. Is that just because it's become a habit? A hobby?
I've done my demons - depression is dead to me now, I wrote it out, I killed it (in chapter one). WYLMT achieved its purpose in that respect. The fact that it ended up getting published was, and continues to be, a bonus.
Scratch let me write my way out of relationship hell. Job done.
Both books were about normal people dealing with, sometimes, not ordinary situations.
So, what do I write next?
Jesus, I've been searching for something, and getting it wrong. Badly wrong. I've made the mistake of trying to create extraordinary situations for characters to react to. That's no bad thing, but the mistake I've made is to come up with the circumstance first, not the characters.
I have, so far, had an earthquake, a bomb blast, and a guy who can read other people's minds, but only when they're thinking about him.
These are not things I'm likely to be good at writing about. Why did I come up with them? Because they weren't things I knew about. That was a good reason, a couple of hours ago. It isn't, now.
It occurred to me tonight that there's no point in denying what you're good(ish) at. I can do real people in real relationships who get life wrong a lot.
I can't do bombs, or sci-fi, or crime.
The only thing less interesting to me than the striations on a spent bullet is the mind of a person who finds the striations on a spent bullet interesting.
I'm going back to writing about people. Normal, real people, who swear, make mistakes and don't solve problems with pithy one liners. Or guns. Or talent. Or skill. Or ever.
I'm not talking about the end result, but the act itself. The end result could well be funny, or thrilling, or enlightening, or beautiful, or scary, or rubbish, or, well, any number of things. That's for readers to decide.
The 'act' of writing, though, is weird.
I've had what I believe is known as 'writer's block' for an age, now. I finished Scratch two years ago. I kept editing it for another year or so. I think it's finished, now. It isn't, of course, but I'm sick of it so chose to move on.
What did I move on to? Eh ...
I moved on to Facebook. And Twitter. And stuff.
Writing wise, I didn't move anywhere. I was resolutely stumped.
I remember, long before I was pretending to be a writer, the phrase write what you know.
I assumed that was a credo, and followed it.
In WYLMT I wrote what I knew, or some of what I knew at least. I knew about being an unsuccessful musician, I knew about working with people with learning disabilities, I knew about, sadly, depression. I knew about dogs, I knew about drama students, I knew about disappointed but ever hopeful parents. I knew how it felt to get a terrible haircut. All the serious stuff, I knew.
That was a pretty easy, if painful, book to write.
Then came Scratch. What was left to write, that I knew about? Hmm...
Dead end jobs? Yep. Being a barman? Yep. Not knowing the meaning of the word 'adult'? Yep. Managing to screw up relationships, even the second time round? Yep.
That was a pretty easy, if painful, book to write.
So, what's next? What else do I know? What else do I have to comment upon? Answer - nothing. I'm done. The shallow quarry of me has been fully excavated. Two novels did it, they were enough. There's bugger all left in there, it's a vacant lot.
But, I apparently still want to write. Is that just because it's become a habit? A hobby?
I've done my demons - depression is dead to me now, I wrote it out, I killed it (in chapter one). WYLMT achieved its purpose in that respect. The fact that it ended up getting published was, and continues to be, a bonus.
Scratch let me write my way out of relationship hell. Job done.
Both books were about normal people dealing with, sometimes, not ordinary situations.
So, what do I write next?
Jesus, I've been searching for something, and getting it wrong. Badly wrong. I've made the mistake of trying to create extraordinary situations for characters to react to. That's no bad thing, but the mistake I've made is to come up with the circumstance first, not the characters.
I have, so far, had an earthquake, a bomb blast, and a guy who can read other people's minds, but only when they're thinking about him.
These are not things I'm likely to be good at writing about. Why did I come up with them? Because they weren't things I knew about. That was a good reason, a couple of hours ago. It isn't, now.
It occurred to me tonight that there's no point in denying what you're good(ish) at. I can do real people in real relationships who get life wrong a lot.
I can't do bombs, or sci-fi, or crime.
The only thing less interesting to me than the striations on a spent bullet is the mind of a person who finds the striations on a spent bullet interesting.
I'm going back to writing about people. Normal, real people, who swear, make mistakes and don't solve problems with pithy one liners. Or guns. Or talent. Or skill. Or ever.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Slightly Fewer Heroes
I went to see one of my all time musical heroes in concert tonight.
He was superb. His band was superb, the sound was superb, it was a, you guessed it, superb gig.
It was the exact type of music I used to play myself, and a genre I've always thought was about as good, musically, as it's possible to get.
I was a not that great but okay guitarist. The guy playing guitar tonight was roughly eighty thousand times better than I ever was.
The drummer was as good as I've ever heard; the bass player was verging on genius; the keyboard player found notes, chords and sounds I didn't know existed.
And the man himself, the main man, was (and is) a legend. He played the finest harmonica, the most beautiful piano and organ, and when he sang - Jesus, did he sing.
My reaction?
Unmoved.
I don't know why, and it worries me.
Okay, it wasn't the biggest crowd I've ever seen and that affected the atmosphere. But, still. This was both a hero, and a man who had possibly the finest musicians I've ever heard on stage with him, and my honest reaction was - meh.
I was bored.
So, what does that say? Does it say something about me, or him?
It's my blog, so I'm going to go with me (I can't imagine he gives a flying fuck).
My point, if I have one, is this: A thing I thought I cared deeply about is suddenly boring, apparently. Even when the best in the business does it, it's boring. Not terrible at all, but boring.
How bloody boring must I have been when I was trying to do the same thing, but not nearly as well?
Is this a sign I've moved on? That my tastes have matured? Sadly, I don't think so. Yer man tonight is older than my dad, and he was loving it (yer man, not my dad).
Is it a sign I've clung on to things I should have let go long ago? Should I be listening to more modern music? Almost certainly. I hear that Duffy girl is very cutting edge.
So, that's how music has got me a touch disillusioned, tonight.
As for writing ...
He was superb. His band was superb, the sound was superb, it was a, you guessed it, superb gig.
It was the exact type of music I used to play myself, and a genre I've always thought was about as good, musically, as it's possible to get.
I was a not that great but okay guitarist. The guy playing guitar tonight was roughly eighty thousand times better than I ever was.
The drummer was as good as I've ever heard; the bass player was verging on genius; the keyboard player found notes, chords and sounds I didn't know existed.
And the man himself, the main man, was (and is) a legend. He played the finest harmonica, the most beautiful piano and organ, and when he sang - Jesus, did he sing.
My reaction?
Unmoved.
I don't know why, and it worries me.
Okay, it wasn't the biggest crowd I've ever seen and that affected the atmosphere. But, still. This was both a hero, and a man who had possibly the finest musicians I've ever heard on stage with him, and my honest reaction was - meh.
I was bored.
So, what does that say? Does it say something about me, or him?
It's my blog, so I'm going to go with me (I can't imagine he gives a flying fuck).
My point, if I have one, is this: A thing I thought I cared deeply about is suddenly boring, apparently. Even when the best in the business does it, it's boring. Not terrible at all, but boring.
How bloody boring must I have been when I was trying to do the same thing, but not nearly as well?
Is this a sign I've moved on? That my tastes have matured? Sadly, I don't think so. Yer man tonight is older than my dad, and he was loving it (yer man, not my dad).
Is it a sign I've clung on to things I should have let go long ago? Should I be listening to more modern music? Almost certainly. I hear that Duffy girl is very cutting edge.
So, that's how music has got me a touch disillusioned, tonight.
As for writing ...
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