The home straight

Good heavens – has it really been two whole months since I updated you on what I am up to?  I do apologise.  If it is any excuse at all, my blog silence has been the direct result of my writing busy-ness – yes, the finish line is in sight for “The Notes of Change” (the novel formerly known as “Plank 7”).  All is in hand for a publication date of Friday 29 April (2022 – for the avoidance of doubt!), and as it stands I have only one last chapter to write.

Oddly for me, the chapter left to write is indeed the last chapter of the book.  Usually I write the ending somewhere in the middle of the writing process and then work my way towards it – I have written before about my “jigsaw” writing technique (where I write the chapters I fancy in any order I want, and then patch them together at the end – I find it a good technique for avoiding writer’s block).  But this time, perhaps because I know it really is the Final Chapter for Sam, I have been putting it off and putting it off.  And, if I’m honest, until quite recently I wasn’t actually sure what I wanted to do with him.  Those of you who have read “Fatal Forgery” and done your date calculations will know that I can’t do anything too drastic to him in this book – which ends at the end of 1829 – but still, I need to make the transition for him.  And now I know how I am going to do that.  But actually writing it, and knowing that it’s the last time I will write in his voice, well, that’s quite sad.

Some readers have suggested that I could go all Morse on him and write a prequel – and I might yet do that.  (For my money, “Endeavour” is by far the best in the Morse canon – and in our house we can no longer even watch “Lewis” as it features an actor whose abhorrent political views mean that I will not even name him, let alone watch him.  Not the lovely Kevin Whateley – the other one.)  But if I do one day try a “young Sam” book, he will of course be a different man – he’s Sam as I know and love him only because he has lived so long and experienced so much.  But I might not be able to resist.

Publication is not just about finishing the text – there are other ducks to get into that row.  I have booked my lovely cover designer and have found a cover image that I want to use.  I’m now waiting to hear from the copyright owner of the image about whether and how I can use it.  My regular beta reader is lined up and waiting for the finished draft – I’ve promised that by the end of next week, so I’m going to have to get over my Sam sadness before then.  And once the text is off my hands, I need to get cracking with arranging some marketing splash or other for the big day – and marketing is real weakness of mine.  So if anyone reading this wants to suggest something, I’m all ears!

Time catches up with us all

Regular readers will know how exciting this is for me: today, for the first time in about eighteen months, I have been able to go into the University Library without an appointment and walk freely around the stacks – and then return to my very favourite desk, on North Front 5, among the German books which I cannot read and so am not tempted to browse, with a view of King’s Chapel (you might just spot its four towers):

I am, of course and inexplicably, hopelessly behind with “Plank 7” – no writing retreat for me this year, but you’d think, with the endless months of lock-down, I’ve have written at least three more novels by now.  But there it is, and I am making some progress: today’s task is the assembling of the timeline, as so far all references to time-frame are in square brackets, like this: “Goodness, is it really [[three weeks]] since I last spoke to him?”  As “Plank 7” sees the arrival of the Met Police, there are certain dates to which I must adhere – passing of new legislation, swearing-in of new constables, first cadre of men out on patrol, etc. – and it’s a pretty tight schedule (from passing of legislation, via recruitment and training of a thousand men, to first patrol was just over three months!).  So my ambition today is to check that it is physically possible, given the Met timetable and the other constraints on life at the time – journey times, court schedules, etc. – that my characters can actually do what I am telling them to do.  And you thought only modern life was time-pressured!

Me, myself and I

Today I have been wrestling with the mechanics of writing.  I don’t mean printers or software, but rather the restrictions that a writing form places on the author.  As a reader – and I appreciate that this may be an unpopular and perhaps narrow viewpoint – I’m put off by experimental or (heaven forbid) “daring” writing styles.  For instance, I don’t like having speech without inverted commas, or without regular indicators for who is speaking.  I can cope with multiple narrators, as long as (a) there’s a good reason for it and it’s not used just to bulk out a word count by telling the same story from several points of view, and (b) again, it’s clearly indicated.  I really can’t stand stream of consciousness – although I know that many people love it, hence the enduring popularity of James Joyce’s “Ulysses”.  My position is that I read for entertainment, escape and/or education, and if I want a mental puzzle I’ll do a cryptic crossword or sudoku.  But I know many readers do like to be challenged, and books like Anna Burns’ “Milkman” (where no-one is actually named) win wagon-loads of prizes.

However, one of the many joys of being a self-published author is that I can write whatever I like and my publisher (me!) will accept it without nagging me to be more modern or adventurous or rule-breaking in my writing style.  And what I like is clear, crisp story-telling that follows the rules of style and grammar that have been developed to enable the reader to ignore them completely and wallow in the story itself.

When I started the Sam Plank series, I knew I wanted a first person narrator, with all the stories told from Sam’s point of view, using the “I” pronoun.  I liked the idea of revealing his thoughts and developing a writing style that was his rather than mine – although I have started to adopt some of his mannerisms, I find.  But first person narration has one big limitation: you can write only what your narrator sees, hears or knows.  So if you want a scene in which your narrator is not present, you have to work out a way for him to hear or read or otherwise learn about it – or give in and have him hiding round the corner or listening at the keyhole.  Luckily for me, a constable often does both of these – but I still sometimes have to rejig a plot because it includes scenes which Sam could never know about.  And oddly, given how much I dislike written puzzles as a reader, I quite relish them as a writer.

Retreating to the back bedroom

Well hello.  If you are still sticking with this blog, when I am so rubbish at writing it regularly, I am very grateful to you.  Lots of people, like me, write alongside a day job, and the methods for doing that are as many and various as the writers.  Some people get up early and write for an hour or two before beginning their normal day.  Some (and I envy these people) carry a notebook or phone everywhere and can concentrate well enough while sitting at a café or on a train or between meetings to jot down a few sentences.  Some – and this is a bit more my style – devote a half-day or day a week to their writing.  My favoured method has always been the “dedicated day” in tandem with the “writing retreat”.  As I write historical fiction – rather than contemporary fiction, or indeed non-fiction – I find that I need time to relocate myself into the past, to settle back into the vocabulary and style of the 1820s, which is just not possible (for me, in any case) in short bursts of writing.  This year – the year of “Plank 7” and a pandemic – I have just about managed the dedicated day, but the writing retreat has had to adapt.

Usually – and yes, how lucky am I – I decamp to Switzerland for about a month, to sit alone in a small flat in an out-of-season ski resort, surrounded by gorgeous scenery, fresh air and really-awkward-to-get-at wi-fi (I have to walk uphill to the local tourist office and sit outside it to get any signal).  I can forget about home responsibilities, and what with that tricky wi-fi, and local telly restricted for me to re-runs of “The Royal” and “Heartbeat” on some peculiar English-language channel, I can immerse myself in the world of Sam and really crank out the words.  (And, perhaps more importantly, get a grip on the whole plot, which can be hard to grasp on that one day a week.)

But this year, no Switzerland for me.  And so I have had to improvise: for six weeks, I have planned my diary so that I work for one day a week, write for three days and spend the fifth day on research and other book-related stuff (like blogging).  My weekends will follow their familiar pattern: one day for exercise (long bike ride, usually) and one day for eating/reading.  I am of course extremely fortunate in being able to plan my own time like this, but I have learned the hard way that if it’s not planned and written in my diary, it doesn’t happen.  My aim – as with every writing retreat – is to have a good first draft at the end of it.  And as my current word count is only about 47,000, I have quite some way to go.  Wish me luck!

Picture this

Here I am, indulging in my weekly writing immersion.  I’m afraid my own plan of writing for thirty minutes a day came to nothing: I just can’t get into the right frame of mind at the start of the working day, with so many things to attend to.  So it’s back to the old pattern of thinking about Sam all week and then spending one day at the weekend in his company (whichever day the weather is worse, as we like a day out on the tandem as well).

And today I have a little tip for those of you writing historical fiction, particularly set in Europe (and perhaps America).  When I am describing a new character, I like to be able to visualise them.  And of course I need to make reference to what they are wearing – breeches or trousers, greatcoat or cutaway, bonnet or hat.  If you do searches on, for instance, “London men fashion 1828”, the results are plentiful – but they are all “fashion plates”, showing the very height of fashion.  It’s a bit like someone assuming that we in 2021 all dress like the models in recent issues of “Harper’s Bazaar” and “Vogue” magazines.  It’s hard to find pictures of real people in everyday outfits.  But what I do now is go to the website of the National Portrait Gallery and, in the search box, put the year I am looking for.  The results will be paintings, sketches and sculptures “issued” in that year, and although many of them will show people dressed in their finest (or wearing togas), there will be many others that show people in much more workaday outfits.  And it’s perfect for seeing hairstyles and whiskers.  I am about to describe a fellow called George Young, who ran a horse bazaar in London in 1828, and there are no portraits specifically of him.  Instead, my George will be a combination of a Methodist minister called John Stephens and the chemist John Hope – they look the right age, with a healthy lack of concern with fashion.  Just make sure you click on the details of the sitter you’ve chosen, to guard against modelling your character on a well-known eccentric!

Project Bleurgh

To add to my seemingly endless list of things about which I should feel guilty, I have added “not writing regularly enough on my writing blog”.  I started it with one aim in mind: to describe the ups and downs of the processes of writing and self-publishing.  But since, well, you know what I’m talking about, things have ground almost to a halt.  I have good days – that weekend immersed in old newspapers was a corker – but the default setting seems to be “meh”.  I’ve been kicking myself about it, as the set-up is theoretically brilliant.  I can’t go anywhere or meet anyone (and have no children to home-school) so I have long stretches of time that I could fill with writing.  But I just can’t get myself going.  And – thankfully – it seems that I am not alone.

In her most recent newsletter to readers – which you can subscribe to here – the fabulous and perennially bouncy author Marian Keyes admitted to her own low mood: “And it’s been interesting (one way of looking at it 😉) how I (and I think lots of others) are coping: I’m no longer angry or hopeful or anything really, instead I seem to have managed to muffle most of my emotions and have selected a state of joyless low-level-depressed endurance as my default setting.”

I am a great fan of David Gaughran, who produces marvellous tutorials on self-publishing, and he too has been hit by the bleurghs: “More serious, is that I’ve been unable to read a novel for around a year.  I just can’t focus on it.  I can gobble up non-fiction, dry marketing posts, technical guides – it’s really bizarre.  But give me a good novel and I’ll struggle…. Definitely more concerning again is the effect this has had on my fiction writing.  I’m sure these two things are linked, but I’ve really been finding it difficult to make any progress on a number of overdue fiction projects.  The words are less of a flowing river and more of a dripping faucet.  They are coming… but… in… the… most… annoying… manner… possible.”

And perhaps the best description I have read of the whole sorry situation, which stifles creativity and makes us feel even more guilty about wasting time, was this piece by Alison Flood in the Guardian, called – perfectly – “Writer’s blockdown”.  In it, she pinpoints the heart of the problem: to write, particularly fiction, we need both internal mental space and external stimulation.  My mind buzzes with anxiety, like low-level tinnitus – it fills up every space, unless I distract myself with utterly mindless telly (I’m re-watching my “Dallas” DVDs – that’s how mindless I need to be).  And as for the external stimulation, well, what can I say?  I’ve been nowhere and seen no-one.  (Each day my biggest decision is: shall I do the boring walk or the tedious walk or the familiar walk or the quick walk?)  I meet no-one new and see nothing new – so external stimulation is a goner.

Dismal though that all is, I do take comfort from knowing that I am not alone and that many other writers are battling the same inertia.  But the schools have gone back today (I’m in the UK) and my husband is getting his jab next week (I’m a couple of years younger so won’t be far behind) and the daffodils are out, so I feel the stirrings of optimism.  And once I can move more freely and think about something other than a virus, “Plank 7” will be back on track.

The curse of the storyteller

There are many good things about being a writer.  You’re rarely lonely, for instance, as you can always have a chat with your characters (in your head – you don’t want to attract odd glances).  If the time and place in which you find yourself is not terribly welcoming or exciting or comforting (the UK in lockdown is none of these), you can simply select or invent a new time and place and spend time there instead.  And it’s an excellent mental workout, keeping track of plots and characters.  But I have recently discovered one significant downside of being a writer: it has made me extremely picky and critical when it comes to reading and watching other stories.

At the moment, in our house we are hooked on the drama “The Serpent”, about serial killer Charles Sobhraj, who drugged, robbed and murdered young backpackers in Asia in the 1970s.  (It has particular resonance, as I spent my teenage years in Asia in the 1970s – much of the setting and lifestyle and social comment is so familiar.)  It’s a complicated tale, with multiple victims, multiple locations and multiple timelines.  And last night my husband turned to me and said, “If you say one more time that the timing is out, or that a character couldn’t have known something because they weren’t in that scene, or that one fact has contradicted another, I’m turning off the telly”.

Reader, I had no idea that I had turned into a lean, mean, story-criticising machine.  But he was right: I had idly observed all of those things, and just in that one episode.  Now this doesn’t mean for one second that I wasn’t enjoying “The Serpent” (I cannot WAIT for tonight’s episode), or that it didn’t grip and convince me (I even spent five minutes “watching” from outside the room and calling “what’s happening now?” because the suspense was too great).  In truth, I am rather proud of myself: it must mean that my story-creating muscles are flexing and practising.  But for the sake of marital harmony, tonight I shall keep my comments to myself (even if it makes no sense that two Dutch characters would speak English to each other when alone, when two Thai characters speak their own language and are subtitled – unless it is to convey that one of them isn’t really Dutch, or that they want to be overheard and understood by a non-Dutch speaker, or the point is to demonstrate how fluent they are in English… oh goodness, I’m off again).

The puzzle of Plank

Today is a good day.  Not just because the Cheeto in Chief has finally left the White House (may he rot in Florida), but because for the first time in months – literally, months – I have felt properly “in the zone” while writing.

What I haven’t confessed to you is that last week I had a major wobble and considered reversing my decision to write “Plank 7” before embarking on my Cambridge series.  I re-read what I had written for “Gregory 1” and it’s not bad at all.  Perhaps, I reasoned, I needed a break from Sam and Martha.  Perhaps I was blocked because subconsciously I didn’t want to finish their series and say goodbye to them (although my husband has pointed out that I can always do “Young Sam and Martha” – if it’s good enough for Morse and Montalbano, it’s surely good enough for Plank).  Perhaps I needed a change of scenery, and relocating my writerly self from London to Cambridge might do the trick.  (Actually, as I’m under lockdown in Cambridge and it’s the only place I’ve seen for months, it’s rather more exciting to think about London.)  But it turns out that I was just being a bit feeble – as ever (and I can’t remember who said it) the key to writing is nothing more mysterious than applying the bottom to the chair and the hands to the keyboard/pen.

So, I am thrilled to report that Sam, Martha and I are back on track.  And this final instalment is even more of a mental workout than usual.  Not only do I have to figure out the plot (which, in true Sam style, is revealing and changing itself as we go along), but I also have to ensure that anything I write dovetails neatly with Sam’s adventures at the end of “Fatal Forgery”.  Although the majority of that book was set in 1824, you may remember that the final chapters jump ahead to September 1830 – and “Plank 7” is set in the autumn of 1829.  I didn’t know Sam very well when I was writing “Fatal Forgery”, and I am just hoping that I haven’t hamstrung him with any odd views or actions that I will now have to accommodate.  Still, it keeps the mental cogs whirring nicely.

Looking backwards and forwards

And here we are, staring into a whole new year – there can’t be many among us who are sad to see the back of 2020…  I know that my creativity took quite a knock; much as I admire all those who managed to use the endless weeks and months of lockdown to burrow into their projects, I have to admit that constant low-level anxiety and uncertainty took up most of my brain space.  As a result, I am now confronted by two stalled books – “Gregory 1” and “Plank 7” – and I am very much hoping that 2021 will be different.

Self-pity aside, I must gird my loins and look at my sales figures for the past year.  But despite Amazon reporting target-busting sales and (apparently) people turned to reading for comfort and escape, the boom has not quite hit my own titles!  In 2020, I sold 36 paperbacks across the six titles in the Sam series, and 185 e-books.  (But before you pat me on the back for those e-books, I must confess that 153 of those were downloaded for free during a promotion I ran in March/April.  So only 32 of the e-books brought in any money.)  And my little business book – “The Solo Squid” – sold 12 paperbacks and 16 e-books.

And so to money: with an average royalty of 90p per sale, my life as an author netted me about £86.40 in royalties in 2020.  Unfortunately, I also had to pay £200 for the cover for “The Solo Squid”, plus my memberships of the Society of Authors and the Alliance of Independent Authors (neither of which I would do without), so I’m actually about £350 in the red.  But as I don’t drink (yet…), smoke, or collect diamond jewellery or expensive cars, it’s a hobby I can afford.  And once I can reclaim some of this mis-used brain space, I can get back to enjoying it.  Happy new year to one and all!

Room for improvement

I know that I have been a sorry disappointment to you in recent months – very little blogging, and even less writing of the latest Sam Plank book, “Plank 7”.  The latest on that is that I have written seven chapters, with a total of about 13,000 words, and I am reasonably happy with one of my plot strands.  The main obstacle to writing is that I am, against the odds, working pretty much full time – I’m certainly not complaining, when so many are struggling to make a living, but it means that at the end of the day and then the week I have very little mental energy left for imaginative writing.

To remedy that, I am currently working my way through a book called “The Organised Writer: How to Stay on Top of All Your Projects and Never Miss a Deadline”, by Antony Johnston.  When my husband saw it arrive, he was surprised, as I am famed for my organisational skills/obsession.  (Surely everyone has a “Dish of the Day” list pinned on the fridge, showing what every meal for the coming week will be, so that we can alternate meat/fish/veggie, and potato/rice/pasta, and avoid food waste.  No?  Ah, just me then.)  And it’s true – I don’t need much help with record-keeping, plotting, invoicing and the rest.  But I do need to find a way to prioritise my writing, so that I don’t end up with perfectly filed paperwork and no energy left to write a single paragraph.  I’ll let you know how it goes.

The other aspect of life as a writer that has been exercising me recently is how wonderful it is to have an alternative world to which I can escape.  When I am sick to the back teeth of hearing about the US election and about corruption in the UK government, I can leave the modern world entirely and spend a happy hour or two reading and writing about the horse trade in London in the 1820s.  I pity those who are not readers or writers and are therefore stuck in the moment.  And as I read about Sam’s contemporaries, I do wonder whether ignorance was a sort of bliss: were people happier when they weren’t bombarded constantly with information about politicians and celebrities and sportsmen?  When they knew their family and their neighbours, and only occasionally did news about a world leader filter through – it was certainly a smaller life, but perhaps it was a happier one…