Writers' Methods. Everyone is different...

The new book is going well, but I won't mention word counts; if you've been following, you'll have noticed the increase in the side bar.

I always know things are humming along properly when I hear interior conversations between the characters when I'm supposed to be watching the news. I apologize to Jim Lehrer's Newshour, but sometimes it does drag, and that's when I sneak off to the computer to get that dialogue down.

Perhaps it's appropriate to mention how I write. I've discussed it before, but some of you could have missed it. We are all so different in our approach to the work, but it can't hurt to hear my take on it.

Once I begin physically writing - that is, not writing in my head, but typing - I am very fast at getting the words down. I usually do a complete chapter before I stop and get off the rollercoaster. I'll take a break, then come back and read that chapter again, correcting, amending, and, I figure, improving. I then go back to the previous couple of chapters and re-read them. Something I've just written could well upset something I'd said earlier. If I'm really on a roll, I might start the next chapter. About once a week, I re-read the whole manuscript and do another clean-up, which never - ever - ends.

In other words, the manuscript is being vetted, and added to, as I go. I am constantly inserting new snippets (which came to me while I was washing up, probably) into previous chapters and this will go on for the whole book. I could be adding something to the fourth chapter when I've reached twenty-seven. When the book is finished, that so-called first draft, which is really a misnomer, I'll give it a final overhaul, but basically it should be ready to be queried.

Some of you speak of pecking away, not really into it, suffering over it. I can't work that way. If I have nothing to say, I leave it alone. A couple of days later (even a couple of years later!) the fire's back. It's worth really thinking about your own methods. Is it tedious for you most of the time? Are you writing because of guilt, thinking that you must write something or you're not a real writer? Don't do that. Don't beat yourself up. When that little daemon critter is firmly residing in you, you'll know it.

I believe that writing should be an enormous pleasure. It shouldn't be making you miserable (although there could be some of that if you're writing a particularly tragic book, but this, too, can be cathartic in a positive way). Crying over your work is one thing, but bleeding over it (metaphorically) is crazy. It should be the reason you get up in the morning, although not necessarily every morning, because we all have dry seasons. But you should definitely know what that feeling is like. It might happen for you once a week, or just once a month. You have so many other things going on in your life - most of you work full time, for Pete's sake. Don't force it. Don't put huge demands on yourself. The writing will come when it's ready, and not before. This is how you are. Accept that. Everyone is different.


For those of you who are dejected at being rejected, take a look at Query Tracker's Suzette Saxton's posting on GOOD rejection letters. Hope you get some renewed enthusiasm after reading this.


In a couple of weeks, I'll put up the first three chapters of (tentatively titled) Summer Must End. By that time, the bulk of revising and snipping should be finished on that part of the book. Not that it will be ready as the infamous First 30 Pages an agent could ask for on a good day (knowing my constant need-to-tweak), but it will be close.

AppleFest is on here this weekend, our salute to fall. This is apple country, you know. There will be dozens of stalls all along my street, and outside my house, offering their collectibles, and art, and food, and so on. And here's me freshly cash-poor because of my cunning local antique dealer.

I got seduced into buying a vintage post office desk, about the size of a large suitcase, the sort that's meant to be attached to a wall. It has a drop down door, which becomes its work surface, and it has loads of pigeonholes and drawers. I'm a sucker for this kind of thing, especially when the antique shop displays it right outside, where I can't ignore it. I tried to avert my eyes, honestly. Today I spent a good two hours trying to make room for it on my desk, moving my screen and laptop around, disrupting my dozens of paper notes, clearing an area where I think it will fit comfortably when it's delivered.

Which reminds me: that's why Macs are so good. I have the other sort. What on earth do I do with all these damned wires?

Have a great weekend.

On Starting My Third Novel - Does this news motivate you or make you yawn?

Thanks, all of you, for your lovely comments about my new granddaughter. I was only a tender forty years old when my first grandchild was born and I wasn't too amused, although I got over it, of course. With this fifth grandchild, I can now laugh about my earlier vanity.

Obviously this overshadowed everything else on my blog, and caught your eye, but did anyone notice that I started my new novel? I've now completed 12,500 words, an additional 7,000 from last week, and I'm totally involved in the thing. I'll probably do the same amount in the coming week. I told you about it because it's a big deal for me, and isn't that why we blog about writing? To encourage, to motivate?

But it occurs to me that this must be a real downer for a lot of writers who are stuck in the no-man's land of non-inspiration, perhaps pessimism, and are just plain feeling blue about the whole process. It stands to reason that you don't want to read about someone who's trumpeting on about how easy it all is with their third novel, when you could be battling with your first. Well, I know it's not easy, of course I do. I know how it feels - all the doubts about the quality of the writing, and the negativity about finishing, let alone the frustration of finding an agent. I remind you that I've been at this for years and years (and years). You probably started later. Just remember, whatever appears here, I am not published. We are all in this together.

So, from now on, I won't expect any comments about my word counts - or anything else I have to say about the positive side of writing. You'll still read me, but I understand if you have to stifle a yawn while I'm on this particular roll.

But be warned that I'll be expecting you all back when I go through my own mid-novel blues period again, or when I announce that my agent isn't working out and I'm back in query mode again. I'll really need your upbeat comments then.



I've added a link to a site called Varkat - a very detailed post about all things related to the business of publishing. It was originally a keynote speech - you'll read the details - and I found it covers many of the questions we have from time to time, all in one place.

Check out Fiction Notes in the sidebar today, under 'Always Worth Reading'. Darcy has done a wonderful job of talking about character development. I'm such a smarty, I figure I know just about enough, but she always reveals something more. Thanks, Darcy.

See you next week.

It's About Time - and How We Use It

As a young kid, I was smitten with rock'n roll, the usual favorites, most of those now classics, but I was always fascinated by jazz. One brother played boogie, and has continued that passion throughout his life. My other brother had a great record collection of traditional jazz - Jelly Roll Morton et al - and New Orleans blues. Growing up with it, I naturally enjoyed it and still do, but my young brain back then craved a newer, more sophisticated sound.

And then I heard Dave Brubeck.

With his totally new take on time as it relates to jazz (the use of 3/4 as counterpoint to the conventional 4/4 beat, for instance), he stunned me. Since then, for me, cool jazz, particularly the sounds from the Fifties and Sixties, is the only kind.


I've seen Brubeck perform live twice in my life, decades apart - once in Australia (we hung outside his hotel for hours, just to get a glimpse of him and went to the airport to see the group leave), and once here, in Toronto. I've loved a lot of other jazz over the years, but Brubeck remains the one who changed my musical tastes forever.

To achieve anything worthwhile from life, we are urged to simply turn up. Dave Brubeck has been turning up at his piano for over sixty years. Perfect use of time, as I see it.

He's to be honored at the Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts on December 6 (coincidentally, his 89th birthday!). I'm so proud of him, anyone would think we were related.



After battling some Avoidance Demons that had me in their clutches for the past couple of weeks, and who laughed at me as time dragged almost to a standstill (it's all relative you know, and can speed up or slow down), I've started the new book. Forgive Boadicea's appearance once more, but I'm feeling hugely triumphant.

Summer Must End is probably only a working title right now, and I'll tell you if and when I stamp it with a permanent name. Come to think of it, your agent could force you to change your title anyway. Did you know that? Anyway the outline is good, and I have a lot of ideas for the plot which are still inside my head at this stage, but the characters are more or less ready in the wings. I've set it, for a complete change, in an area very similar to where I live now. I knew I didn't move to Brighton for nothing.

Naturally, I have the last line for the ending. Couldn't start without it.

I've completed two good chapters, or 5500 words, and I have that bug well and truly back - the one that doesn't let me sit anywhere except at the computer for more than ten minutes. I'm once more shifting impatiently in my chair in the living room at night, ostensibly watching TV, but longing to turn the computer back on, even when I've been writing for hours during the day. Over the past two weeks, grouchy and impatient, my time has been used cleaning the house, watching the BBC, cleaning the house some more. Lousy use of time. I wasn't even writing in my head, which would have been fine. Never mind. Tempus fugit again. My house will be neglected and full of dustbunnies, but I'm writing. Now there aren't enough hours in the day.


I became a grandmother again early this morning. My fifth grandchild, and third granddaughter, was born to my son and his wife in England, a sister for their first daughter, who just turned five. I have no deep words of wisdom to add about this because I am in stunned awe of it all, once again. I'm teary-eyed, overwhelmed, and utterly delighted. Practically speaking, it's yet another indication of my time here, I suppose. More proof that I turned up.

Have a great weekend.

Fall introspection. What's in store for you?

Since I finished Strachan's Attic (and I'm still waiting to see if my agent wants to take it on in addition to Hafan Deg), I've been in an extremely quiet, introspective mood. I thought it was because of my vacation in England, the inevitable upset of my routine, but I see that's only part of this state of mind.

The light is changing in my little neck of the woods, and there's a tiny nip in the air overnight. I should have immediately recognized my feelings. It's that hint of fall that gives me a totally different view of things. It happens every year, without fail, a need for deep examination of where I've been and where I think I'm going. And so it's almost fall again, bringing an almost delicious anticipation of soft, warm sweaters, and even more snuggling-with-cats-on-the-sofa, and contemplative moods.


It's the season for knuckling down to the real work, with no outside distractions, and certainly no temptation to sip wine on waterside restaurant decks. I'll enjoy cooking soups, and baking cinnamon-scented yummy things. Fewer people will pop in to chat, opting to stay sensibly at home in the warmth, surfing for something worth watching on TV.




I've been watching a lot of BBC News. CNN has started to pall, and I never thought I'd ever say that. In fact, it's a real shame I have no fireplace.

I'm guessing I'll have nothing much to blog about, only the rehashing of things past, which is covered in my archives anyway. If I get something new to impart (e.g. agent offering a contract for Strachan) you'll know about it, but, in the meantime, you won't see much of me. Perhaps I'll redo my page design. Melissa changes her background every day, I think. Very nice.


And I'll begin my new book, she said confidently.


What does the fall have in store for you?

Vacations are over. Now back to work...ready or not

I wish I could say that I'm refreshed from my vacation in England and ready for anything, but that would be untrue. My holiday has made me restless and grumpy.

Was it because I slipped in the shower the morning I flew out? Bruised and badly-scraped, I sat on the plane unable to tell anyone that vanity (not owning a rubber shower mat) had resulted in pain. Something to do with time differences perhaps? I've been back for days and I'm still waking up way too early, forced to miss any good movies that start after 9 pm. The psychological shake-up of dealing with family close-up? I live a sheltered, almost monastic, life here in Brighton, and avoid the usual confrontations families encounter from time to time. Is it to do with de-accelerating? I rushed there, rushed about, rushed back, and then screamed to a halt. Perhaps this was too much for my now-countrified system to handle. I used to do rushing very well back in the city, and could stop on a dime...

It was lovely being in England again, seeing family and friends. It was a time often filled with emotional nostalgia, and there were some tears of both joy and sorrow. I prefer to save that kind of stuff for my writing so that I get to tie up all the loose ends. We don't get to do that in real life, where there are always loose ends dangling about somewhere. Perhaps that's why I write. I have a certain amount of control there.

I did all the usual touristy things; you know what people do in England in August. The photograph here is of a London Bobby chatting ME up, not the other way around. This is not the usual touristy thing, in my experience.

I have no idea why he befriended me, as we only asked if he knew a nice place for breakfast, but we walked a good few blocks together before he was waylaid by lost tourists. Oh, one son captured this picture from some yards ahead when he glanced back to see where I was. My sons always walk far too quickly for me to keep up with them. We were on holiday, for Pete's sake, so what was the rush?

If any of you can comfort me with your own vacation blues anecdotes, it would be appreciated, as I'm feeling more than a little ungrateful and loserish. As it is, I'm meant to be painting soon, and then beginning my new book. The way I feel right now, I just want to bury my head in the sand and pretend to be someone else...but first I must buy a rubber shower mat.

Is it good to be back? I'm not sure. I'm reminded that it could be another year or so before I see my sons again (who live in England and Australia, respectively), and I often question why I'm here. My cats were very pleased to see me, certainly, but there should be more than that, I think.

Oh, yes, of course - the best bit about being home, beyond seeing my cats? I get to sleep in my own bed, with my very own pillow. Bliss is in the familiar, for me, now. To think I used to be so adventurous...anybody's pillow would do.

Pre-Vacation Vacation, and Rejection Humor

I didn't post anything last week. This is my quiet time before my vacation, which starts next week. I need a break before my hols. I need to unwind in preparation for them. It's all very well to say that's what the vacation is for, but it doesn't work that way for me.

Away-Vacations can be tiring. I prefer sleeping in my own room, especially with my own pillow. I have a quirk about pillows. The not-always-enthusiastic early jumping out of bed to go and see something (usually something quite old) doesn't happen at home, either, nor do I have to visit people out of duty. That's what living in the country without a car is all about. I won't even dwell on the stress of airports, planes, and jet lag, as that's a given.

Anyway, this is my pre-vacation quiet time. Don't expect too much from me.

I came across this agent-related article that perhaps you'll find equally amusing, bemusing. Times have changed in Agent-Land over recent decades - we all knew that - but here's the proof. I haven't read anything by Stanley Middleton, and the Booker awards can be alarmingly disappointing, but let's take the view that Mr Middleton wasn't a bad writer, and certainly more than worthy of publication, to say the least. This cheeky test by the Times of London, then, was a bit embarrassing, surely. Or perhaps Mr Middleton's writing was just too good, perhaps there was no fantasy, no vampire, no sex or violence, no teen protagonist? I must be a literary snob, because I still like to read books that include none of those things, from time to time. Carbon-dating myself, perhaps...

The following is a famous Chinese rejection letter to a writer. Perhaps you've read it before. In any case, it's always good for a smile, and the style of writing will make you slow down your internet-skimming brain just for a moment, like a bit of meditation, almost.

"We have read your manuscript with boundless delight. If we were to publish your paper, it would be impossible for us to publish any work of lower standard. And as it is unthinkable that in the next thousand years we shall see its equal, we are, to our regret, compelled to return your divine composition, and to beg you a thousand times to overlook our short sight and timidity."

Now you know why those rejections are still coming.

Summer Reflection on the Query Process

I received a rejection for Hafan Deg yesterday, from a New York Agent. Here it is - succinct and concise - "Sorry, tough to sell here, in my view." Well, I think she said it all with that 'here'. Considering the amount of interest I did receive, I think I wasted my time with all those New York queries and should have approached Britain in the first place.

For your interest, I've now received 15 rejections, 13 haven't responded after 90 days, 1 offer of representation, 1 request for the full manuscript received after the offer, and there are still 3 pending, for a total of 33 queries since February 16. I suppose I could email the pending ones and tell them I have an agent now, but that would defeat the purpose of keeping a statistics summary. Of the ones who never got back to me, 2 were the only online form submissions, and 9 accepted one page queries only. They were also my earliest queries, and I improved as the weeks went by, became more confident, less tremulous in my approach. I hope all of this makes you feel a bit better about your own query experiences, if you're there yet.

Thankfully, Strachan's Attic is now safely with my agent, too, and perhaps I'll get a verdict on it before I take my vacation. I am now in a strange no-man's land of wandering my apartment finding odd things to do, little tasks that get put on the back burner during my normal day. It's the summer of course, making my brain slow down, and allowing me to appreciate this short, short time of easy strolls, and outdoor meals. Not that our summer has been so great; it's more reminiscent of an English summer the way things used to be over there, before their weather patterns changed.

Speaking of vacations, I think my cats know I'm leaving soon. They are strangely quiet and contemplative around me. I believe they sense my plans, somehow, even though I've only pulled my rolling bag out once, to clean the wheels. My friend up the street will come in twice a day to tend to them over the two weeks, and to sit with them and have a chat. Not that Jeevesie will come out from under the bed while he's here, although it's possible. It will be an opportunity to teach him that I'm not the only one in the world who cares about him. Perhaps by the time I'm back, Jeeves will be sitting on Larry's lap. I do hope that happens. I have huge guilt about this, you understand. But a cattery would be worse.

Have a quiet, easy weekend. It's that kind of sticky weather here where nothing too physical gets done, and that's fine.

Agent Just Requested Full Strachan's Attic.

This is short and very sweet. I'm in the middle of all kinds of domestic chores that were absolutely necessary, but I just checked my emails.

My agent has requested the full for Strachan's Attic. Fingers crossed, guys. It makes sense for them to take it, too, but who knows how the agently mind works?

I've been longing to set Strachan winging on her way. Hope this is the right flight for her...

Where Do Your Characters Come From?

I've finally relaxed into this no-work-in-progress state, and I'm relishing the quiet with no characters babbling in my head. Time to do some serious spring cleaning - in the middle of summer! I had a pile of sewing and ironing, dustbunnies hiding everywhere, even some impressive cobwebs adding some textural interest to a couple of corners. Of course, if I don't put my glasses on, I don't even see the cobwebs. It's the same with wrinkles, so I don't put on my glasses very often. My own daughter refuses to use a magnifying mirror and shudders at the idea. What you can't see can't hurt you, I guess. Ignorance is bliss.

Come the fall I'll be getting back to serious writing, and, in preparing the seed bed for that next book, I've been wondering about my characters. Where do they come from? Are they, as most suggest, little pieces of ourselves constructed as separate personae? Is even the bitchy, unpleasant one a reflection of the less charitable aspects of ourselves? I don't write villains very well, and certainly could never write about murder, so, if the above is true, I'm obviously not digging deep enough to find that evil bit of me. If I write about a rather ditzy person, is this because it's fun to be naive and unaware some of the time, able to avoid serious analyses of world events? If one of my characters is incredibly promiscuous (lovely, old-fashioned word) is this because I long for a bit more rumpy-pumpy (really, really old-fashioned word) in my life?

The reason we must write (or paint, for that matter) is because we have something to say, want to somehow affect the world around us, to reach out to others. The most humble of us want to share our own modest views (some perhaps grander than others), our own dissemination of the craziness out there, and know that we are not alone in our beliefs, and that we are relevant. This is not an ego trip, because we writers are so often full of self-doubt. We are, quite simply, looking for connection. We feel it when we read, as well, overjoyed at recognizing ourselves in other lives, fictional or otherwise, empathizing with situations we'll probably never experience. Through all the chaos, the emotional swings in our lives, we aren't alone, and that's a huge comfort.

Even as we prefer to deal with like-minded people, we're challenged by less agreeable ideas and arguments which can open us up to a deeper awareness, even understanding. It seems to me that our fictional characters, on the whole, are facets of us with all our ideals and unexamined prejudices intact.

And so I'm about to start that search for new characters again. New identities, speech patterns, physical styles and behavioral quirks will be made up of people I know or see on the street, or from the news, but the depths of them - how they feel - must come from those bits of me I haven't explored yet.

My child wants to say a thing or two, it seems, and I've started listening for her. Harper Lee and Betty Smith both produced amazing children's voices, and I'd like to attempt that, too. Not that I'm implying that I'm in the same league, but we never know until we've tried. (Oh, as an aside, did you know that Harper Lee and Truman Capote were childhood friends? How's that for an unlikely alliance?)

I have a very old lady who wants to be heard, as well. Curmudgeonly and blatantly honest, she wants to set the record straight on many things I've been too timid to address. Perhaps my child and my old lady will be juxtaposed in a coming novel. Just an idea fluttering about, you understand.

Where do your characters come from? Are they purely fictional constructs, developed from your amazing imagination? Or, upon reflection, how much of you is in them? How many of your own values (and perhaps darkest thoughts) are exposed there?

The New Book Journey - Are We There Yet?

I've completed the 150% magnification proofing of Strachan, and she's looking good. I'll put it aside for now, before running off the hard copy. My writing buddy, Melissa, suggested a couple of valid points, and they're now reflected in this final draft, and I am still thinking of just one or two tiny pertinent things that I'd like to say, but that's normal. I don't think I've been so excited about a book before. It's strange, because Hafan Deg was a huge investment for me, and took ages to complete and forever to revise. Strachan's Attic was the 'easier' book - if writing is ever easy - and yet satisfies me more. Perhaps it's still a case of loving the one you're with.

Of the couple of new story ideas floating around, I am nervous at this stage. Melissa said the time wasn't right to start hers yet, even though her story was firmly in place. I echo that, in that I could sit down now and begin, but something is telling me to wait a bit. Once that urge is allowed free reign into our days (and our nights, damn it!) we'll be once more at its mercy. So we tend to hold off just a little longer, to grab some time for ourselves, to recuperate, to refresh, to rest (as Sally suggested), before jumping into the deep end.

But one of those ideas? Oh, wow, it's strong! I want to tell you about it now, but I can't. The important thing is the where. England, Canada, Australia? Each presents its own amazing backdrop for the kind of story I have in mind. Switching genres? Maybe. Upset my agent? Undoubtedly. But what writer truly wants to be predictable? Many well known writers deliberately use different names for their different genres - and not because it might otherwise upset their agents - but because they care about their readers' expectations. As a Newbie (possibly even a never-will-be) I have the luxury of deciding what I want to write, like building that baseball diamond in the cornfield: with luck, they will come.

I have another manuscript at around the 25% stage, started some time ago, for which I lost my fervor; one of Life's Challenges interrupted the original first draft, and I just didn't get back to it. I re-read it yesterday, and it's good. I'm thinking of incorporating the plot into my new book, intertwined through the main story, but I'll be careful before rushing into it. It could sound weird, but my characters are still getting to know each other. I'm going to leave them in peace.

Meanwhile I try to stay busy doing other things. I'm not much good at shopping, but did a little of that yesterday. I caught up with my upstairs neighbor as well, who sometimes phones me to see if I'm still alive. I didn't do the Wine-by-the-Bay thing, but will wait, I think. I have a feeling that the overwhelming need to get this story going will present itself at this restaurant, because of its beautiful setting.

In my personal life, I am a huge planner, and can - more or less - tell you what I expect to be doing in five years. I believe in cash flow spreadsheets, long-term monetary forecasts, lists for just about anything you can think of, and I'm ridiculed by my kids, who think my need to start researching stuff years before I intend to take action on them is just plain obsessive.

I mention this because I don't do this with my writing. I plan nothing except my ending. I come up with the basic idea, mentally mull it around for a while, and then just go for it. All research is done as I work. Over the previous period, prior to the actual writing, I probably have made some notes, snippets of dialogue I want to use, but nothing else. If I decided my hero would be a biologist, and then couldn't find enough fascinating information on that, I'd just switch his profession. That's the wonder of writing. Like children, we get to make it up as we go along.

My question of the day? Are you heavily into research before you start, like Melissa, and, if so, is your life equally planned out in advance (in as much as any life can be)? I have a strong feeling that one practice voids the other. Just curious.

Have a great weekend. I think we are having a spot of summer up here tomorrow, although I'm not sure about Sunday.