The Writer's Waiting Game

Look at Facebook. Tweet.

Check e-mails....again.

Pay attention to neglected children/partner/job/friends.

Then sigh, pace, flip through the diary pages--how many days has it been now?

And do it all again.

I think it was Alan Bennett who said, "Writing is mostly making cups of tea."

But there are two types of tea drinking for writers. There's the "creative", mulling things over, taking a break from the desk or paper or screen, the stretching and yawning reward cup of tea.

Then there's the "waiting" cup of  tea. Altogether different. This stewed and bitter brew is just a time-killing cup of tea, and it doesn't taste nearly as delicious.






The waiting that I'm talking about is, of course, is that killer time that happens after a work in progress is nominally "finished."  It's waiting to get feedback from your critique group or hear from an agent, publisher or a competition judge. Ultimately, it's waiting for judgement--rejection or acceptance, yes or no.

When you're waiting to get a response from a query, or even to hear back from the wonderful agent you feel so lucky to have, time does strange things. Think back to being a child, and having to wait for your birthday, or the start of the summer holidays, or Christmas.

In Minnesota, where I grew up, my community followed the Nordic custom of opening presents on Christmas Eve. This made for some lovely memories--a roaring fire, Christmas tree lights twinkling in the darkness and, outside the window, starry skies and clean white snow.

But it also made for a long, excruciating, almost unbearable wait till the evening. My parents had plenty of suggestions for passing the time--go play in the snow, take a nap, help out in the kitchen (as if!). Nothing worked. Timed just dragged.

So now, years later, I try the same thing, looking for similar ideas that will distract me during the weeks of waiting to hear back from my agent or get news from a publisher. Playing in the snow? Well, maybe I'll go on a series of long walks, or even a short holiday. Taking a nap? OK, I'll try reading. Help out in the kitchen? God knows those cupboards could use a good clean...

What else helps?

Starting a new piece of writing, obviously, but I'm still rather attached to the piece I've just finished, so instead of starting something new, I go back to my manuscript and do what I call "scab-picking." You know--tweaks and tiny changes that are pointless at best, damaging at worst.

Blogging does--I've made this post "last" by writing two words a day, clever me!

But generally, there's nothing to be done but carry on with life, and with writing.

And tweet, of course.

And check that inbox one more time....

while drinking a cup of tea.

A Writer's Voice

Last week, after a lovely night out, my daughter and I came upon a busker in Brighton's Lanes. It was quite late, very cold, and a young man was sitting on a pile of blankets, bundled up in a heavy coat. He was also playing a guitar and singing an old Van Morrison song, "Crazy Love."

He had a wonderful voice--the kind that forces you to stop and listen, no matter how cold it is or how tired you are, and stay until the end of the song, even if it means missing the last bus. There was no other audience for him--the Lanes were empty--so I did what seemed appropriate at the time. While my daughter dropped a few pounds into his guitar case, I dropped in some harmonies.

Yes, I'm a sometimes singer, and the writing "break" I blogged about a few months ago happily re-kindled my desire to sing and perform. Once I started writing again, I stopped, though--seems I can only exercise one type of "voice" at a time.

Well, the late night, back alley singing felt good. I think it probably sounded OK, too, but mostly it felt good (at least to me!).

Re-wind to a few weeks earlier, when I was at the launch for SCBWI's  Undiscovered Voices 2014. It was a great chance to meet up with fellow UV winners, all of whom are now friends, and to meet other writers and illustrators, who hope to be chosen for the next edition of Undiscovered Voices.

The selection panels were there, too--editors and agents (including my wonderful agent, Sallyanne Sweeney) giving helpful information about what makes a good book, and what they hoped to find in a writer's (or illustrator's) work.

For the writing panel, it all came down to one word--voice.

They talked about other things--personal preferences in genre, types of books they didn't particularly want to read--but really, the only thing that truly mattered to them was voice.


As writers, we hear this time and time again. But what is a writer's "voice"?  How do you know if you have one? If you don't have one, what can you do?

At the launch, several suggestions were made--you can read them on SCBWI's Words and Pictures Online Magazine (and get information about SCBWI and UV2014--the competition opens 15 July!)

For me, my writer's voice comes from the same place that my singing voice does--the inside. Harmonising with the guy in the Lanes reminded me of how singing "feels", as much as how it sounds. It reminded me where my brain has to go, what my body has to do, and helped me remember the magical, strangely intimate thing that happens when two or more voices "connect".

Singing requires a kind of suspension of self, where your body and the words and the music create something that comes from you, but isn't you...yet is.

I think the writer's voice is similar. There's a stillness that has to occur, a concentration, an internalisation, a connection to be made if the voice is to resonate.

But who or what is a writer connecting to? The imagined reader? An editor?

The first connection I usually make is to character (although "character" could mean story, or genre, or setting, I suppose...) Writing feels to me like putting on a new skin, and working from the inside out, in the way that singing is also putting on the "skin" of both songwriter and the interpretative you-that-is-not-you. It's also like the way an actor "gets into character". For a YA or children's writer, this means channeling, usually, a child or teenager's point of view. And here, the actor analogy comes into play even further. To create a role, an actor has to examine herself--often going into deep memory--but must also be a keen observer of  the world around her, taking note of how real people talk, walk, think. To have a voice that is true, a children's writer should have a long memory, not just for incidents or experiences or details, but for emotional situations that were awkward or painful or funny or terrifying.

Like other artists, writers have to use their own lives and experiences, but then shake off the the shackles and limitations of self so that something else can play out on the page. This "something else" doesn't happen all the time--it takes hard work, perseverance  plenty of practice. But to me, this is the "connection" that makes characters and stories seem true and alive, and makes the elusive writer's "voice" take off and sing.


 

Why I Keep Writing

I was going to title this post "Why I Write" but there are already major league essays by premiership-calibre writers called "Why I Write" so I changed my mind.

"Why I Write" sounds like a piece by a writer who has a grand vision or "mission statement" rather than somebody like me, who is pretty much meandering along the road, stopping off in places that look interesting, taking a break when needed, or scrabbling, when necessary, over tough terrain.

So here are the reasons why I keep writing, in no particular order.

1) If I didn't write, I'd have to something else, like clean the house, or cook, or weed the garden. You want a great excuse for being a total slob? Become a writer.

2) If I didn't write, I'd never have the chance to eat book launch cake, or drink book launch wine. Please note that not everyone has a book launch, and that non-writers can also go to book launches, but by becoming a writer you will increase your chances of attending (if not hosting) an event where these lovely treats are served.

3) If I didn't write, there's virtually no chance that I'd be able to go back to the writers' yurt at the Edinburgh Book Festival (and use the writers' toilet) without donning a Carol Ann Duffy, Ian Rankin or Teri Terry disguise.

4) If I didn't write I'd have to grow up properly. I wouldn't be able to temporarily channel the mind and body of a child or teenager (OK, I could try, but frankly, I'm no Grayson Perry.) I'd just be middle-aged --boring!

5) If I didn't write, I'd have to change out of my writer's uniform.

6) If I didn't write, I could never reveal to the world the glimmering insights buried deep within my sensitive poet soul...HA! Almost fooled you, didn't I?

So, seriously, why do I keep writing?

I'm not sure. I love stories--I love hearing them, reading them, watching them, making them. I love the way writing takes me to so many places and allows me to be so many people. I love the fun of writing--the "where will this take?" me development of a story or "who the hell this?" emergence of a character. I love the wonderful people I've met since devoting serious time to writing. And these "loves" far outweigh the frustrations and heartbreaks of writing--the rejections, the disappointments, the sheer hard slog, the anxiety, the self- doubt.

But the most important thing?

I really, really want to use the Edinburgh authors' toilet again...

Why I Quit Writing--Part Two

Last week I wrote about the unhappiness and frustration that caused me to take a writing break that lasted  over five years. It was a difficult post to write, as it dredged up painful memories and rekindled a still-palpable sense of embarrassment and failure. Many lovely readers made kind and thoughtful comments, and I promised that I'd follow up with an account of what brought back my desire to write.




I hope that what follows doesn't disappoint you too much. There are no words of wisdom, no real insights, there is no glorious epiphany....

The story, however, is completely true...

It was warm summer's evening in Venice. I was sitting outside Caffe Rosso in the Campo Santa Margharita, having the first of several spritzes before dinner. My husband and children were with me, and, somewhere at a nearby table, a chunky 30-something American bloke wearing a green CBGB T-shirt was braying rather loudly, regaling his listeners (a trio of young Belgians, as I recall....two men and a woman) with tales of his many marvelous experiences and achievements. He was too young to have hung out at CBGB when it was anything more than a tourist trap or a cheap T-shirt, but the Belgians didn't know that, so he could go on about how brilliant it all was back in 1976 (when he was five years old....) and he saw the Ramones and/or Patti Smith every night.

Meanwhile, I huffed and puffed and tsked with with irritation, annoying my family who felt that our night out was being hijacked not by a obnoxious loud mouthed American bloke, but by an obnoxious, complaining, intolerant (and loud mouthed) American woman--me.

We had dinner. The kids went back to our hotel. My husband and I returned to Campo Santa Margharita.

The chunky guy in the CBGB T-shirt was still there and so were the young Belgians. Within seconds, my ears became fixed (and fixated) on his even-louder intonations. I think by then he was bragging about his job (science lecturer at a state college). I bristled with irritation and so did my husband--not with Mr. CBGB, but with me!

The night wore on. The obnoxious Yank--all right, Yanks--got drunker. The Belgians did too. The men were slumped over in their chairs, the young woman looked wobbly and disoriented.

Although I had one ear tuned to the chunky Yank, my husband and I chatted away. Our conversation turned to something we didn't discuss much in those days--my writing. Jim mentioned a conversation he'd had with someone who'd said it was a "total shame" that I wasn't writing any more.

This was a well-intentioned, totally positive thing to say, right? Of course it was. There was no reason why such a comment should have made me so uncomfortable or aroused such intense and instantaneous hostility.

But it did.

And, seconds after Jim uttered the words "a total shame", the Yank at the other table began making disparaging, offensive, sexually explicit and LOUD comments about the young Belgian woman who'd just stumbled into the caffe. The words were extremely nasty, and I can only describe what happened next as an out-of-body experience.

Rage hurled me out of my chair, sent me weaving through the crowded seating area until I got to the Yank's table.

I don't remember what anyone did, or how anyone looked.  I remember nothing except for the words I shouted and how difficult it was keep my balance.

But anger trumped alcohol and I told the Yank that I was SICK to DEATH of having to listen to his ABUSIVE and INSULTING and OBSCENE language about some poor WOMAN, who wasn't even able to DEFEND herself,  so why didn't he do everyone in Venice a FAVOUR (only I was saying it in an American accent so I spelled it FAVOR) and just SHUT UP!

When I got back to our table, my husband's eyebrows were raised considerably. He may have said--he was certainly thinking--something along the lines of, "Well, I've seen you do some crazy shit over the years, Jane, but this..."

I ordered another spritz. Jim asked for "Il Conto." My fellow American went quiet. The Belgians staggered off into the night.

But "this" wasn't over.

Just as we were paying the cheque, the Yank came over to OUR table. Seemed he could do the whole "apoplectic with rage" thing, too.

He stood firm, scowled at me and said, "You picked the wrong town, man."

I pulled a face and said, "Huh?"

He said, "You heard me--you picked the wrong town."

"What are you talking about?"

"I know people in this town, man."

"You know people?"

"Yeah."

"Like, the mafia or something?"

He nodded. Glared.

"So you're, like, threatening me with the Venetian mob?" I sounded more and more like Joe Pesci with every word I spoke. "The one you hear so much about? The one in all the gangster movies?"

He glared some more. I scoffed.

"Maybe if we were in Palermo, I'd be scared," I said. "Maybe if we were in Napoli."

"Yeah, well you just watch your back," he said, before shuffling away...

That's it, people.

One crazy night is what made me want to write again. Some weird Venetian alchemy that I can't explain. A totally bizarre story that just had to be written down and told, over and over again.

At breakfast the next day, Jim jokingly warned the kids about "the price on Mum's head".

Afterwards I popped out to a little stationery shop and bought a lined notebook and shiny silver pen...

I started to write and haven't looked over my shoulder since.

Except when I'm in Venice, of course!

Why I Quit Writing--Part One

At some point every writer asks:  "I wonder if now is the time to quit?"

This might mean stopping work on a work in progress that has lost its way, or halting submissions to agents or publishers, or letting go of the notion that you actually have some talent and aren't merely an idle "scribbler." 

It might mean downing tools forever, and not writing another bloody word.

And, at some point, most writers' blogs will come up with a "when should you give up?" post. The answer that bloggers come up with is always "never". You must never, ever give up, despite the bitter disappointments and brutal rejections. Writing takes its own time, so be patient but persevere! 

That would also be my advice, except that, several years ago, I did quit. 

I quit totally.

I gave up completely.

I threw in the frickin' towel.  

Actually, describing my "hiatus" from writing as I've just done makes it seem far more conscious and noble act than it was. I made no public declarations or took no moral, fist-shaking, stand of defiance.

 In fact, I didn't actually quit, but simply ran out of energy, of ideas, of places to submit my work (I was then writing screenplays). In fact, what I really did was slink away, tail between my legs...

And it was the right thing to do! Despite some success, and plenty of "affirmation", writing was making me profoundly unhappy.

This unhappiness culminated in a disastrous residential course. It was a huge honour to have been selected by the tutors, who were (and are) internationally celebrated screenwriters. I got Arts Council funding for my fees and expenses, and couldn't have been happier or more excited about this wonderful opportunity.

Not real house...similar, though! 

I don't know why it all went wrong for me. I can only describe the experience, in an isolated house somewhere in Yorkshire, as being returned for a few days to a nightmare state of child-like anxiety and insecurity, of feeling foolish, awkward, incompetent, and of trying to remedy these feelings by doing and saying all the wrong things. I'm sure everyone else on the course had a great time, but for me? Even thinking about it, years later, it makes my stomach twist and my breathing get shallow...

So, quitting was easy. Writing brought misery, ridicule and shame. Real life, on the other hand, was full of lovely, happy family and friends, who didn't induce feelings of inadequacy, who weren't judging me on some spurious criteria that I couldn't completely understand, who thought I was funny and clever and talented without even trying!

There is no moral to this story, other than to savour and be grateful for the good, happy, constant things in our lives, for there are many, and they have nothing to do with writing. I'd also advise you to listen to your inner voice. My gut instinct, when arriving at the residential course, was to flee--I had a visceral sense of impending doom--and I should have paid attention to that feeling and not stayed on trying to "fix" the painful situation I was in.

Sometimes it's best to walk away, head held high...

And next week--what got me started again!

World Book Day 2013

I spent a brilliant World Book Day at Peacehaven Commmunity School in East Sussex, where I gave my first  author's talk (complete with jazz hands...)

Met some charming teachers, librarians and members of staff...

And, most importantly....

Got to work with some amazing students!

Thanks for your kindness, enthusiasm and good work, PCS! 

And once more with those jazz hands! 

Bravo for Booklinks! Hooray for Hackney!

I visited two very impressive schools in London yesterday, Our Lady's Convent School and the Clapton Girls' Academy, both in Hackney.  Thanks to Booklinks and the Pop-Up Festival for allowing me to take part. It was a pleasure to meet such enthusiastic and insightful students and to witness the work that dedicated teachers and librarians do in schools every day--not just during World Book Week!

What makes the Booklinks event extra-special special to writers as well as students, is that the students read a visiting writer's book and create their own work based on what they've read.

This experience--of talking to large groups of girls who'd actually read At Yellow Lake and had questions for me based on their reading experience--was so exciting! I feel like I learned as much, if not more, than the students--their brilliant responses and comments helped me focus on my writing in a way that I'd never done before. Working with real readers, especially readers as active and engaged as the ones I had the privilege to meet, is an experience every writer dreams of. I consider myself lucky to have had the chance!