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.
Tuesday, 13 December 2011
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.
Sunday, 22 May 2011
Monday, 16 May 2011
16th May
Tomorrow morning, I’ll be whisked off in a limo to Heathrow before flying business class to New York. Trying to make this sound lovely and glamorous because I really don’t want to go. More to the point, all this jetting about, not to mention the attendant pesky work, is putting a bit of a crease in my writing regime.
Today’s output: forty five minutes of notes writing-up for the commercial job. And one packed suitcase.
Tomorrow morning, I’ll be whisked off in a limo to Heathrow before flying business class to New York. Trying to make this sound lovely and glamorous because I really don’t want to go. More to the point, all this jetting about, not to mention the attendant pesky work, is putting a bit of a crease in my writing regime.
Today’s output: forty five minutes of notes writing-up for the commercial job. And one packed suitcase.
Sunday, 15 May 2011
14th and 15th May
It’s Sunday night and I’ve had much of the weekend off. Social engagements, booze and childcare among the reasons (excuses) for this inactivity.
At the end of my first week, I reckon I’ve clocked up the fifteen hours of writing I committed to, particularly if you include this blog.
Back to the full-time job tomorrow. Rather inconveniently, I have a New York work trip from Tuesday to Thursday. Not only that but I also have a commercial writing job involving a number of phone interviews, some of which I’ll be conducting from my NY hotel room at 5am local time.
Interesting, busy times.
Now, I have the Sunday blues to contend with and Family Guy to watch.
It’s Sunday night and I’ve had much of the weekend off. Social engagements, booze and childcare among the reasons (excuses) for this inactivity.
At the end of my first week, I reckon I’ve clocked up the fifteen hours of writing I committed to, particularly if you include this blog.
Back to the full-time job tomorrow. Rather inconveniently, I have a New York work trip from Tuesday to Thursday. Not only that but I also have a commercial writing job involving a number of phone interviews, some of which I’ll be conducting from my NY hotel room at 5am local time.
Interesting, busy times.
Now, I have the Sunday blues to contend with and Family Guy to watch.
Saturday, 14 May 2011
13th May
Bloody computers. If all inanimate objects are put on this earth to obstruct and irritate (and they surely are), then computers are the generals of this vile army. Last night, when I opened the laptop in the loft and hit the ‘on’ button, I was faced with one of those technical messages consisting of heavy text on a black screen. Something along the lines of ‘This computer cannot boot due to a recent change in software or hardware. Please contact your IT support team or the manufacturer or the Samaritans’. It was only the sleeping baby the floor below and an in-built respect for material possessions that prevented me from hurling the thing against the wall.
Without access to my work-in-progress manuscript (no, of course I didn’t save a back-up copy!), and after allowing myself several minutes of screaming “fuck fuck fucking fuck!” into a pillow, I resolved to use my anger productively. And so it was that I introduced a brand new character to the novel. The villain. Power-crazed, sadistic, brutal, the architect of a gargantuan empire based on fear. A woman, too, red-headed in honour of my beautiful wife who might, I suspect, have been hoping for a tribute character without quite so many flaws.
The main thing for me is that I wrote at all yesterday. Life isn’t linear and plans have a habit of shifting like tidal sands. While it’s important to stick broadly to routines, timetables and schedules, it’s equally vital to find a way to create when things aren’t straightforward. Like doing press-ups in a tiny downstairs toilet.
My list of worries for next week is growing. How will I cope when I throw a full-time job back into the mix? Why am I not pushing my commercial writing CV to many potential employers? What if I’m unable to retrieve the manuscript from the knackered PC?
I think I’m going to ask my family to club together and buy me as a birthday gift a laptop that actually works. And a sledgehammer, in case of emergency.
--
PS I’ve just tried to upload this to the blog. Said blog is currently down due to a technical issue. The machines are winning, I tell you.
Bloody computers. If all inanimate objects are put on this earth to obstruct and irritate (and they surely are), then computers are the generals of this vile army. Last night, when I opened the laptop in the loft and hit the ‘on’ button, I was faced with one of those technical messages consisting of heavy text on a black screen. Something along the lines of ‘This computer cannot boot due to a recent change in software or hardware. Please contact your IT support team or the manufacturer or the Samaritans’. It was only the sleeping baby the floor below and an in-built respect for material possessions that prevented me from hurling the thing against the wall.
Without access to my work-in-progress manuscript (no, of course I didn’t save a back-up copy!), and after allowing myself several minutes of screaming “fuck fuck fucking fuck!” into a pillow, I resolved to use my anger productively. And so it was that I introduced a brand new character to the novel. The villain. Power-crazed, sadistic, brutal, the architect of a gargantuan empire based on fear. A woman, too, red-headed in honour of my beautiful wife who might, I suspect, have been hoping for a tribute character without quite so many flaws.
The main thing for me is that I wrote at all yesterday. Life isn’t linear and plans have a habit of shifting like tidal sands. While it’s important to stick broadly to routines, timetables and schedules, it’s equally vital to find a way to create when things aren’t straightforward. Like doing press-ups in a tiny downstairs toilet.
My list of worries for next week is growing. How will I cope when I throw a full-time job back into the mix? Why am I not pushing my commercial writing CV to many potential employers? What if I’m unable to retrieve the manuscript from the knackered PC?
I think I’m going to ask my family to club together and buy me as a birthday gift a laptop that actually works. And a sledgehammer, in case of emergency.
--
PS I’ve just tried to upload this to the blog. Said blog is currently down due to a technical issue. The machines are winning, I tell you.
12th May
Sitting on my arse eating chocolate and watching evening racing from Ludlow is far easier than climbing the loft stairs and finishing my novel. That’s the thing about setting yourself tasks. No matter how enjoyable the activity in question, having to do it instantly makes it less appealing.
I had my first real angel/devil on the shoulder moment last night. I was about an hour into my three-hour stretch when I thought: “Maybe I’ll just turn it in for the night, watch a bit of telly.” Well, I’d proved to myself I could stick it out for two consecutive days. I’m happy to report, though, that shoulder angel won out.
When I was thirteen, I decided I was going to embark on a regime of press-ups every day. We were going on a family holiday a few months later and I wanted to make sure I looked good for the girls on the beach in Lanzarote. It was an exercise programme I was to follow for a decade. If I hadn’t done my press-ups I’d get antsy, and a day wasn’t a day unless and until I’d completed them. Once, we were at a Christmas bash at my parents’ friends’ house. I was fifteen and wearing a rather natty dinner jacket over a t-shirt and jeans – classy. After a couple of beers (well, it was Christmas and my folks were good like that), I realised with a degree of horror that I hadn’t done them. I went into the tiny downstairs toilet and, with toes perched uncomfortably on one side of the bowl and my head all but touching the door, cracked out fifty of the best. I can only imagine what the other party goers thought on seeing a sweaty, dishevelled teenager emerging from that room, panting like a Labrador on a hot day.
For me, writing is the new press-ups.
Sitting on my arse eating chocolate and watching evening racing from Ludlow is far easier than climbing the loft stairs and finishing my novel. That’s the thing about setting yourself tasks. No matter how enjoyable the activity in question, having to do it instantly makes it less appealing.
I had my first real angel/devil on the shoulder moment last night. I was about an hour into my three-hour stretch when I thought: “Maybe I’ll just turn it in for the night, watch a bit of telly.” Well, I’d proved to myself I could stick it out for two consecutive days. I’m happy to report, though, that shoulder angel won out.
When I was thirteen, I decided I was going to embark on a regime of press-ups every day. We were going on a family holiday a few months later and I wanted to make sure I looked good for the girls on the beach in Lanzarote. It was an exercise programme I was to follow for a decade. If I hadn’t done my press-ups I’d get antsy, and a day wasn’t a day unless and until I’d completed them. Once, we were at a Christmas bash at my parents’ friends’ house. I was fifteen and wearing a rather natty dinner jacket over a t-shirt and jeans – classy. After a couple of beers (well, it was Christmas and my folks were good like that), I realised with a degree of horror that I hadn’t done them. I went into the tiny downstairs toilet and, with toes perched uncomfortably on one side of the bowl and my head all but touching the door, cracked out fifty of the best. I can only imagine what the other party goers thought on seeing a sweaty, dishevelled teenager emerging from that room, panting like a Labrador on a hot day.
For me, writing is the new press-ups.
Wednesday, 11 May 2011
11th May 2011
Day two and I’ve kept up my three hours’ writing, one hour’s reading. Two days. That’s got to count as a routine.
The scene I wrote last night for the novel moves the story in a new direction. It’s thrilling but, like a rollercoaster whizzing into a tunnel, I have no idea where it’s going. I’m not worried, though. Right now, my priority is refamiliarising myself with the act, the physical act, of writing. Getting stuff down on paper is more important than trifling concerns like plot and believability.
That said, during the day, I find myself slipping into reverie at regular intervals. Plot lines, character motivations, the ‘stitching’ of my story. These are the topics that occupy my brain as I cruise supermarket aisles or play with my son in the park or line up a putt (I’m not back in the full-time job until next week). As a writer, I reckon you’ve got to give yourself the room to think. Thinking’s good. But writing’s better.
As for that physical aspect to writing that I mention above, I really must do something about our loft room. That’s my designated writing space and I set out on this quest without recce-ing it beforehand. Only when I sat up there for the first time the other night did I realise how hot and airless it is. There’s no desk, either, so I have the choice of resting the laptop on a low chest of drawers with both legs wedged together on one side (or one each side but that’s not pretty) or sprawling on the bed to write. Both positions would give ergonomics experts heart attacks. Last night, I finished the evening propped on one arm on the bed with a fan about twelve inches away. The cold air blew into my face with such force that my eyeballs dried out.
Not all glamour, this writing lark.
The scene I wrote last night for the novel moves the story in a new direction. It’s thrilling but, like a rollercoaster whizzing into a tunnel, I have no idea where it’s going. I’m not worried, though. Right now, my priority is refamiliarising myself with the act, the physical act, of writing. Getting stuff down on paper is more important than trifling concerns like plot and believability.
That said, during the day, I find myself slipping into reverie at regular intervals. Plot lines, character motivations, the ‘stitching’ of my story. These are the topics that occupy my brain as I cruise supermarket aisles or play with my son in the park or line up a putt (I’m not back in the full-time job until next week). As a writer, I reckon you’ve got to give yourself the room to think. Thinking’s good. But writing’s better.
As for that physical aspect to writing that I mention above, I really must do something about our loft room. That’s my designated writing space and I set out on this quest without recce-ing it beforehand. Only when I sat up there for the first time the other night did I realise how hot and airless it is. There’s no desk, either, so I have the choice of resting the laptop on a low chest of drawers with both legs wedged together on one side (or one each side but that’s not pretty) or sprawling on the bed to write. Both positions would give ergonomics experts heart attacks. Last night, I finished the evening propped on one arm on the bed with a fan about twelve inches away. The cold air blew into my face with such force that my eyeballs dried out.
Not all glamour, this writing lark.
Tuesday, 10 May 2011
Writer’s Blog
The diary of a quest to become an author
10th May 2011
My name’s Paul, I’m 39 next month and I want to be a writer.
This blog will chart my progress.
Like most diary keepers, I’m doing this for myself. The idea is that I can look back in a few years or months (let’s stay optimistic) as a hugely successful published author and be reminded of my humble beginnings. As I travel along the road – oh, God, I’m in danger of creating something that could be turned into a film with the byline ‘One Man’s Journey’ – I want this journal to keep me honest, to make me do the things I say I’m going to do. Believing, as I do, that the writer’s job is to tell the truth, I shall be doing that here. And because the diary is by its nature an intensely personal medium, I’ll be writing only for and to myself, even though it’s in a public forum. That said, if my other blog’s anything to go by, this may well retain its pure ‘by-me-for-me’ diary status.
Stephen King, a great hero of mine, wrote a book called On Writing. In it, he describes how he became the writer he is and offers practical, often brutal, guidance to wannabes like me. You know what it’s like when you’re given advice from someone you like and trust. You instinctively latch on to parts that chime with your own views (I was thrilled to learn that King, for the most part, holds little truck with the idea of plotting before writing his stories, as my own half-written novel has been created in this more organic fashion) and shrink from those that are more difficult to hear (King’s distaste for adverbs made me cringe as I recalled a flurry of them in my work and did I really need that ‘instinctively’ earlier in this sentence?). Reading King’s book has been one of the catalysts to get my arse into gear.
The most important thing for an aspiring writer is to read a lot and write a lot. I’ve been guilty of not practising either of these life-blood activities enough. Why? One word: fear. Fear that I’m not as good a writer as I think I am. Fear that I can’t sell my work to agents, publishers, film makers, publications. Fear that it could all be a waste of time. Fear that I’ll have to make sacrifices to a lifestyle that I love. All the rest – the full-time job, the time demands of modern life, the wife and child – well, they’re just excuses for not writing. No, the only genuine reason is the fear.
As King says: ‘The scariest part is right before you start.”
So I have started. Or, rather, restarted. Yesterday, I had a session with a careers consultant and, with her, outlined the basis of a new regime that will culminate in my being published. I’ve committed to 15 hours of writing and at least 5 hours of reading per week (I do have that full-time job, remember). Of course, there’s so much else I’ll need to do: entering competitions, finding agents, approaching publishers, prioritising my work, getting myself out there and selling myself as well as the writing. But let’s start with these fundaments. Writing and reading.
Today’s news. I looked at my poor neglected novel last night for the first time in two and a half years. And I wrote. Yes, it was clunky. Yes, it was awkward, like getting back into bed with an ex lover after years apart. But do you know what? It felt bloody marvellous. I didn’t know where to start so, in an act of deliberate perversity, I went straight to the end. Wrote the epilogue that will close the story, complete with tantalising opportunity for the sequel (why go for a one-off when you could have a franchise on your hands?). Oh, and I made a start on removing so many pesky adverbs. How did I do this? Gleefully and willingly.
The diary of a quest to become an author
10th May 2011
My name’s Paul, I’m 39 next month and I want to be a writer.
This blog will chart my progress.
Like most diary keepers, I’m doing this for myself. The idea is that I can look back in a few years or months (let’s stay optimistic) as a hugely successful published author and be reminded of my humble beginnings. As I travel along the road – oh, God, I’m in danger of creating something that could be turned into a film with the byline ‘One Man’s Journey’ – I want this journal to keep me honest, to make me do the things I say I’m going to do. Believing, as I do, that the writer’s job is to tell the truth, I shall be doing that here. And because the diary is by its nature an intensely personal medium, I’ll be writing only for and to myself, even though it’s in a public forum. That said, if my other blog’s anything to go by, this may well retain its pure ‘by-me-for-me’ diary status.
Stephen King, a great hero of mine, wrote a book called On Writing. In it, he describes how he became the writer he is and offers practical, often brutal, guidance to wannabes like me. You know what it’s like when you’re given advice from someone you like and trust. You instinctively latch on to parts that chime with your own views (I was thrilled to learn that King, for the most part, holds little truck with the idea of plotting before writing his stories, as my own half-written novel has been created in this more organic fashion) and shrink from those that are more difficult to hear (King’s distaste for adverbs made me cringe as I recalled a flurry of them in my work and did I really need that ‘instinctively’ earlier in this sentence?). Reading King’s book has been one of the catalysts to get my arse into gear.
The most important thing for an aspiring writer is to read a lot and write a lot. I’ve been guilty of not practising either of these life-blood activities enough. Why? One word: fear. Fear that I’m not as good a writer as I think I am. Fear that I can’t sell my work to agents, publishers, film makers, publications. Fear that it could all be a waste of time. Fear that I’ll have to make sacrifices to a lifestyle that I love. All the rest – the full-time job, the time demands of modern life, the wife and child – well, they’re just excuses for not writing. No, the only genuine reason is the fear.
As King says: ‘The scariest part is right before you start.”
So I have started. Or, rather, restarted. Yesterday, I had a session with a careers consultant and, with her, outlined the basis of a new regime that will culminate in my being published. I’ve committed to 15 hours of writing and at least 5 hours of reading per week (I do have that full-time job, remember). Of course, there’s so much else I’ll need to do: entering competitions, finding agents, approaching publishers, prioritising my work, getting myself out there and selling myself as well as the writing. But let’s start with these fundaments. Writing and reading.
Today’s news. I looked at my poor neglected novel last night for the first time in two and a half years. And I wrote. Yes, it was clunky. Yes, it was awkward, like getting back into bed with an ex lover after years apart. But do you know what? It felt bloody marvellous. I didn’t know where to start so, in an act of deliberate perversity, I went straight to the end. Wrote the epilogue that will close the story, complete with tantalising opportunity for the sequel (why go for a one-off when you could have a franchise on your hands?). Oh, and I made a start on removing so many pesky adverbs. How did I do this? Gleefully and willingly.
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