Thursday, November 17, 2011
Saturday, October 29, 2011
‘Is it raining?’
Look out the fricking window and see.
Leans to follow my mental retort. ‘Tsk, it’s raining.’
‘And it was so nice this morning, could have been summer.’
I know, I was here too.
‘Now look, it’s like winter out there. Ugh!’
Fifty years later and rain is still noteworthy. Wow.
Moves closer to the window and looks up at the sky.
‘Has it been like that long?’
Keep staring at the clouds, they might tell you.
‘I don’t know,’ I say, glancing out the window to pretend I’m a nice, engaged person. I haven’t been staring out the window keeping tabs.
‘I wonder will it stop...’
Nope, never. Build an ark. Now.
‘Hmmm,’ I reply. I wonder.
‘In a bad mood today?’
I make eye-contact. Smile.
‘Nope! I don’t mind bad weather!’ I live in Ireland. I carry an umbrella.
Looks at me like I’m one of those weird ones.
‘Really?’ Laughs gratingly.
‘I think it’s easing off. I’ll make a dash.’
Yes, run! Run for your life!
Mumble, ‘Ok then.’ Mutter, mumble, ‘see you then.’ Mutter, mumble, pats around for keys, mumble, ‘ok then, bye.’
Sighs in relief. Volume of rain doubles. Teehee
Monday, October 24, 2011
1. Obstinately try to get through it (= staring idly at the screen, hands poised over the keyboard.)
2. Read what I’ve written from at least seven pages back.
3. Jump ahead to a scene I know I can actually write.
4. Reorganise my numerous book-related files.
6. Make hot chocolate while singing. (Night-time + no one around = added bonus)
7. Blare a bitta Beyonce and dance like a crazy woman. (My sisters sometimes think I’m moving furniture or repeatedly leaping off my bed.)
8. Listen to mopey music*. (Recommended for use with number 5.)
9. Lie in the dark, in silence, under the covers, and imagine scenes from my book.
10. Abandon ship and work on another book.
11. Read a new book. Oddly enough, I find my younger sister’s YA fantasy novels ideal in this situation.
12. Reread and old favourite. Most often it’s Pride and Prejudice.
13. Draw my characters.
14. Go wild with acrylic paint. (Rarely resulting in a work of art, but still.)
15. Prettify myself and go people-watching/ shopping. Friends optional.
16. Sprawl on the couch and watch a movie or an episode or ten of one of my shows**.
*Songs may include At My Most Beautiful-REM, Samson and The Call-Regina Spektor, Stop Crying Your Eyes Out-Oasis, Jar of Hearts-Christina Perri, The Reason-Hoobastank, Fix You-Coldplay, Chasing Cars-Snow Patrol. (I realise these are not overly mopey, but they’re not exactly Shiny Happy People now are they?)
** Shows may include Vampire Diaries (Stefan or Damon, I just don’t know! Both?), Bones (Season 7 Promo had me crying with laughter), Criminal minds (Now that JJ and Prentis are back), Supernatural (Season 7 is disappointing me so far, as much as it pains me to say. CASTIEL! :o), Terra Nova (New show...rawr.)
Saturday, October 22, 2011
Apparently, the very first sentence of a book has to be instantly gripping.
In a fit of frustration, I took down these first books and read the opening lines. These are the beginnings of successful series.
It is said, in Imardin, that the wind has a soul, and that it wails through the narrow city streets because it is grieved by what it finds there. –Trudi Canavan, The Black Magician Triolgy book one.
Immediately gripping? No. Instantly hooked? Not really. The feeling that I absolutely HAD to read more? Not really. Memorable? No.
What this first line does is set the scene. From it I know that I’m not about to read a book set in our world, that it’s most likely set in a city, that the city is old and higgledy-piggledy, and that it probably has crime and lowlifes and poverty. It’s not a clean city with sky-scrapers. I could go on, but already I’ve used more words than were in that line to say what I got from it.
The first book is like a long beginning. I read it eagerly. I trusted the author, I knew that something terrific was in store. And I was right.
Lyra and her daemon moved through the darkening Hall, taking care to keep to one side, out of sight of the kitchen.-Phillip Pullman, His Dark Materials, Northern Lights.
The first time I read this line I was eleven. My first thought was an eleven-year old’s equivalent of ‘...wtf?’ One year later, I reread that first line and all subsequent lines in the trilogy. I cried at the end of a book for the first time. I’ve read the books many times since. Looking back, what I missed eleven years ago was that a girl and some manner of creature were sneaking about in a building large enough to warrant the capitalisation of the ‘h’ in hall. I think I saw ‘deamon’ with Siamese letters and fled.
Wind howled through the night, carrying a scent that would change the world. (Prologue)
Eragon knelt in a bed of trampled reed grass and scanned the tracks with a practiced eye. -Christopher Paolini, Inheritance book one, Eragon.
I remember reading the prologue and thinking ‘hrmmm, ok...’ I kept reading because hey, I like reading. The book was in my hands and I was not going to give up on it based on the first line. To be honest, I mostly enjoyed the books because of Arya-the main character's Elvin love interest. There are definitely sections I skim on rereads. (Yes, I read books more than once.) But I’m glad I didn’t put it down.
When Mr.Bilbo Baggins of Bag End announced that he would shortly be celebrating his eleventy-first birthday with a party of special magnificence, there was much talk and excitement in Hobbiton. (I ignored the prologue) –JRR Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings.
Well, one of Tolkien’s shorter, less confusing, sentences to be sure. The amount of times I battled to the end of a sentence only to find I’d forgotten the beginning of it...
But this first line does accomplish some things. I knew Bilbo wasn’t human, that Hobbiton was a small, gossiping place, and that it wasn’t set in our world. Not an instantly gripping first line though. Glad I battled through? Yes.
It happened every year, was almost a ritual. (Prologue)
The trial was irretrievably over; everything that could be said had been said, but he had never doubted that he would lose. Steig Larsson, Millennium I, The Girl with the Dragon tattoo.
Considering that I felt compelled to commit the crime of skimming on the first read of a book; a crime I had never committed, or wanted to commit, before, these lines aren’t too bad. Not very good either. But I did keep reading, mostly favouring Lisbeth’s parts.
I was not instantly enthralled by any of these first lines. So, what fuels this popular ‘rule’ that your first line must be gripping, fascinating, grab-you-by-the-throat-and-hold-on-until-you-reach-the-last-line-ing? And it's not just the first line. Ideally your first chapter should be made of clinging hands and sharp, glinting hooks. (At the same time, I've been told to set the scene of the main character's ordinary live before the big events come along and screw it up. Curious...)
I think of an agent sitting at a desk. Precarious piles of paper mimic sky-scrapers in their office. More cyber-piles wait in their email inbox. They have a headache. Serious eye-strain. They’re thinking back to their love of books as a child and wondering where it all went wrong. They’re holding on to the hope that somewhere in those towering piles waits the beginning of a book that will swell their heart and command their imagination. They long to find it. It would revive them; resort their faith in supposed writers’ ability to string words together. But they’re tired. They want to find it quickly. They want the wannabe-published authors to give it to them, and it to them fast. Faster than fast-straight away in fact.
The annoying thing about it is it’s perfectly understandable. And I do understand. But I can’t give my series that type of first line. I’m not writing a single, stand-alone novel. This is one giant story, spread over multiple books. It’s a marathon, not a sprint. I’m not running my fastest at the very start.
Here’s my first line.
The ancient trees of the Burmeena forest reached higher than the tallest buildings in Aureilla, the capital city of Orantil.
Thursday, September 29, 2011
(I don’t actually know anything. This is a rant of sorts, you probably shouldn't read it.)
I love my story, ok? That’s why I’ve spent hours writing, days imagining, and months thinking. That’s what makes a book; that’s how you do it. Classes and workshops and seminars on ‘How to write a book’ are clearly taking the long-winded approach.
You can’t teach someone how to write a book. The only way to learn is to write one. Yes, it will probably be terrible. The story, hopefully, will be great. But the writing? You’ll read back over your first draft and laugh at yourself, I guarantee it. Let it out though; laughing is good. You will also cringe. At this point the ability to highlight and cut should be taken full advantage of. Words shouldn't be seen as precious things. When in doubt, make a new file and store all your cut paragraphs in there. If you really think some arrangement of words is golden, mark it. Mining for gold is not fun.
Now I’m not bashing courses and the likes. They might name a course ‘how to write a novel’, but that’s just to get people in the door. They won’t tell you how to write a book, or where to find an idea. No, they’ll tell you about writing; the ins and outs, the ups and downs, and, with any luck, where to put an apostrophe. Count yourself blessed if this is done in an inspiring way. If you learn a lot of new things; congratulations you're in the right place.
(You should consider reading a book or a hundred as well as sitting in class. You CAN read a book and write your book at the same time. The stories don't get intertwined, and your ideas remain yours.)
Then they’ll make you write. You will panic. If you didn’t have an idea growing beforehand (in which case you should definitely write it down, but you might learn that fact later in the course) then your mind is going to go blanker than a big whitewashed wall. Whatever you come up with will be shit. If offered to read yours out loud, don’t. Don't make eye contact with the teacher just in case. If you feel in danger, think about crackers and jam to give yourself a faraway look and maybe, just maybe, the teacher will think you are presiding over a world you’ve created and leave you alone.
After that the rules come along. Rules rules rules. Follow them or watch your writing ambitions swirl down the loo. Or don’t follow them, if you have a good reason not to; it’s not that big a deal.
In a seashell
How do you write a book? Get an idea, love it, write it.
I can see the next question...
How do you get an idea? Ahem, well let me tell you. You just fricking get an idea, ok? If you need to ask how then I’m sorry but it’s never going to happen. Actually I’m not sorry. Your mind needs to be alive to get an idea. You clearly killed yours. Tut tut.
How do you complete a book? Write until you reach the end. Huzzah!
It’s still a bit shit though. Go to a workshop. With a book, or something book-like, completed. That way you’ll understand a lot more of what the host is talking about.
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Rules swarmed like wasps in my mind. They waited, buzzing, at the places where words came from. When a stream of words was beginning to join up, they attacked. The bit and stung and scared the words away.
I ground to a halt. At first I didn’t realise what was stifling my writing. The flow of words was blocked, and I didn’t know what was wrong. It was quite distressing. I knew what was happening in the book, what I was suppose to be writing, so I knew it wasn’t writers’ block. And it wasn’t just the book that was affected; it was everything. Even this baby blog was deprived of posts.
It had never happened to me before-not being able to write. A few days ago I realised what my problem was (...is). I knew too much about what was expected of a book, and I assumed I would fail to meet, and surpass, those great expectations.
I wrote the first without difficulty because I knew nothing of the rules and requirements that it would have to follow and meet. If someone had told me that I must watch out for ‘voice’ and ‘point of view’ and ‘show don’t tell’, that I had to make sure each sentence was stellar and each word had a purpose, I would have scoffed.
‘You can’t confine writing like that,’ I would have said.
And I would have been right. You can’t. You shouldn’t try. It’s bad.
Feck the rules.
Thursday, April 7, 2011
As I dither on the edge of the publishing world I’ve been thinking about how my book came to be.
If I had known at the beginning what I know about the story now, I don’t think I could have started. It’s too big. I would have been swamped and clueless.
Somewhere the entire story existed, and I was only privy to slivers.
The first thing I knew was one scene containing two characters. I knew the characters intimately. I could feel their pasts and futures, and how they intertwined. I began weaving with those two threads.
It was loose material I was creating. If you held it to the light you would see through it quite easily. It was a foundation. Like the simple shapes that lie beneath a finished painting.
As the cloth grew, more of the story was revealed to me. I went back and added more threads; characters, subplots, back stories. The picture was treated to colour. I was getting excited; it was gaining form. It was becoming an entity. It existed separate to me, independent.
Finer threads were woven through; careful detail added. I could step back and view the whole piece, or lean in for a closer look. Sloppy areas were pulled tight. Blunders were painted over, lovingly corrected. I knew when it was right.
Finally the fabric was finished, the painting was complete.
"Writing is like driving at night in the fog. You can only see as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way." E.L Doctorow