writing difficulties

noah? i’m sorry, it’s a no

~ jim clayton ~ 2 Comments

You need tyrannical tendencies to be a writer.

I don’t mean for the dull, day-to-day business of getting the words down – which in my case is fitting in writing around the day job, and revising rejection coping strategies when the slips come back. (Every time you send work off it’s like releasing a pure white dove from the ark, only to have it come back three weeks later, partially carbonised, coughing soot, tail feathers gone… you get the picture).

NOTE TO SELF: Rejection coping strategies in urgent need of revision.

No. What I mean is, you need tyrannical tendencies to write a readable plot.

For example.

Here I am, coming to the end of yet another book (better than the last one – trust me on this).

SIDE NOTE: In the past all your early crappy work would end up composting creatively in a drawer somewhere; now, the internet has made that drawer infinitely wide and accessible to everyone, all hours of the day, so there’s no shortage of opportunity to embarrass yourself before you’ve really hit your stride.

SIDE QUESTION RELATING TO SIDE NOTE: So why put it out there?

ANSWER: Because writing’s communication, and it’s lovely to have an audience, even a hostile one.

But I digress – something I’m prone to in the blog, but be reassured, not something I allow in the books.

COROLLARY TO LAST SIDE NOTE: Hmm. Maybe I should he says, doing that disgusting, kissy-kissy thing with his dove, nose-to-beak.

Anyway, this next book is set in the 1850s. It’s a picaresque tale of two brothers separated and then reconciled (I know – you can totally see that sooty dove slamming beak-first into the deck). Well. I’m at the bit where they’ve found each other again – and something needs to happen. From the brothers point of view, they’ve been through a lot, okay? Parental death, fire, transportation, forced labour, kidnap by bushrangers and so on and so on – the Kindle gives you no idea of the extent – 50% of how much, exactly? – and I know they’d be more than happy to leave it there, and find a cute little cabin together, with rabbits and alfalfa (wait, what?) and have a little peace and quiet for one goddamn minute. But nope. Here I am at the joyful moment of reconciliation, and already I’m getting scratchy. Something has to happen. This is the climax of the book. I can’t have them sitting round a camp fire reminiscing and making happy plans. So I spent the dog walk this morning thinking over all the things that could go wrong for them. Maybe a baddy from earlier on could make a surprise return. One of them could be arrested, imprisoned. And then a daring rescue. Something and then something and then pow! Pay-off. As a concession, maybe a happy ending – of sorts. (This is the 21st century; I think there’s actually a law against happy endings).

And that’s when it struck me. What a tyrant! Worse, actually. A God-like tyrant. Someone with the power to create life and manipulate the world. If there was a storm, I could totally write a whale to surface and keep the boat afloat with his nose and then run them over to some delightfully cliche island ruled by giant comedy crabs who can talk and sing and do tap and who end up venerating the sailors as gods &c &c. (Writes this down for later – along with possible joke: ‘confuses venerate with venereal’). But no. I torture my characters with appalling runs of bad luck. And for what? A good read. (A good read! Yeah, right! Again with the sooty dove, wheezing on the foc’sle whilst I spoon feed it honey and warm water, cursing whatever it is that lurks so powerfully and malignantly beyond the horizon).

I promise I’ll revisit those coping strategies just as soon as I’ve finished this post.

But anyway. That’s what you’ve got to do as a writer. You’ve got to make believable characters, and then make life difficult for them. Because although I was lying about the law, and actually you are allowed happy endings, you’ve got to earn them first. Which is probably just like life, when you think about it.

So what am I getting so antsy about?

ANSWER: I’m waiting on some doves…

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blinkers on / blinkers off

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

First thing to say: writing is hard work. But then again, it’s not actually what you might call hard work.

Top five worst jobs ever:

  1. Peeling onions in a pickled onion factory. By hand. At the end of the day I was paid with a token that I could redeem for cash. I threw the token in a ditch, my clothes in the trash.
  2. Hoovering the landings of an exclusive apartment block. Each identical. It got so I couldn’t be sure whether the lift had actually moved or not. There was a boy who came out of his flat and stood there, eating a chocolate bar, watching me pointlessly hoover the immaculate carpets. A moment of existential despair.
  3. Painting the outside of an apartment block (not the same apartment block). Winter.
  4. Painting the inside of an underground car park. Winter.
  5. Working in a pirate-themed adventure playground. Dressed as a pirate. Spent all day rescuing kids from the rigging, the tentacles of the inflatable octopus, the ball pit. Juggling plastic fish, cleaning up vomit. Sparring with my alcoholic co-pirate. Taking hourly turns on Captain Nemo’s submarine (the windows filled with water when we submerged, then a screen at the front showed footage of sharks and squid nicked from the telly). Rescuing kids from Captain Nemo’s submarine.

So from my own experience I know for a fact there are worst things I could be doing with my life.

One of the problems with writing is that the routine you have to get into to get the work done can be quite deadening, or disorienting. It’s like a cart horse wearing blinkers. No distractions, just focused on pulling the cart, covering the distance. The danger is, if your blinkers are too effective, you’re in danger of either wandering off track, or forgetting exactly what it is you were setting out to do. Just lately, I’ve been out of blinkers, looking around, wondering where the hell I am, and what the big idea was – the metaphorical equivalent of shying in the traces. (Is it very apparent I haven’t the faintest idea about horses?) Which is a fancy way of saying: I got the last edit of the book done, and don’t know if I’ll ever manage to write a decent book. (see previous posts).

It’s okay, though. I’m calming down. Getting other stuff written – which I like, even though it doesn’t feel as ‘substantial’ as the day to day business of writing a novel. I’ll definitely finish The Fabulous Fears (a huge thanks to everyone who’s offered to Beta read it for me), if for no other reason than I feel I owe it to the characters. I’m trying to write a radio play now, based on my experiences in the ambulance service (another hard job, but then again, not nearly as hard as teaching English in a secondary school *shudder*).

On with the blinkers…

getting into drag

RuPaul’s Drag Race is such gorgeous, funny, scurrilous, perfectly balanced entertainment. I could happily binge watch a thousand episodes back-to-backless.

 

Thanks for reading, and all your support!

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the ungrabbed

~ jim clayton ~ 6 Comments

Okay, I’ll admit it.

The heart of my writing routine has frozen and fallen clean away and I’m in a novel-writing, word-count-of-zero, ink-arsed funk.

No exaggeration.

Why?

Because three months ago when I sent out the final draft of my latest book to beta-readers, only three got back.

My wife Kath and her sister, Nicky gave me a bunch of extensive and useful notes. My mum was a little more concise. (As a lump hammer.)

‘I was halfway through chapter two when I put it to one side’ she said. ‘It just didn’t grab me.’

This from a woman whose tastes range from Jane Austen to Lee Child. Someone who’d read the label on a sauce bottle if there was nothing else to hand. And have an opinion.

It just didn’t grab me

Everyone else – everyone who isn’t actually related to me – has remained perfectly, eerily quiet.

I may as well have taken the book and dropped it down a well. At least I’d have heard a splash.

Nothing.

Nothing comes of nothing.

The book took a couple of years to write – which has nothing to do with how well it reads, of course, but gives a little context. I have to admit it didn’t exactly flow. It took me a while to zone-in on what the story actually was. It started off as a zombie adventure for young adults, but I got as far as writing the big climax – Valerie fighting her way along the promenade at Brighton – when I thought this is bullshit. I suddenly realised that the zombies she was struggling to dispatch were probably all the doubts I was having about the project dressed-up by my unconscious to look like zombies. So I took a breath, scrapped pretty much all of it, except for the character of Valerie, an idea about her family, and started again. And once I’d relaxed, and started writing in a style and format that seemed more natural for me, I thought I was doing good work. I even cried writing one of the scenes. Seven edits later and my book The Fabulous Fears felt ready to send out and be read.

Nothing.

I’ve schooled myself to be hard-nosed about writing. I’m certainly not the needy, pink and unshelled writing creature I used to be. I’ve hardened myself up to the business of putting my stuff out into the world. But even so, I’m finding it hard to shake the feeling that this is way more than just a slow start. Maybe this is a sign, one of those moments you’re given to realise that somehow, somewhere, a few years back, you wandered way off track.

Of course, it’s not as bad as I’m making out. I’ve been writing other stuff at the same time. This blog, the regular Voices posts about my day job (notes from the front-line of community health), poems and so on. I’ve just started a radio script based on my experiences in the ambulance. It’s just – The Fabulous Fears was supposed to be that thing, the central support, the big deal. I know it still needs work. Not a vast amount, I’m hoping. Some re-pointing here and there. A fine-tipped brush, not a fire axe.

So here’s the thing. If there’s anyone out there reading this blog who fancies being a beta reader, let me know! The reward? An effusive thank you in the acknowledgements section of the book, if it ever comes out, and a reciprocal promise to read something you’ve written and give feedback. All you need do is drop me an email and I can send you the .pdf by return.

Whaddya say?

I only hope not nothing.

(An abomination of a sentence, true, but I have to admit, for some strange reason, it grabs me...)

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