Tuesday, 18 December 2012
In more news
I should also report that GrubSport, the other blog to be found in these pages, has been picked up by The Independent. I'm now writing an article per week for them. So, some progress there.
Wednesday, 5 December 2012
One year on...
On more or less the anniversary of my last post, I'll just report this. My novel is with a publisher. That's all I'm saying.
Tuesday, 13 December 2011
August 7th – December 13th
Four months this time, then. Whatever.
Firstly, the bad news. For three of those four months, I’ve done nothing on the novel.
Secondly, the good news. I’ve written a sitcom pilot with a mate and submitted it to the BBC.
Thirdly, I’m going to see my careers consultant on Thursday for the first time in months.
Let’s look at each of these points individually for just a moment. I got the novel to a place where I wanted a couple of people to look at it. As I mentioned, the missus read it in August/September (30,000+ words versus 18,000 when I restarted). Whenever she reads my stuff she’s:
(a) Excited because she loves the fact that I’m actually writing (and this in turn is massively gratifying for me).
(b) Analytical. I feel honoured that it takes her longer to read my work than anyone else’s. Ordinarily she’s a scalded cat of a reader, polishing off 300-page roller-coaster novels on short-haul flights and tackling two pages before I’ve finished one if ever we’re reading the same passage in a book. But with mine she takes her time, savours, pauses, re-reads, digests. Because she’s also, in the nicest possible way…
(c) Critical. Would that character really say that? Why does she take that course of action when the other course is far easier? Isn’t that passage a bit derivative (I haven’t read Oliver Twist, OK)? Couldn’t you introduce more observational humour?
I’m sure I’ll get better at not looking hurt or appearing defensive when she makes suggestions. Just might take a bit of time, that’s all. Alright, I’m promising nothing. Fact is, though, that I combed through the entire manuscript, making many (but not all) of the changes she suggested. That done, I forwarded it to my careers consultant.
Now, the sitcom. An article appeared over the summer in which BBC1’s Controller Danny Cohen made a plea for more scripts. Again, my wife was encouraging and, after an initial period of resistance from me (I have a novel to finish, don’t you know?), I decided to give it a bash with an old mate of mine. Said mate and I have a rich pedigree in BBC comedy. Who could forget Religious Fundamentalist Wrestling on BBC3’s New Comedy Talent? What’s that? You’ve never heard of it? Philistines.
Anyway, our sitcom is called Clever, Bitter, Middle-Aged. What to say about it? Well, it centres around three frustrated 40-year-olds, each of whom wants to escape the drudgery of his life. It’s full of swearing. And it features a healthy dollop of toilet- and poo-related humour. And the main thing is it was enormous fun to write. We’ve submitted it to the BBC and have been promised a response within….four months.
Finally, my careers consultant. I feel awful for having put her off for the last couple of months but, as she says, as long as I’m writing that’s the main thing. Now to explain to her the shifting sands of my recent writing and the attendant delay in the next stage of my novel.
Next post, on the current pattern, should be about next July.
Firstly, the bad news. For three of those four months, I’ve done nothing on the novel.
Secondly, the good news. I’ve written a sitcom pilot with a mate and submitted it to the BBC.
Thirdly, I’m going to see my careers consultant on Thursday for the first time in months.
Let’s look at each of these points individually for just a moment. I got the novel to a place where I wanted a couple of people to look at it. As I mentioned, the missus read it in August/September (30,000+ words versus 18,000 when I restarted). Whenever she reads my stuff she’s:
(a) Excited because she loves the fact that I’m actually writing (and this in turn is massively gratifying for me).
(b) Analytical. I feel honoured that it takes her longer to read my work than anyone else’s. Ordinarily she’s a scalded cat of a reader, polishing off 300-page roller-coaster novels on short-haul flights and tackling two pages before I’ve finished one if ever we’re reading the same passage in a book. But with mine she takes her time, savours, pauses, re-reads, digests. Because she’s also, in the nicest possible way…
(c) Critical. Would that character really say that? Why does she take that course of action when the other course is far easier? Isn’t that passage a bit derivative (I haven’t read Oliver Twist, OK)? Couldn’t you introduce more observational humour?
I’m sure I’ll get better at not looking hurt or appearing defensive when she makes suggestions. Just might take a bit of time, that’s all. Alright, I’m promising nothing. Fact is, though, that I combed through the entire manuscript, making many (but not all) of the changes she suggested. That done, I forwarded it to my careers consultant.
Now, the sitcom. An article appeared over the summer in which BBC1’s Controller Danny Cohen made a plea for more scripts. Again, my wife was encouraging and, after an initial period of resistance from me (I have a novel to finish, don’t you know?), I decided to give it a bash with an old mate of mine. Said mate and I have a rich pedigree in BBC comedy. Who could forget Religious Fundamentalist Wrestling on BBC3’s New Comedy Talent? What’s that? You’ve never heard of it? Philistines.
Anyway, our sitcom is called Clever, Bitter, Middle-Aged. What to say about it? Well, it centres around three frustrated 40-year-olds, each of whom wants to escape the drudgery of his life. It’s full of swearing. And it features a healthy dollop of toilet- and poo-related humour. And the main thing is it was enormous fun to write. We’ve submitted it to the BBC and have been promised a response within….four months.
Finally, my careers consultant. I feel awful for having put her off for the last couple of months but, as she says, as long as I’m writing that’s the main thing. Now to explain to her the shifting sands of my recent writing and the attendant delay in the next stage of my novel.
Next post, on the current pattern, should be about next July.
Saturday, 6 August 2011
21st June – (time lapse, cross fade) 6th August
Just the six weeks, then. I’m no Samuel Pepys, I grant you, but don’t mistake my slovenly diary keeping for inactivity on the writing front. Here’s a brief run-down of what’s been happening.
I ‘fessed up to my coach that fifteen hours per week was becoming something of a heavy burden, more likely to make me feel awful for any spare moment not spent writing than to spur me on. Instead, we’ve agreed to a set task each month and commit to completing that task by the next time we meet. Then I can spread the load over the four-week period. Or leave it all to the last minute and knock it out at the eleventh hour like a Pro Plus-guzzling student at essay deadline.
My June-July objective was to produce a further 5,000 words of the novel. This I did, almost on time and only a couple of hundred words short (qual over quant, I always think). An enjoyable passage where the main character is taken to an awards do, meets a ton of people who appear to know him, and gets utterly rat-faced on whiskey, gin and wine. Write what you know, they say.
When I set out on my quest to become a writer, another thing I wanted to do was enter some competitions. June 30th marked the closing date for the Bridport, a prestigious award in literary circles and with a first prize of £5,000 and the chance to be read by publishers. While my novel has to be the priority, and I shouldn’t get side-lined with tons of smaller projects, I did at least want to enter this one. What I decided to do, therefore, was to revisit the short stories I’d written over the last few years to find one I could adapt. My favourite has always been Adored, a piece about a 14-year-old boy who saves a girl’s life and ends up being stalked by her. Only problem with this: the competition demanded no more than 5,000 words. Adored was 12,000. So it became an interesting exercise in editing. Quite a cathartic process but, in this case, it does make it a very different story. Still, it’s in.
In other news, my lovely missus is currently reading the latest version of the novel. Much of it she read years ago but there’s plenty of new stuff for her to get her teeth into and, I hope, a clearer structure of the whole. She’ll be honest and, she tells me, harsh in places. Leave your sensibilities at the door, Paul.
Off to Barcelona for another relaxing work trip tonight. That’ll be another week not writing, then.
Just the six weeks, then. I’m no Samuel Pepys, I grant you, but don’t mistake my slovenly diary keeping for inactivity on the writing front. Here’s a brief run-down of what’s been happening.
I ‘fessed up to my coach that fifteen hours per week was becoming something of a heavy burden, more likely to make me feel awful for any spare moment not spent writing than to spur me on. Instead, we’ve agreed to a set task each month and commit to completing that task by the next time we meet. Then I can spread the load over the four-week period. Or leave it all to the last minute and knock it out at the eleventh hour like a Pro Plus-guzzling student at essay deadline.
My June-July objective was to produce a further 5,000 words of the novel. This I did, almost on time and only a couple of hundred words short (qual over quant, I always think). An enjoyable passage where the main character is taken to an awards do, meets a ton of people who appear to know him, and gets utterly rat-faced on whiskey, gin and wine. Write what you know, they say.
When I set out on my quest to become a writer, another thing I wanted to do was enter some competitions. June 30th marked the closing date for the Bridport, a prestigious award in literary circles and with a first prize of £5,000 and the chance to be read by publishers. While my novel has to be the priority, and I shouldn’t get side-lined with tons of smaller projects, I did at least want to enter this one. What I decided to do, therefore, was to revisit the short stories I’d written over the last few years to find one I could adapt. My favourite has always been Adored, a piece about a 14-year-old boy who saves a girl’s life and ends up being stalked by her. Only problem with this: the competition demanded no more than 5,000 words. Adored was 12,000. So it became an interesting exercise in editing. Quite a cathartic process but, in this case, it does make it a very different story. Still, it’s in.
In other news, my lovely missus is currently reading the latest version of the novel. Much of it she read years ago but there’s plenty of new stuff for her to get her teeth into and, I hope, a clearer structure of the whole. She’ll be honest and, she tells me, harsh in places. Leave your sensibilities at the door, Paul.
Off to Barcelona for another relaxing work trip tonight. That’ll be another week not writing, then.
Monday, 20 June 2011
9th June – 20th June
The manuscript lives! Thanks to those little whizz kids at PC World, who only took three weeks to do the necessary. So now I have the full, latest version – including everything I’ve written in the last month and a bit – in one place.
It’s not a numbers game but, psychologically, it’s gratifying to see the word count going up. Before I picked it up again recently, it stood at under 20,000 words. Now, I’m up to 26,500. Stephen King reckons on about 200,000 words per novel, but I reckon mine’s going to be around the 75,000 mark. But, hey, look at A Clockwork Orange. You could read it in a day but it’s one of the best books ever written.
This weekend, we’ve been away with friends in a caravan park (oh, the glamour). When you’re catching up with mates, one of the first questions is always about your job. I’ve told everyone I’m writing a novel. Apart from making me sound terribly interesting, it’s another way of making it real, of spurring myself on to make it happen.
Perhaps by next year’s caravan jaunt, which we’ve already booked for the first weekend in July 2012, I’ll have that book deal as a 40th birthday present.
The manuscript lives! Thanks to those little whizz kids at PC World, who only took three weeks to do the necessary. So now I have the full, latest version – including everything I’ve written in the last month and a bit – in one place.
It’s not a numbers game but, psychologically, it’s gratifying to see the word count going up. Before I picked it up again recently, it stood at under 20,000 words. Now, I’m up to 26,500. Stephen King reckons on about 200,000 words per novel, but I reckon mine’s going to be around the 75,000 mark. But, hey, look at A Clockwork Orange. You could read it in a day but it’s one of the best books ever written.
This weekend, we’ve been away with friends in a caravan park (oh, the glamour). When you’re catching up with mates, one of the first questions is always about your job. I’ve told everyone I’m writing a novel. Apart from making me sound terribly interesting, it’s another way of making it real, of spurring myself on to make it happen.
Perhaps by next year’s caravan jaunt, which we’ve already booked for the first weekend in July 2012, I’ll have that book deal as a 40th birthday present.
Wednesday, 8 June 2011
23rd May – 8th June
A daily diary, eh? Not happening, is it?
Another thing that’s not happening is the fifteen hours of writing per week. Let’s run through a few of those pesky excuses, shall we? Having a full-time job. Yep, I’d have to say that’s right up there. Coming home, picking up my boy from nursery, spending time with my wife, making and eating dinner, playing Scrabble online (that last one’s a real killer in the not-writing-novel stakes): all barriers to writing.
If I’m honest – and I’ve committed to be that, have I not? – I find it hard not to have time to myself to think, lie down, do nothing. “Proper fuck all”, as comedian Micky Flanagan puts it. So, when I set foot in the house, it’s not good for my psychological well-being to crack open the laptop and get straight into it.
That’s not to say I’ve done “proper fuck all” on the novel of late. No. I’m still writing chapters independently of the mother ship (i.e. the manuscript that’s still stuck in the PC that in turn is still stuck in PC World’s knackers yard). It’s just that I’ve been dedicating less than my target time each week. Mea culpa. I shall flagellate myself with broccoli.
Once I’ve taken my much-deserved punishment, I’m going to cut myself a bit of slack. Because (let’s repeat it) I’m still writing. And that wasn’t the case a month ago.
Two pieces of news. Firstly, my wonderful wife has bought me a Mac Book Pro. What a woman. Materialistic? Moi? Apparently, I can now edit movies and make my own mash-ups. But, of course, its primary function is as word processor. Secondly, I’m going to be coached by my careers consultant. Every four weeks we’ll meet, review what I’ve achieved (and what I haven’t) in the previous weeks and make a plan for the next month.
It’s going to be a team effort, this.
A daily diary, eh? Not happening, is it?
Another thing that’s not happening is the fifteen hours of writing per week. Let’s run through a few of those pesky excuses, shall we? Having a full-time job. Yep, I’d have to say that’s right up there. Coming home, picking up my boy from nursery, spending time with my wife, making and eating dinner, playing Scrabble online (that last one’s a real killer in the not-writing-novel stakes): all barriers to writing.
If I’m honest – and I’ve committed to be that, have I not? – I find it hard not to have time to myself to think, lie down, do nothing. “Proper fuck all”, as comedian Micky Flanagan puts it. So, when I set foot in the house, it’s not good for my psychological well-being to crack open the laptop and get straight into it.
That’s not to say I’ve done “proper fuck all” on the novel of late. No. I’m still writing chapters independently of the mother ship (i.e. the manuscript that’s still stuck in the PC that in turn is still stuck in PC World’s knackers yard). It’s just that I’ve been dedicating less than my target time each week. Mea culpa. I shall flagellate myself with broccoli.
Once I’ve taken my much-deserved punishment, I’m going to cut myself a bit of slack. Because (let’s repeat it) I’m still writing. And that wasn’t the case a month ago.
Two pieces of news. Firstly, my wonderful wife has bought me a Mac Book Pro. What a woman. Materialistic? Moi? Apparently, I can now edit movies and make my own mash-ups. But, of course, its primary function is as word processor. Secondly, I’m going to be coached by my careers consultant. Every four weeks we’ll meet, review what I’ve achieved (and what I haven’t) in the previous weeks and make a plan for the next month.
It’s going to be a team effort, this.
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