More Great Advice
Should you write that book you’ve always dreamed of writing?
Q: I’ve been thinking about writing a book for a while now – I’ve always been a voracious reader – and since retiring from teaching, I now have time to write my very own novel. I attended a wonderful Writers’ Festival recently, and went to a number of seminars where I was inspired to think I might actually…
A: Sorry, can I stop you there? Please? Just… stop?
Q: Have I said the wrong thing?
A: No, you’re fine. Absolutely fine. I like it here under the desk. Curled up in a ball like this, I can suck my thumb, rock back and forth, and feel a sense of slight physical comfort. Also, my remaining dog, Daisy, is under here with me, licking my ear as she does whenever she’s worried.
Q: Perhaps I should come back when you’re feeling a little more… steady.
A: I’m fine. I’ll be good. Just let me get the damn plastic wrap off the top of this bottle. My fingernails are so chewed-down I can’t hook them under… Wait, I’ll gnaw it off. There. I can get the cork out now. I’ll just have a wee dram… And another… And one more for…
Q: I’m a little concerned. I understood this was an advice column but you appear to be in need of some basic medical or psychiatric attention.
A: No, no – everything’s fine. I’m good. Right as rain, in fact. See? I’m out from under the desk and ready to face whatever question is thrown at me. You want to be a writer, eh?
Q: At the risk of sounding immodest, I can string a sentence together, and I have some wonderful ideas about…
A: No! Don’t tell me the wonderful ideas. I’m as likely to pinch them and claim them as my own. You keep them secret, eh? We’ll keep the discussion general. Just one more belt of this whisky…
Q: Are you sure you should be drinking that much?
A: Absolutely. Now, writing. I suppose you’d quite like to be published, eh?
Q: If I’m good enough.
A: For all I know, your ideas are richly layered, deeply emotional, complex stories drawn from a lifetime of acute observation, parsed through a mind of great empathy and intelligence, and that you are capable of weaving words and phrases and stories into a whole that surpasses any literature that has come before. However…
Q: Ah, I sensed that was coming.
A: However, you might want to consider a recent stat that suggests, for example, that around seven per cent of the Australian population regard themselves as being engaged in ‘writing’ as a past-time, a miniscule proportion of whom are professionals writing for an actual living. The total of those ‘writing’, just in this country, is one million, six hundred thousand people, a large percentage of whom will harbour idle and not so idle thoughts of being published. Being published would justify their ‘writing’ as having ‘meaning’. After all, if you dedicate large amounts of time to, say, constructing a detailed seventeenth century sailing ship in a bottle, you’ll want some kind of appreciative comments from friends and relatives when this worthy task is completed. Similarly, as you discover writing is A LOT FUCKING HARDER THAN IT F… Sorry. Very sorry. I lost it briefly for a moment. I’ll just have another dram… Where was I? Oh, yes. As you learn that writing a novel is easy, and writing a good novel is considerably harder, you’ll also learn that writing a publishable novel is akin to climbing Everest sans oxygen while wearing a cheap hoodie and track pants from Rebel Sports. It will eventually dawn on you that the, frankly, insane amounts of time required to do it right, work which has distanced you from friends, family and activities you formerly held dear, is impossible to justify to anyone else unless you get published. At this point you may also realise that your chance of being published, despite the genius of your story and breathtaking beauty of your prose, is – how shall I put this – slim.
A: I’m beginning to sense you have reservations about my enterprise.
Q: You know what? Fuck it. Sorry. I mean, go ahead. Write. Write your heart out. Write to give yourself joy. Bring tears to your own eyes. Make yourself laugh so hard you can’t type properly. Take exquisite care over plot and prose and character and nuance. Keep going to writers’ festivals and keep on dreaming, eating, sleeping and thinking story. Just accept that your only reader may only ever be yourself, and find some way to be content with that. If you can do this, you’ll be welcome to sit with me and share this bottle. I hope this helps
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Reviewing books
Q: I’ve been asked to review a novel written by a colleague and it’s just awful. It’s edited by an idiot and appears to be written by someone with the literary equivalent of ADHD, which should make it fast-paced but it somehow manages to be slow-moving, dull, misspelled, factually incorrect and confusing. How do I tell the truth without offending anyone, especially my fellow author?
A: Lie. I hope this helps.
Q: It doesn’t. Can I write a review that just sticks to the positives?
A: Lie, yes. I think I covered that already. The alternative is tell the truth and be despised forever by all your writing colleagues, all the people they talk to, and everyone in publishing. This will destroy any chance you have of being published, and you’ll spend the rest of your life cursing your mistake, living a life of quiet desperation wondering what it would have been like to be a published author loved by all. In future, know what to do when a literary colleague asks the same favour - if stairs are available, throw yourself down them and hope both arms and all your fingers are broken so you’re physically unable to write a review. If they aren’t, read the warning labels of your household cleaning chemicals until you find one capable of causing temporary blindness and use accordingly. Other ruses I have used with varying degrees of success include feigning sudden epilepsy, inappropriate and disorienting declarations of love, claiming to hear voices and articulating the hope that the police arrive before I am forced to kill again. The rule here is simple: Never, ever review other colleague’s books. I hope this helps.
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Handling rejection
Q: I just had a novel knocked back by a publisher. It hurts. Any tips on how to handle rejection?
A: Spiralling into doubt, self-loathing and existential angst do it for me. Then it’s just a matter of drinking until the realisation hits that the stupidest thing you could possibly do, and the thing you are most comprehensively useless at, is writing. Then take a break from what is, after all, an absurd exercise in childish self-indulgence and do something useful with your life like gardening, art or starting fights in bars. Then, battered, bruised and rotting in a remand cell, politely ask the nice screw to lend you a book to while away the hours and, as you turn the yellowed, dog-eared pages of some pulp-fiction mass-market airport novel, you’ll slowly realise your story probably isn’t fundamentally any worse than the one you’re reading. Reading more widely, perhaps in court-mandated rehab, you’ll see that clean prose with a clear narrative direction, combined with an authorial flare for self-promotion will always win the publisher’s heart. If you can manage one but not the other, then writing to be published is probably not for you. You can only give it your best shot so many times before you decide to quit – there’s no use in being a damn fool about it. I hope this helps.
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Who wins in a fight between author and editor?
Q: My editor wants me to rip out a couple of side-stories contained within the main narrative of my latest manuscript because he thinks the intended audience, young adults, won’t cope with a narrative that isn’t from a single, continuous POV. I think the digressions, self-contained stories in themselves, are crucial to the themes, character development and overall story. I trust my editor’s opinion on this, but I also don’t want to rewrite from scratch because I think I’ve got a sound first draft - and a good story. Is an interrupted narrative always a bad thing?
A: A technical question, huh? Wow, we’re finally getting some serious writers coming to this crummy site. Time to monetise. Anyhoo, yes and no. Yes, your editor is correct – YA’s might baulk at jumping through your intellectual hoops. Some will, some won’t but, really, you don’t want any reader to put your book down halfway through and give up on it. In television, there’s a saying when a small technical script or story glitch is raised – ‘if they’re looking at that, we’ve lost them’. It’s a fatalism that refers to the reality that not everyone will like everything we write – if they don’t, they’ll see all the faults, no matter how trivial. What sort of novel are you writing, champ?
Q: It’s an historical novel.
A: There you go then. Rhetorically, what sort of kids are reading historical novels? They’re either bright, interested readers or students being dragged through a curriculum by a long-suffering teacher – in either event, the reader is going to read the whole thing. So if your self-contained stories work on their own, and the interruptions aren’t too jarring, I’d suggest you’ll get away with it. If, on the other hand, you’re looking at pure commercial fiction with a historical flavour, then your editor is probably more right than you are. Readers are less patient with commercial fiction, and aren’t likely to give you word-of-mouth if they tripped over, twice, while reading your work of staggering genius.
Both you and your editor have to remember that the journey you offer your readers must be as authentic and emotionally truthy as you can make it. Single or multiple POVs aren’t beyond the intellectual means of teenagers who are used to every variety of storytelling device in films, TV, manga, anime and video games – their brains have been taking in continuous, interrupted, multiple and single POV perspectives all their lives, so if your side-stories are powerful in themselves, and add to the whole, I don’t see the problem. Finally, as long as you thoughtfully and honestly engage with your editor’s criticisms, no one can blame you if you decide to reject their advice. It’s your book, not your editor’s. Tell the story you want to tell. I hope this helps.
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How do writers get their ideas?
Q: Where do you get all your ideas from?
A: Huh, funny question. You guys never fail to catch me out. I actually can’t believe they’re not teaching this in primary school English classes but, anyhoo, ideas are the easy bit. Seriously, any idiot can come up with a bunch over the course of half a bottle or so; I come up with dozens every day.
Draw up a grid on a big piece of paper or just on the wall with a sharpie like I have. Above the top row of boxes you write: My favourite films and tv shows. On the side you write: My favourite books, comics and self-help manuals.
Then, in each of the boxes at the top and the sides, write in your favourites of each sort until you run out of favourites. Then you pin that sucker up on the wall, open another bottle and start throwing knives.
Just to show you how it’s done, I’ll have a throw. I use a United Cutlery UC2509 triple set for around $25, btw – cheap, good for beginners, but avoid throwing them at anything hard. Apparently, Neil Gaiman uses Magnum Bailey adjustables but a/ he’s a pro, and b/ the prick can afford them.
Okay, here we go… Right, our first throw has landed in a square. All we do now is track up from that square to where it leads to… Lost in Space – the original TV series, not the shit film from the 90’s. Tracking sideways from the square we hit is….Catch 22. Combine the two and, bingo bango, you’ve got a satirical space opera based on a family caught up in intergalactic war, fed up with risking their necks to kill aliens, and doing whatever it takes to get sent home. Hilarity ensues. Actually, that’s brilliant. I’m keeping that one. I’ll do another throw for you.
Okay, let’s have a look. We have a combination of How to Win Friends and Influence People – like that really worked for me – and…Alien, the first movie in the Alien franchise. So, that’s an, uh, interesting combination which gives us either a psychological drama of the French noir variety, featuring the angst of a displaced alien who needs to find fresh bodies to parasitise despite his belief he'll never gain their permission, OR a delightful rom-com farce of the love between a young exec on his way up the corporate ladder who falls for the killing machine that bursts out of his chest at the most hilariously inconvenient time.
So, yeah, that’s where ideas come from. I hope this helps.
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Story ideas – how to get them
Q: Where do you get your ideas from?
A: I was a weird kid. I mean, some kids just are, right? Some kids like books, some kids like sports, some like to break things, some like to lie face down in the grass making a humming noise and looking at bugs. I wandered about, earnestly drifting here and there, apparently in a world of my own, barely responding to adult suggestions or commands. When I hit my teens I made the mistake of mentioning the voices, and I was quickly diagnosed with schizophrenia. So, yeah, I went through all that pharmaceutical shit and none of it worked. Even though they hit me with everything and turned me into a zombie, I was still hearing the voices. I stopped telling them about the voices – I said they’d gone away – so eventually they gave up on me and I pretended to take the pills. By the time I hit eighteen, the swirling clouds I thought everyone saw wafting around myself and other people, were more distinct. I could make out they were people. Well, ghosts. Hence the voices. My mum told me in a co-counselling session how difficult my birth had been. She thought maybe it had something to do with my ‘schizophrenia’, and she felt guilty about that. I forgave her to make her feel better but when she explained I technically died on the table right after I was born, and for a horribly long time, I guess that’s when and how I became a halfie.
The voices of the ghosts rarely make much sense. It’s just rambling rubbish for the most part – some of it sexual, some of it guilt and worry, some of it happy and peaceful. Sometimes they come to me and they’re a bit more ‘there’ if you know what I mean. They look me in the eyes and they’re more expressive with their hands and faces. Sometimes they’re asking for help, sometimes they’re trying to give the advice they really wanted to give their loved ones, sometimes they tell me stories.
I’d rather be a chippie or a road sweeper or something useful, but I can’t concentrate on anything like that with all the ghosts bugging me. They’re all around me now, mumbling, commenting, drifting, singing, suggesting stuff I should write.
And that’s where my ideas come from.
I hope this helps.
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Helpful Writing Tips
Q: Go any tips on writing you’d like to share?
A: As it happens, yes, I do. If you're serious about your writing you need to have a plan. It's like being part of a group of ninjas about to plant bombs in the White House. You can't just turn up and expect to plant bombs that reliably and spectacularly go off killing dozens or, if you’re lucky, hundreds. You need to plan and train regularly, learn what you can and use that to improve your skills. You also need to practice. For example, moving regretfully away from the ninja bomb-planting metaphor, I’ve written my Man Booker winning speech over four hundred times. This allows me to feel like a winner, and feeling like a winner is exactly what you want to be if you’re going to crush other writers underfoot. And win the Man Booker.
Here are my top tips to help you make that writing plan, and begin thinking of yourself as a Writer.
Find time every day to write. Yes, we're all busy people surrounded by deadbeats that drag us down and prevent us from doing whatever the hell we want - bosses, co-workers, spouses, children, lawyers and lazy bar staff. Everyone's busy. But if you don't find time in your day to write, you won't write. So find the time. For me, ten hours is a minimum. Anything less and you should, frankly, get your hand off it. Look in the mirror – is there a haggard, pale, tortured, hung-over creature staring back at you with a fine motor tremor and facial twitches? If there is, well done. You’re on the way.
Set that writing routine and practice. Even if it's just the six hours from two AM to when you have to go to work, and another six in the evening, any writing time is better than none.
Find a special place to write. Under a coffee table in the foetal position is often good for me. On the pavement outside The Broken Arms is another place you’ll find me, often in the early hours, despite the difficulty of locating an electronic word processor in such a location at such a time. This is where your iPhone or iPad can be used as a slim pillow while you scrape haikus into soft bitumen with knives from the pub dining room that have found their way into your possession. My point here is you need a relaxed space in which to write - somewhere you feel comfortable and inspired. I make a point of always hiding a small writing device – a pen or pencil, it doesn’t matter – somewhere the police won’t find it. The look of surprise when they open the drunk-tank in the morning to find the walls are now a literary masterpiece is well worth the effort.
Block out distractions - turn the internet off so you don't get distracted by social media, porn and cute animal gifs. Another trick is to secretly replace all the locks on the apartment, enabling you to keep family, creditors and stress outside. Mattresses piled up against doors and windows will ensure the shouting is barely heard over the Wagner and the smashing of empty bottles.
Start a writing journal. Collect story ideas in one place, so if you're stuck for something to write about, you can just look back at your journal. Your first thoughts may be ‘my God, how drunk was I?’ but dig a little deeper and you’ll find the nub of an idea that may yield that Man Booker prize-winning novel.
Write when you're inspired. Write when you’re not. Make hypergraphia your psychiatric illness of choice. If you feel like writing outside your set hours, just write – sleep is for pussies. If you have writer's block, or your body keeps trying to lie down and rest, just write anything until an idea pops into your head. Write utter drivel if you like. A bit of editing later on and you can call it contemporary literary fiction. Any old rubbish will keep those wheels greased and the grant applications moving. Write about what you can see out the window, what you find in your pockets or under your fingernails - anything. Just keep writing until that Man Booker idea comes.
Keep a recording device next to your bed. Sometimes the best ideas come in the middle of the night and you won't remember them in the morning when the hospital orderlies are kicking you out of the casualty department. To be sure, I record everything I do and say. I have, gaffer-taped to my chest, a small recording device. In the morning I download and transcript the contents to a program that turns it into text that I admit looks and reads a lot like a bad translation from English to Italian then back to English - but in a good way. I don’t lose any of my vital creative journeys, and who knows which of these vital, visceral writings will bring me that Man Booker? I don’t, you don’t, but we can both agree it’s only a matter of time.
Allow yourself time to think - time to come up with ideas to write about. That means quiet time without computers, social networking or any kind of social life. Music is fine if that's what inspires you. Drugs, alcohol, jogging, vigorous sex, Plants versus Zombies – whatever gets you going.
Set yourself writing goals. They can be large or really huge. Make sure they are achievable. For example, if you're busy with work, you might only set yourself a goal of 10,000 words a day or 50,000 words a week. It has to be an amount that you feel you can achieve without being hospitalised. I know this because in hospital they take electronic devices away from you due to the adverse effect they have on sensitive monitoring equipment. People can and do die if you sneak Mac Airs into HDUs.
Reward yourself. When you've achieved your daily writing goal, celebrate it with other writers or just reward yourself by doing a fun activity you don't normally do. That bottle of Laphroig that’s just been sitting there for days? Get stuck in and feel good about yourself. And remember to hide that writing implement where the police can’t find it during the strip search!
I hope this helps.
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Writing short stories versus novels
Q: I’ve just done a creative writing course, and I’ve got what I think are a few good ideas. That said, I know I’m a noob to publishing, so should I start with short stories or just get stuck into writing a novel?
A: An acute query, one that suggests a reasonable IQ and begs the question as to why you’d put yourself through trying to be a published writer. Have you recently gone off your meds?
Q: Sorry, I’m not with you.
A: Never mind. So, short versus long-form fiction. I’d advise starting with short stories because the pain and difficulty of creating a well-rounded short will discipline and focus your creative thinking and, with luck, make you realise you should go outside and play with the dog instead, the latter bringing you a series of small joys, the former causing you untold life-long misery. As for long-form writing, any idiot can write a novel – I’ve written three and a half so there’s your proof – but few can write a satisfying short story. With the long form, it’s easy and fun to bang on at length with just a story premise and a couple of characters. It won’t be until page 128 that the whole flimsy structure of bad metaphor and convoluted back-story you devised to shore the whole thing up, grinds to a halt on the reefs off I’vegotnoideawhattodonext Island. You’ll be standing there, scratching your head, looking at the thing, sinking into a sea of words, realising you forgot to come up with a really strong ending and fully motivated characters that will do whatever it takes to get there.
Read short stories until your brain bleeds, write short stories until you win a Highly Commended certificate in the annual competition of the local writers’ group, then think about trying a novel because, god knows, the world needs more new novels.
Or you could go back on your meds. Whatever. I’m not judging you.
I hope this helps.
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Writing – business or creative pursuit?
Q: Is writing to be published more a business than a creative pursuit?
A: Yes. I hope this helps.
Q: It doesn’t. Not even a little bit.
A: Okay, I’ll bite. Why the sad face?
Q: I’m a writer for chrissakes. I’m an introvert. I just want to write stuff and get paid for it, not be some kind of literary cyber pole-dancer.
A: Terrible metaphor but I feel your pain. Here’s the reality check: publishing is risk-averse, editors, like any media persons, are PC and self-censoring to the point of puritanism, not to mention being sacked left, right and centre, and punters just want escapist fiction that doesn’t make them think – that’s the reality. You either deal with that, work to a genre and niche demographic, or bail from the whole game. What’s happened with the music industry is happening with publishing. You have to whore yourself until enough people want a taste, make a whole lot of friends, at which point you gently monetise your output by telling everyone who actually cares, ie the nice people, that you’re fond of stuff like eating to stay alive and would they mind paying just a tiny bit each and you’ll celebrate by paying the rent and buying a bucket of KFC.
Q: I’m beginning to think doing a course in tax accountancy is the way to go.
A: Well done. I hope this helps.
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Ten Rules for Good Writing
Q: Do you have any rules for writing?
A: I do, thanks for arksing. Just off the top of my head…
Rule 1: What you’re writing isn’t what you think you’re writing.
Rule 2: What readers read isn’t what you wrote.
Rule 3: A great deal of what’s written is rubbish, including your stuff.
Rule 4: Plots, themes and characters fade; a good idea doesn’t.
Rule 5: Spellcheck. I mean, come on. Press the fucking button, ffs.
Rule 6: Provoke emotions or take up another hobby.
Rule 7: Know what you’re talking about.
Rule 8: GSOH mandatory. People in extremis make fart jokes.
Rule 9: Understand that you are sexist, racist and homophobic, and why.
Rule 10: And, finally, never forget - it’s a shit business.
I hope this helps.
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Where do story ideas come from?
Q: Where do you get your ideas from?
A: Huh. Interesting question. I never really thought about it much, but I guess the story goes something like this.
About twenty years ago I had a normal job, alternating as an outback nurse and working in various city ICUs. Over a short period of time back in the nineties I found myself behaving well out of character. It got worse, to the point where I ended up getting a job in television.
Friends became concerned, and I finally had to acknowledge I had a very real problem. I went to the GP, and explained I was now writing stories and scripts virtually seven days a week, and even incorporating commercial breaks and cliff-hangers in my dreams. I was sent off for a scan, and was told they’d found a brain tumour. It was oddly shaped, like a pencil sharpener, and was pressing on parts of my prefrontal cortex. This explained why I was now a writer, and why I behaved as I did.
Careful monitoring over a period of months showed it wasn’t growing – at all. Suspicions began to rise when I had further scans with improved resolution. It turned out that the pencil sharpener shaped tumour was, in fact, a pencil sharpener.
My doctors theorised that I must have pushed it up my nose when young, and simply forgotten about it. It slowly made its way up and, with the inadvertent assistance of a number of high-speed motorcycle crashes, lodged where it did.
They offered to remove it, which opened up the possibility of returning to a normal life again, though I’d require considerable therapy to regain some basic social skills, and rehabilitation to deal with the alcoholism and cigar-smoking.
The only drawback would be a ninety per cent likelihood that I would begin to like, and play, jazz.
The decision wasn’t an easy one. The thought of a normal life – a life where storytelling wasn’t a twenty-four seven pursuit hunched over a laptop, where there weren’t empty bottles of whisky clanking under the desk as the dogs chased the tennis balls, or ashtrays overflowing with cigar stubs, or the stereo blaring obscure east European and early American music, or the inevitable prospect of an old age living in poverty, and the concepts of holidays being unimaginable – it all made me yearn for the normality I once had, and could perhaps have again.
I didn’t have to die in unshaven poverty in a Salvation Army cot halfway through scrawling a new story on the wall with inch long tobacco-stained fingernails.
But the thought of jazz…
I refused the surgery and here I am, still writing and telling stories.
I hope this helps.
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How to handle rejection
Q: Nine months after I sent in my manuscript, I get a rejection email two lines long. Two lines. Six years of soul-searching hard work and I get two lines generated by a computer. How do writers cope with this stuff?
A: Good question, well put. We all have to deal with rejection at one time or another. Or many dozens of times.
So, how do we deal with it?
Drug-use, alcoholism, deep depression and suicide are all options, I grant you, and many choose these paths. Others think those are all good as far as they go, but don’t allow for an outpouring of vengeful hatred that might soothe the hurt and console our reptilian cores that howl for blood.
Firebombing the publisher, sending anthrax-laced letters, and kidnapping senior editors may seem like practical solutions, obvious even. But, apart from being unimaginative, it’s what they’ll be expecting. And you’ll end up, yet again, in a trailer park, surrounded by AFP and SWAT, your back against the wall loading your last bullets and feeling mighty foolish.
Boy, haven’t we all been there, right?
But you don’t have to serve a lengthy jail sentence and electroshock therapy to learn there are other ways of dealing with rejection.
No, put down that semi-automatic. Instead, let’s turn to our trusty weapon of choice. Words.
Here’s a response to a rejection letter that you’re welcome to cut and paste, tweak with your particulars, and send to the editor who just cruelly dismissed your nuanced, literary, passionate and daring work of ineffable beauty and genius.
Dear Ms Cow-Face,
Yep, you heard me. Your face looks like a cow. A cow’s bum. That’s right. It’s [insert your name here], the writer of [insert your manuscript title here] and I want you to know you’re a big dummy. You’re dumber than a really dumb thing that just had a lobotomy and got way dumber.
You think my title’s ‘not suitable in its current form’? Well your whole face and brain and body and everything you do and all the people you know who think you’re actually okay but actually you’re not aren’t ‘suitable in its current form.’
How do you like them apples, huh? Doesn’t feel so good to be on the receiving end, does it, you big fugly dumbo stinky bum-face.
One day soon someone not stupid like you are is going to read my manuscript and be like oh wow, this is amazing. And six months later I’ll be like, oh wow, thanks for the Man-Booker dudes, and you’ll be suffering in your jocks because you were too stupid to see how great my book is. Yeah. Think about that. Think about how dumb you’ll feel. You’ll be sorry then, huh.
Yours sincerely,
[insert your name and contact details here]
So, there you go – without breaking any laws other than malicious damage for wrapping it around a brick and throwing it through the publisher’s window, you’ve used the power of words to express yourself succinctly, and in a way guaranteed to make the editor in question not only deeply regret their mistake, but also tip them back into a cycle of binge eating and self-loathing they thought they left behind years ago. You can expect an embarrassingly cringe-worthy apology within days, and maybe even a few spare royalty cheques they had lying around the office.
I hope this helps.
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Giving Workshops 101
Q: I’ve been asked to run a workshop on Character Development for the television company I write for. The whole idea of it makes me want to break my legs just to get out of it, but I feel I owe it to my junior colleagues to help out. Other than deliberately having a high-speed car accident, any tips?
A: I feel your pain.
Pro tip #1: Don’t pass out or have a panic attack just after the moderator introduces you.
Also, don’t turn up full of Dutch courage, cranked up on meth or barely breathing on narcotic - unless you’re an absolute genius with substances and you can take just the right amount of all three and appear confident to the point of God-like with your audience, in which case, go for it.
Pro-tip #2: don’t Taser audience members who startle you with comments or questions, no matter how much they’re asking for it.
For some reason people like to ‘interact’ with other people. You’ve probably noticed them doing this at parties, or at work, in the street, or at sports events and so on. This means that some intellectually inferior types will question what you’re saying or assume they’re smart enough to add a point of their own. As irritating as it is, you have to let them.
Anyway, the trick here is to smile and nod and look as if you’re listening. Note a phrase they use and, when they finally shut up, repeat it and imply you’re grateful for their input before you continue with the charade that you know what you’re talking about and the audience give a shit.
Prot-tip # 3: Don’t shout in a paranoid fashion at people who take notes or demand to know ‘who they’re working for’ and rip their notes away to check they aren’t written in some kind of code.
Some people are best compared to sheep. If told to flock at the edge of a cliff then jump off, they would. These people are the ones who take notes. Incapable of rational thought for themselves, they will use your simulacrum of wisdom to imagine that by the sheer act of repeating it on the written page, they have subsumed aformentioned wisdom. Obviously, yes, they’re still as dumb as a sackful of hammers, but this is the way they think and it’s efficient to let them go on doing so.
Pro-tip #4: Use PowerPoint when you want to sedate your audience into submission.
Or go totally old school and riff on a whiteboard and be prepared for the whole ‘interaction’ caper. PowerPoint is, obviously, a redundant technology like faxes and Blackberries still in wide usage by corporate types and motivational speakers. If you wonder why people who use PowerPoint don’t simply do a course of mesmerism to achieve complete control over their audience, the answer is simply a reflection of their IQ. But PowerPoint does efficiently eliminate interaction, and allows the people who pay you to imagine you have a quasi-magical ability to summon low-res gifs and cat-based memes at will.
On the other hand, if you’re ready for ‘interaction’ with your audience, whiteboards allow you to rub out the bits of rubbish you wrote initially and replace them with other rubbish more in keeping with the ‘consensus’, which is what some call the Wisdom of Crowds, others call Common Sense and sensible people call ‘the groans of the howling mob’. Zombies are a good metaphor for your audience, btw. Keep moving swiftly and they won’t bother you in the least. Slow down or be foolish enough to listen to their maundering and you’re in real trouble. It does absolutely no harm to carry a baseball bat just in case.
I hope this helps.
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Dealing with agents, publishers and senior editors
Q: Hi. Sorry about your dog, by the way.
A: Thanks. I’m a pretty sad writer these days. How can I help?
Q: Now I’ve got a few manuscripts written, I’ve had a few interviews and one-on-ones with senior editors and publishers. The trouble is I basically go into some kind of fear-coma. I sweat – I mean I literally soak-my-clothes-wet-sweat – and I gibber without any control over what I’m saying. When they ask sensible, straightforward questions about my manuscript, I babble on about how I just discovered the use of semi-colons or how important fonts are. At the last writers’ festival I went to, I actually found myself in a lift with a publisher who asked what I was working on, and rather than just tell her the sentence I’d spent hours memorising for just this kind of event, I faked an epileptic fit. Is there anything I can do to get through these kinds of situations without looking and sounding certifiable?
A: Boy, you’ve got it bad, huh. Okay, think of someone you admire, a confident author.
Q: Um…Hemingway?
A: Good choice. Manly, brave, forthright and hammered.
Q: You’re suggesting I get drunk?
A: Let vodka be your be your new friend, my friend, and senior editors will swoon as you pithily describe your latest WIP and act out the exciting bits. Or, if vodka’s not your tipple, many publishers have told me they love the smell of whisky on an author’s breath. Poor things can’t help themselves because, if we’re all being honest here, a drunk author is a sexy author. Am I right?
Q: Actually, I’m not much of a drinker.
A: Did I say it was easy? No. You’re going to have to work at it. Find the right line. You want confident, eyes sparkling, with a lazy, sexy smile on your face. You don’t want lurching, leering or vomiting on publishers’ shoes. Why not? Because publishers spend more money on their shoes than they do on their cars. That’s a scientific fact right there. So if you go blowing chunks on their Manolo Blahniks, it’s likely you won’t get published, and if you do the romantic bits will be printed in Comic Sans, your name misspelled, and the back cover blurb will feature a barely literate one-star Amazon review from a bored tween troller in a South Carolina trailer park. So, get drinking and good luck. I hope this helps.
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Getting Paid to Write
Q: I read somewhere that you write for money. I think that’s awful. I think writers should write because they love to write; because they have a passion to tell stories and because they can’t not write. I think making writing just another materialistic occupation demeans the literary canon.
A: Hi. You have a job, right?
Q: I’m a teacher actually.
A: That’s great, and just for the record I think you should get paid more.
Q: Thank you. I think that teachers are undervalued and underpaid.
A: Right on, sister. Hey, see? We’re agreeing on something. It’s like we’re old pals. Oh, except, hey, screw you.
Q: I beg your pardon!
A: You heard. Now listen up. I’ve been earning money by living on my wits as a writer, such as they are, for twenty fucking years. I don’t have any super, I don’t get sick pay, I don’t have insurance and if I lose my gig, I’m out on the street. I’ve written full-time for twenty years and I’ve got next to fuck-all, so when I say I write for money, I write to eat. Food. You like food, right? The stuff that sits on your hips and puts you on that lame exercise regime and keeps you alive?
Q: I take your point but there’s no need to be so rude about it.
A: Hey, the guy that writes the blog for this stupid site is the nice guy, okay? I’m the prick who gives bad advice to people like you. And let me tell you I put everything into my writing – blood, sweat and fucking tears. More than that I put love. Yes, love. Not some wussy version of love that makes you go aww but deep, gut-wrenching love dragged from the bowels of the relationship we have with the planet and with the species that’s killing it – us. Oh, and my dog is dying.
Q: Oh. I’m sorry about that.
A: Yeah. So am I. I’m writing scripts to make a fucking living and I can’t stop crying. He’s just there by my feet chewing his ball and he’s dying.
Q: No, really, forget I said anything. I’m so sorry.
A: It’s okay. Sorry I was so angry at you.
Q: That’s okay, really.
A: I know you’re a good person. Life’s just hard sometimes. I hope this helps.
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Generating Ideas for Stories
Q: Where do you get your ideas from?
A: Gosh, you guys keep thinking up the wackiest durned questions. Seriously, where do you get them from, lol rofl, etc.
Okay, so basically I get my ideas from everywhere. Overheard conversations, television programs, the internet, and so on.
The other day, for example, I was reading a newspaper, and I spotted an ad for Europa Luxury Car Importers right next to two articles, one about ivory smuggling, and another about Romanian Gypsy orphans who sell flowers and small bags of amphetamines at traffic lights in Bucharest. I instantly got a craving for East European food, and went out looking for a place that sold rollmops. Despite trying a whole bunch of delicatessens and food importers, I was damned if I could find any, but I did end up in a warehouse tied to a chair with electrodes attached to me and a very hairy man standing over me demanding to know “who I was with”. The guy was actually Armenian, subcontracting for a Russian bratva outfit, and when he wasn’t beating fake confessions out of me, he listened to country and western music, one track of which was Lost Highway, by Hank Williams, one of my all-time favourites. Well, that got me thinking, whenever I regained consciousness, about times I’ve travelled this wide brown land of ours, and I remembered there was one time I actually bothered to look up what “girt” meant. Out of all the people who sing the Australian National Anthem on any given day, not many know what being “girt” consists of, and after the Armenian got sick of me asking for vodka and pickled herring, and dumped me outside the Accident and Emergency department, I chatted with some of the people waiting to be treated. Only one knew what all the words in the anthem meant, and just before he faked an epileptic fit to get enough attention to get his arm sutured up, we had an interesting conversation about motorcycles – specifically if the Norvin, a Vincent 1000cc v-twin motor shoved into a Norton ‘featherbed’ frame, was the best bike ever. We agreed, and, as he was carried off, it suddenly came to me! A motorcycle gang is just Pony Club for guys! Think about it – the average Pony Club girl has glittery stickers all over everything she owns, the average gang member has every inch of his body tattooed. Pony club girl loves her horse more than life itself; gang member loves his bike more than life itself. Etcetera.
And that’s how I came up with the idea for my thesis / novel: Perceived Gender Ideation and Acquired Risk Factors in an Incarcerated Population of Outer Space Zombies.
So you see, something as mundane as a quick read through a newspaper can yield an idea that is pure publishing gold. I hope this helps.
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Author’s Platforms
Q: I’m finally on top of creating my ‘author’s platform’ via my blog, website, Facebook, Twitter-feed, Pinterist and Linked-in. I think I’m ready to actually write a book but I’m not sure I’ve got time to do so while I’ve got all the above to maintain. To be honest, I’m exhausted. Have I done this the wrong way round?
A: Definitely not. We, the reading public who don’t simply download free Amazon books and PDF novels from writers so desperate they think giving away years of hard graft is the only way to establish a ‘presence’, are now intimately entwined with the soap opera that is your life. The livestream feed from your webcam gives us a connection with you that allows us the kind of link with you as an author that in primitive times, say, the seventies, would only be achieved through regular, vigorous sex. Keep up the good work, and consider installing cameras in your kitchen and one in the hall so we can get a view into your bedroom and the entrance hall. I hope this helps.
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Plots v characters
Q: My characters feel flat and listless, my antagonist seems depressed, and even my protagonist told me she’s not sure about finishing the whole book. I mean she was nice about it, and vaguely complimentary about my descriptions of the embossing on the Dragon Lord’s war-shield, but I’m scared the last six chapters will just describe the sound of a dust-dry breeze ruffling the yellowed pages of a coffee-stained manuscript discarded on a faded window ledge in the sun. What can I do?
A: When your protagonist talks, it’s good to listen. When you engage in prolonged two-way conversations it’s also good for you to think about getting back on the meds and seeing your GP but, hey, don’t take that as a negative because if we’re being honest there’s only two kinds of people; medicated and non-medicated.
So, the first issue that springs to mind is plot. If your characters have no clear-cut and very immediate conflicts to deal with, no ferociously desired goals to attain, and no massive internal and external obstacles in the way, then it’s no surprise if, six chapters into the manuscript, you find all your characters down at the mall texting each other, eating junk food, and comparing the salient features of various sports shoes in boring monotones.
Find your endpoint. Imagine the most thrilling denouement possible in the history of ever, then add flying monkey-dragons from another dimension plus a plot-twist that reveals the character the reader trusted most is bad to the core, and the nemesis has a heart of yearning, wistful, poignant and thwarted love so we suddenly and unexpectedly care for them.
Then all you have to do is tell your characters about the end and let them figure out how to get there. I almost always let mine run that side of things because they’re generally smarter and more resourceful. I hope this helps.
Q: It does, but I’m kind of wondering about my characters too. I like Tracy and Sandra, who are like BFFs working as dental hygienists at the same practice when the new African doctor leaves his mysterious ju-ju medicines in the x-ray room overnight and opens the portal for the earliest human gods to appear some of whom are friendly to humans and some totally aren’t, but the girls aren't very interesting as people. And my bad guy, Mpango, the witch-warrior who wants to cleanse the Earth of all humans so a new species of god-creatures can rule, spends almost all his time reading books on physics and mathematics and trying to tell anyone who’ll stand still long enough all about some math monster who lives in like twenty-six thousand dimensions or whatever. He gets boring real quick, you know?
A: Okay, I’m not your friend, just an anonymous electronic advisor you can never track down, stalk and kill, so I can tell you that you’re an idiot. Seriously, I love Tracy, Sandy and Mpango already. How can you not see that? The young women are ordinary people thrust into extraordinary situations. Mpango is a stranger in a strange land. Right there you have two staples of narrative fiction. Get your ending sorted and let these guys find themselves for you on their journey. I hope this helps.
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New Year’s Resolutions for writers
Q: Hi, Ben! Happy new year! Any New Year’s Writers’ Resolutions you’d like to share?
A: [groans] Stop shouting at me.
Q: Sorry! I’ve been told I use way too many exclamation marks. LOL.
A: [lifts head from floor] I’m dying. What do you want?
Q: New Year Resolutions for Writers. I thought you might like to share yours.
Q: Who says I’ve got any? I only just regained consciousness from 2012.
A: I bet you’ve got some totally wow resolutions. I bet they’re terrific and deep and writery.
A: Will you stop talking at me if I make some up?
Q: Absolutely! Oh, sorry. There I go again! (Help! Somebody shoot me!)
A: [drops head] Resolution one: write a story about a man who only develops any kind of awareness and sensitivity to the big picture of life when he’s terminally hung-over following new years eve, and all of it hurts.
Q: Whoa – that is so like totally Bukowski.
A: Resolution two: fix the roof so it…
Q: Sorry, but that’s not really writery, is it? For a writer’s New Year’s Resolution List, I mean.
A: [sighs heavily] …fix the roof so it doesn’t leak when it next decides to rain which, going by the last six month’s rain patterns could be never, so that it doesn’t leak onto my computer, shorting it out, frying the hard drive and electrocuting me mid-sentence.
Q: Oh. Right. I suppose that is kind of relevant.
A: Resolution three: go on writing despite the conviction that everything I write will be rejected by the Writing Police. Resolution four: stop…
Q: Wait, sorry – ‘writing police’?
A: Shhh – they don’t like being talked about. But they’re there, watching, waiting. One day, they’re going to kick in the doors, make me step away from the keyboard, impound everything I’ve ever written, beat me senseless and throw me out of their van near an emergency department.
Q: Rrrright…
A: Resolution four: stop reading YA. Seriously, enough already. I get it. I get what the best-sellers are doing. As soon as the second and third in the Ketty Jay series by Chris Wooding arrive and I’ve read them, that’s it. Just say no to YA.
Q: Isn’t it important to be well-read in the genre you’re writing for?
A: [groans, opens one eye] Are you still here?
Q: Uh huh.
A: Whatever. I don’t know what genre I’m writing for. The people genre. The people who read books so they don’t have to think for a while genre. Do you have any codeine?
Q: Actually, I think we should just forget about the whole New Year Resolution thing. I think you should maybe drink a litre of orange juice and go to bed.
A: [lifts head, stares at hard wooden floor, puzzled] Mm. Okay. Oh, wait – resolution twelvety: whatever I write, I’ll know what the point is before I start writing it.
Q: How do you mean, ‘the point’?
A: The idea, the core of the story, the grit in the oyster, the thing I’m building a story around. Oh, and to finish Curly Bill and The Sea of Death, do edit #8 on Strange Water, edits two through four on The Pricking of Thumbs, plus write a feature script. Plus remember I’m married and spend more time with Brenda doing fun stuff and not thinking about writing all the damn time. [head drops back to floor with painful thud] I hope this helps.
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Getting Published
Q: How long does it take to get published? I’ve been writing for nearly two years and I’ve got nothing already – what’s the deal?
A: Great question. Okay, it normally only takes about two weeks to get a major publishing deal. You send in your manuscript and, that night, one of the editorial assistants takes it home and reads it instead of sleeping with her boyfriend or girlfriend, then she goes into the office the next day waving your manuscript about and getting enough copies made so everyone in the building can share the excitement. Then, toward the end of the week when everyone’s finished reading and they’re all totally pumped about getting your book out so absolutely everyone can read it, they meet with the girls in marketing. This is serious stuff and a big hurdle to what comes next. What kind of cover do they put on it and what sort of font do they use for your name? I know this seems inconsequential to you but it’s an important detail that assists the buying public know that they should buy your book and not the trash next to it on the bookshop shelf. Meanwhile, the publisher’s lawyers are drawing up a contract to submit to you, offering all kinds of goodies like overseas trips and seats at the Man Booker awards. Then, finally, they’ll give you a call so they can arrange a meeting and have all the media outlets all lined up and ready to talk to you.
Q: Wow, I mean this sounds great and all but – two weeks?
A: Absolutely. A month tops. So we have to ask why it’s taking so long with you. I have a theory, but you’re not going to like it.
Q: Theory? What theory?
A: Well, it’s tough but I think there might be a conspiracy to keep you from being published.
Q: Conspiracy? That’s nuts. What kind of conspiracy?
A: Strictly between us, published writers loathe new, exciting, articulate and good-looking up-and-comers like you. It fills them with jealous rage that sales of your book will eclipse theirs, and that as soon as the media get hold of you, they’ll be forgotten along with their inferior books.
Q: Wow, yeah – I can see that.
A: Exactly. So what they do is hang around the mail rooms of major publishers, often disguised as janitors or pretending to be temps from upstairs. When they see a big thick envelope with your manuscript in it, they grab it, take it out the back and either burn it or toss it in the dumpster behind the local KFC. And trust me, no one’s going into a KFC dumpster to fish out anything, let alone a manuscript.
Q: Is this for real? I mean, do you have evidence for any of this? It’s just, you know, it sounds a little far-fetched.
A: Oh, really? I was ordering a Family Bucket last Friday – you can make those suckers last an entire week, right? - and I saw with my own eyes Alex Dimitriades in the back alley dumping what looked like five or six manuscripts. He looked crazy-angry so no way was I going to mess with him or point out what he was doing was wrong. Another time I was in London, being thrown down the steps of Random House, and I saw DBC Pierre waiting in a parked car with some serious looking guys. As I was checking I hadn’t smashed the bottle, the postman shows up. DBC and two of the big lads intercepted him, and went through his bag. Any thick manila envelope they found got thrown in the boot of their Audi. And I know for a fact that Kate Grenville has a deal going with Peter Carey, Tim Winton and Helen Garner to take turns raiding the mailrooms of the few big publishers left in this country. When you see them on TV, butter wouldn’t melt, right? But in their private life, your average best-selling author is a vicious, ambitious and totally ruthless thug.
Once they get a sniff of anyone with real talent, like you, they’ll do whatever it takes to make sure your writing career is killed before it even starts. If I were you, I’d take up another hobby before what happened to author Gerald Buffington happens to you.
Q: Gerald Buffington? I’ve never heard of him.
A: Exactly. I hope this helps.
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Why be a writer?
Q: Why is writing so big these days? Everyone wants to ‘be a writer’. Are they hoping people will think they’re smarter than everyone else? Do you think you know more than the rest of us? What’s the deal smart-guy?
A: The more I study the art of writing, the less certain I am of any talent I might have and the more certain I am about how clueless I am about writing and about life. I have no wisdom to impart, only questions to phrase. So, no, I don’t know more than the rest of anybody.
It’s a fact that, in a statistic I just made up, ninety-eight per cent of ‘everyone’ ‘wants to be a writer’, and my professional guess is that this is because of the glamour surrounding the concept. Note: I use the term ‘glamour’ in its original sense. Look it up in the Shorter Oxford.
I mean, I’m a frickin’ writer - if only for television - and even I imagine clever, blithely confident writers in sunlit rooms, looking out over a charming seaside vista or garden, pausing to take a call from their agent, then resuming the next bestseller based on the six-month research trip they just finished in Venice.
Or, at the other end of the imaginary-writer scale, the tortured writer, who wakes, still drunk and drugged, driven by demons to scrawl a few more lines of deathless prose or poetry that will survive beyond their tragically short life.
So good writers, the ones who make any money at least, probably are smarter than us – after all, you’re asking the question and I have no decent answer so there’s your proof.
The other reality of writerishness (a word trademarked by me) is that we, as a species, live in a sea of stories. Our memories are constantly evolving semi-fictional narratives, our conversations and jokes are an endless back and forth of shared stories, our entire culture and history are endless layers of accreted story. We dream, we daydream, we think, we gossip and tell jokes, we watch TV, and we read stuff – all of it narrative of one form or another. All of us do it all the time, so why not be better than the next person at doing it? We compete at everything else, right?
But the real answer to your question is this.
People need labels for themselves so they have an identity they can refer to. Mother, fireman, conservative, writer, etc. (Why they need them is another topic but, okay, we need these sorts of identities to function on any meaningful social level.) The label ‘writer’ sits well with folks at this time and place in history. It’s got cachet, cred, glamour, whatever. Which is why everyone and their dogs desire this label for themselves – how hard can it be to write a book? And they’re right. Any idiot can write a book. I’ve written four. Case closed.
And finally, yes, you’re right, people do like to imagine they’re smarter than other people. And, as people think writers are smart, well, you do the math. I hope this helps.
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Music and writing.
Q: Do you listen to music while you write?
A: Yes. My usual playlist is…
Q: Actually I wanted to ask about whether music helps focus the mind by acting as a kind of filter to block out extraneous noise that might otherwise distract you, as well as provide an emotional resonance that fits with the particular mood of the piece you’re writing at the time.
A: That’s a question, is it?
Q: Well, it was going to be but now you’re getting all grumpy.
A: Only because your question was a set-up to spray your ‘opinion’, which is most likely cut and pasted from the letters page in New Scientist.
Q: Okay, whatever. So what music do you listen to?
A: Mostly instrumental. Sometimes I play Gorecki’s elegy to the Holocaust, occasionally I listen to early recordings of east European and Slavic orchestras to reconnect with the river of human misery. From time to time I play 45’s of Canadian ambient metal band, Northumbria, with the turntable switched to 33rpm to remind me of the pointlessness of getting out of bed and entering a world where I might have to interact with someone other than my wife and my dogs.
Q: And this kind of music helps your writing?
A: Gloom and doom reminds me of death and dying which in turn reminds me of all the things I love. And love – apart from all the other reptilian motives people have - is what underpins any good writing. I also like Hank Williams, Burial, Underworld, and Lady Gaga remixes. I hope this helps.
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Top 10 tips.
Q: What are your Top Ten Tips for beginning writers?
A: Ten tips. Why not, say, three? Or sixteen?
Q: * sigh * All the top writers have Ten Top Tips to give other writers, okay? I’m asking for yours. Unless you’re not a top writer, of course.
A: Your cunning use of the passive-aggressive mode has provoked my competitive reptilian core. I shall give you my Top Ten Tips. Are you ready?
Q: Well, yeah. Duh. Is this an advice column or what?
A: Tip #1: Think. Constantly - while reading, going to the toilet, making love, doing the dishes, wherever. Think so much it goes beyond habit and becomes pathological. Think until people give up talking to you. Think until the bags under your eyes grow to the point where people think you’ve got some awful disease.
Q: I hate thinking. I prefer doing. Thinking’s boring.
A: Okay, enough thinking. Tip#2: Write. Constantly. Write so much it goes beyond habit and becomes pa…
Q: Yeah, yeah. I get the point - see above.
A: You’re a step ahead. Nice one. Tip#3: Always start a novel with a lengthy prologue. This hurdle ensures your reader is worthy, and sufficiently warmed-up to tackle your dense, descriptive prose. Any reader who doesn’t make it through the prologue is a mouth-breather, and you’re better off without them.
Q: I hate prologues. I never read them. I’m like let’s just cut to the chase.
A: Good call. Glad you suggested it. Tip#4: Always start with a detailed description of the weather. Just as people love nothing more than to talk about the weather, they love to read about it. In fact, a book hasn’t really kicked off until the reader is fully cognisant of the meteorological conditions present in the scene.
Q: For real? People want to know if there’s like meteors? :[
A: Absolutely. :) Tip #5: Use lots of adverbs and adjectives and metaphors. Proper writers use these essential literary devices to make their writing stand out. If you use enough of them, you’ll win a literary award. True story.
Q: I thought…
A: Hey, we’re done thinking – we’re doing. Tip #6: To clearly signal when something dramatic is happening, use the word ‘suddenly’ or the phrase ‘and then, unexpectedly…’. Oh, and exclamation marks. How else will readers know something’s important or being shouted or whatever, right?
Q: Right. I totally agree!
A: Excellent. Suddenly we’re starting to get somewhere. Tip #7: The sucky thing about books is you can’t see the characters, right?
Q: That’s why I’m like waiting for the dvds to come out for heaps of books.
A: Sensible. But, while we’re waiting for the film, give your reader at least a page of description per major character - more if you need to pad it out. Hair, eyes, face, clothes, overall look, posture – these are just starting points. Knock yourself out.
Q: Writers are hopeless when it comes to stuff like what are they wearing. When’s the last time you ever read what shoes they’re wearing? Like it doesn’t matter? :p
A: Exactly. Tip #8: Put plenty of jargon and colloquial expressions into dialogue, and don’t hold back with accents and speech defects or whatever. This will help the reader ‘hear’ the voices as you’re ‘hearing’ them. A lot of readers are thick – you need to lead them by the hand with this kind of stuff.
Q: Like “Oh, my goodness – I am berry, berry annoyed with you for shop stealing, isn’t it. I am calling the police.” That’s like some Indian dude.
A: Wow. I was, like, there in that, like, corner shop. Totally. You have a gift. Tip #9: Don’t plan, just write. Go with the flow.
Q: Seriously? What about plot and stuff?
A: Make it up as you go. Hey, this is what writers do – use their imaginations and make shit up. Have fun. Literary writers don’t win awards without ignoring boring stuff like ‘plot’. If you want fascist ‘plots’ become an accountant or a tax dude, right?
Q: Right on. Hey, you’re not such a total jerk.
A: Tip #10: Copy your favourite writers’ styles and general plot lines. They’re making out like bandits so why reinvent the freaking wheel, right? I’m not saying cut-and-paste without mixing it up a bit, but as long as no-one can tell, why not? It worked in high school, didn’t it?
Q: Damn straight. Hey, cheers, man. You’re okay.
A: Dude. Hope this helps.
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How to get published.
Q: Is publishing contracting to just two types of novels – best-sellers and literary award winners?
A: Yes. Well spotted. I hope this helps.
Q: No, it doesn’t. Not at all. I don’t write either type of book.
A: Have you considered another hobby? I hope this helps.
Q: Some advice column you turn out to be. And I’m not writing as ‘hobby’.
A: Are you published? No. Are you paid for what you write? No. What do you want me to tell you? That your sensitively-told, impressively-researched literary masterpiece, with a plot and characters rivalling anything Tolstoy wrote, deserves to be published even if only fifteen people in the world want to read it?
Q: Yes.
A: I can see the tears in your eyes and hear the quiver in your voice. Damn you. You have touched this stony heart.
Q: I didn’t realise you…
A: Shut up, you’ll break the spell. Okay, here it is. Pain, blood and suffering are required. Unless you’re young, pretty and hooked up to all the right people circling the publishing world.
Q: I’m neither young, nor pretty. Nor connected.
A: Normally I’d say you’re fucked, but okay, here’s the secret key to get past the gatekeeper. Ready?
Q: ‘Secret key’. *sigh*
A: I’m impressed - you’re more cynical than I am. The secret key is the idea. Can you cough up the idea to your novel in a single sentence? A sentence that captures the heart of your story, intrigues the reader, and leaves them gagging to know what happens?
Q: Um…
A: Come on, I haven’t got all day.
Q: I think it’d take a few sentences to fully…
A: Shut up. Either the core idea, summed up in a sentence, captures hearts and minds or you’re well advised to consider building small, ornate wooden boats inside bottles. Or collect stamps. Whatever.
Q: A single sentence?
A: Agents and editorial assistants have a five-second attention span, they’ve heard it all before and they loathe tossers. Deal with it. I hope this helps.
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Writing different characters differently.
Q: My novel revolves around the death and funeral of an old person, and several characters' reactions to it. The age-range and cultural differences between these various characters are considerable - the question is how do I make them sound completely different from each other? Also, someone suggested (a horror writer actually) that I should let the corpse speak too. What do you advise O Learned One?
A: Gee, a book about death and old people – you’ve got the makings of a blockbuster there, kid.
Okay, the question is how do you assume the identity of other people for the purposes of creating dialogue and action specific to that character?
Make it up. Use your imagination. That’s what writers do – make stuff up and tell lies. With my television scripts and novels, I shift character constantly. It’s like dressing up. I put on an old coat and, hey, I’m an old man facing his last moments. I put on a surgical gown and, hey, I’m operating on a young child, knowing one tiny slip and this precious human life will expire. I put on a Hello Kitty dress and, hey, I’m a ten-year-old girl being bullied at school because I'm a math geek.
And, no, I don’t literally dress up. Not for ages, anyway. Not since my wife caught me that time.
Damn, where were we.
Okay, let’s say you’ve got a situation you haven’t personally encountered before – a middle-aged man is about to visit his dying father for the first time since that terrible argument twenty years ago.
Let’s take small bites at this problem. First, imagine what you’d do in that situation. Then imagine how it would be different for a middle-aged man to face that situation. How would it be different again for a Greek middle-aged man? How would it be different for a Greek middle-aged dentist? Finally, how would it be different for a gay Greek middle-aged dentist?
That’s one way to tackle a what-would-they-do roadblock.
Another is to do your research. Visit gay Greek Dental chat-rooms under the name Dimitri, make an unnecessary visit to the dentist and take notes, spend a ridiculous amount of time thinking about teeth – immerse yourself.
Next point: character is everything. If you truly know what drives your characters, what gets them out of bed in the mornings and what keeps them kicking against the pricks, you know how they’ll react in any given situation.
Oh, and, hey, give them distinctive dialogue too – not too much so you irritate the reader, just hints of their personality from time to time. It helps if you hear their voice. I hear lots of voices. All the time, in fact. Sorry, what? Kill who?
Finally, dead guys talking? Hell, yeah. But first check whether it goes against the world you’ve created. If it’s horror, of course dead guys speak. If it’s magical realism they’ll make twelve page speeches. If it’s comedic, they’ll take off their skull and dance with it. Have fun. Let's face it - a book about death and aging needs all the laughs it can get. I hope this helps.
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Creating your Author’s Platform.
Q: I’m an unpublished novelist. Should I get a website and a blog up? And what about Facebook and Twitter?
A: Yeah, great question. Thanks for asking. Sure – go for it. All the available advice I’m aware of says get an ‘author platform’, which consists of Facespace and Tweetville and LinkedUp and whatever. Link them all to a website and a blog so all the readers you don’t yet have can keep up with your every bowel movement. Then you have to link to other blogs and get them to link to you until some kind of critical mass is reached and you start to get a dribble of people visiting your website to read every last fascinating detail of your writerly life.
Q: Um, you sound kind of cynical about all this stuff.
A: Cynical? Perish the thought. How could anything literary or bookish be a pretentious waste of time?
Q: Actually, I don’t think I suggested there was anything pretentious about it.
A: Of course you did. It was in the sub-text. You’re a writer, you understand sub-text don’t you?
Q: Well, yeah, but… Look, should I go with the website and blog or not?
A: Seriously, what would I know? I’m an unpublished author. I’ve done all the things they said to do and pretty much the only visitors to my site are bots from Belarus looking for opportunities to send me Nigerian scam emails. Which gets boring after a while. Though Eleven Million Pounds and Fifty-Six Pence does sound a very attractive return for simply sending them my bank details and a thousand dollars. Where were we?
Q: Websites for unpublished authors. Yes or no. *Sigh.*
A: Okay, well apparently we’re supposed to offer the visitor to our sites something useful, like writerly advice – hence this invaluable column – and links to other resources on other writers’ sites so they link back to us, plus slip in a hint or two that we’ve just written a heartstoppingly awesome novel and maybe they should consider buying it. Except, oh yeah, we’re unpublished.
Q: I think I’m beginning to see where you’re going with this. In a really long-winded way.
A: I like to vent slowly, in a nuanced way. It’s more literary. Anyway, consider this question before you ignore my advice and go with what all the sensible people are saying: what happens when every writer, published and unpublished, has their own website, blog, twitter-feed, LinkedIn status and Facebook page up and running? And every day there’s a thousand more. Every week, another ten thousand. What happens when the levels are all set to eleven and it’s all just white noise?
Q: Are you suggesting the existing publishing model, including the transitionary one, is completely f**ked?
A: Again, what would I know? All I can see is all of us struggling to be published, and publishers struggling to make a buck in a new marketplace. There's buckets of goodwill right through the system, but because everyone and their dogs wants to be published, the gatekeepers are overwhelmed by sheer numbers and publishers who will only make safe bets. That leaves the rest of us with no way in wondering what other hoops we need to jump through. The cheerful, patient extroverts who are good hoop-jumpers, who scrub up well, and write good are the ones who win through. The rest of us are all just shuffling along en masse behind them, unable to see forward, practicing our Man Booker speeches as the heels wear out on our shoes and the flickering flame of hope slowly dies inside us. I hope this helps.
=================
How to deal with doubt.
Q: How do you deal with the crippling self doubt?
A: Easy. I wake at three AM and lie there worrying until just before dawn.
Q: Actually, I was hoping for something a little more positive.
A: Sorry, have I got this right? You're a writer, hoping for 'positive'.
Q: Well, yeah. Some encouragement to 'keep going' and 'trust your gut' and stuff like that would be good.
A: Trust your gut. Keep going.
Q: You're just saying that. You don't mean it. I thought this stupid FAQ column of yours was advice for writers.
A: My best advice for writers is to marry into great wealth.
Q: Not helping.
A: Okay, well, I always find...
Q: And don't say whisky helps.
A: Okay, fine. Be like that. Sheesh. If you're a writer, crippling self doubt distinguishes you from poncy narcissists who write literary fiction. Crippling self doubt stops you from disappearing up your proverbial and thinking your proverbial doesn't stink. Crippling self doubt makes you question everything. Crippling self doubt lashes you about the quality of your writing, the point of writing, your thinking and your ideas. Crippling self doubt is your friend, guide and the monkey on your back. That crinkled ugly vicious face who torments you at three AM, who makes you worry about the drains, the dog registration, the funny knocking sound in the car engine in third gear, your relationships and your totally pointless addiction to writing words and more words is what makes you human and slightly more sane than people who are certain about things. I hope this helps.
===============
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Dealing with doubt.
Q: I’ve been writing for years and can’t get published. Years and years and years. Manuscript after manuscript after manuscript. What can I do about the anxiety I feel?
A: Good question, well made. Alcohol.
Q: Sorry, is that your answer? “Alcohol”?
A: Did the sentence have an “A:” in front of it? Yes. So yes, that’s my answer.
Q: If you don’t mind me saying so, that’s not terribly helpful or responsible of you. Alcohol problems are a big and troubling issue in our society, and suggesting it’s some kind of solution to generalised writing-related anxiety strikes me as extremely irresponsible.
A: Correct. What would you like? Wine, beer, I’ve got some Irish whisky…
Q: Sorry, but I feel you’re being a more than a little flippant here, glib even.
A: Correct. I’m picking you for a whisky man. Or cognac possibly.
Q: I have friends dear to me who are struggling with alcohol addiction. I don’t find anything amusing about it being offered as some kind of panacea for writing anxiety.
A: Correct, again. Boy, you’re really onto it. Come on, just a hint – you’re not a closet cocktail drinker are you?
Q: No, really, this is enough. I’ve come to you with a serious problem – that my writing doesn’t seem to be appreciated by anyone else, I’m going broke from all the competitions and mentorships and grant applications, my wife is increasingly distant, my friends’ eyes glaze over when I try and answer their question “so what’s your book about?”, I’m increasingly feeling no-one takes my extensive scholarship and hard work seriously – and all you can do is make fun with jokes about alcohol that are, frankly, in bad taste.
A: Correct. So, what’ll it be?
[LONG PAUSE]
Q: Irish you said?
A: I’ve got cigars to go with it too. We can talk about books we like and books we hate. There’s some absolute rubbish out there, isn’t there?
Q: I’ll say. Actually, perhaps a small one would be nice. Cheers.
A: I hope this helps.
======================
Quoting other writers.
Q: Writers often put quotes in the front of their books by writers what write gooder than they do. Smart marketing or can I go on thinking they're tossers?
A: "I love you, as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul." Neruda, Sonnet XVIII
Q: Wow. That's really quite cool.
A: I know. I want to use it in my latest book. But, yeah, writers are tossers. I hope this helps.
====================
================
Writing memoirs.
Q: Everyone’s always on at me to write a book – ‘You should write a book’ they say. Should I? Is it harder than it looks?
A: Not at all – any idiot can write a book, and I speak from years of experience. Is it about your amazing life, by any chance?
Q: Actually, yes. I’m a bit of a raconteur I suppose and people seem to enjoy me banging on about some of my adventures in China, Afghanistan, the United States, Yugoslavia and that one brief week in Manila. Are they just being kind?
A: They’re being quite sincere but, on the other hand, they were all at least a little drunk when they said it, yes?
Q: Mm. Good point. I should forget the whole thing and just keep boring people at parties, eh?
A: Probably, but, like we say in television – ‘make it familiar but fresh’. By that I mean if you create a new program or in your case a new book, put a fresh twist on a familiar genre. Your travelogue of adventures would, frankly, put me into a coma – unless you slip some zombies in there. Or you invent a portal to a parallel universe that opens up only when you’re waiting for your clothes to dry in a variety of Laundromats around the world in between your more regular adventures. Do you see where I’m going there?
Q: I think I do. Basically, I should spice things up a bit. Not let facts get in the way of a good story and so on.
A: Tell stories that don’t depend on just your sparkling personality. Have you read other people’s memoirs?
Q: No. Hang on a minute.
Okay, I’m back. God, they’re awful. Completely tedious, self-indulgent rubbish.
A: I hope this helps.
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Completely pointless question.
Q: What’s your favourite colour?
A: Whisky. I hope this helps.
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Where story ideas come from.
Q: Where do you get your ideas from?
A: Great question. Actually, it’s a little embarrassing, as most writers just seem to think up their ideas, whereas mine come from my teeth. During the war, I was shot down, and later, in hospital, my shattered jaws were replaced with titanium and steel. As a result, in certain weather conditions, I pick up short-wave radio signals from all over the world. It comes in fragments of sentences and words which, oddly, quite often form coherent sentences that appear to be part of a story. I take those fragments, write them down, and before I know it, slushpiles around the nation grow one manuscript higher. I hope this helps.
================
Drama v Melodrama.
Q: In reference to your experience as a television writer, how would you define the difference between drama and melodrama?
A: Excellent question. The difference is money. I hope this helps.
Q: Actually, no, it didn’t.
A: That’s not ‘actually’ a question but allow me to elaborate. The difference between, say, Neighbours and The Wire is the time spent on creating the stories, refining them and doing multiple drafts of the scripts, using a skilled team of ego-less collaborative and talented writers. If you look at the time, and therefore the money, spent on a single episode of The Wire, an equivalent amount of time and money was spent on an entire decade of Neighbours. I hope this helps.
Q: Sorry, but that really doesn’t answer my question about definitions of drama and melodrama.
A: Again, not a question but here at WordPirate we appreciate ‘special needs’ readers like yourself so here goes: conflict isn’t necessarily drama, but drama is always about conflict.
Q: Okay, got that.
A: Shut up, I haven’t finished. Drama is caring. Drama is fully-motivated action by characters the reader / audience cares about. Without a fully fleshed-out character with internal and external conflicts, there is no drama. If you have a 2D “character”, you can bounce them around all you like but we won’t give a fat rat’s what happens to them. IE melodrama. Hollywood it all you like with big guns and equally big tits, but it’s still going to be mental toilet paper with a big meh-factor. IE melodrama. Some say soap opera doesn’t allow for good character development, but it takes as much time to write a character with legs as it does writing up a bunch of tedious personality traits wrapped around some physical attributes. So if you don’t know what constitutes character, stop writing and find out. Or go back to sleep or jogging or having an active social life or whatever the fuck non-writers do. I hope this helps.
Q: I don’t appreciate being called ‘special needs’.
A: Considering all the smart people I know who do the stupidest things, and how often I fuck up on the most basic levels, ich bin ein Special Needs. I hope this helps.
==============
Where stories come from.
Q: I didn’t quite buy that whole “teeth” thing. Where do you really get your ideas from? Truly, I mean.
A: The truth? You think you can handle the truth? Okay, fine. Every second Tuesday of the month I get an envelope in my mail box. There’s no return address and no clues as to who sent it. Inside is a high concept idea I could never think up on my own. I don’t question it, I just use it. There. You have the plain, unvarnished truth. I am a sham. I hope this helps.
==================
Q: I’ve been thinking about writing a book for a while now – I’ve always been a voracious reader – and since retiring from teaching, I now have time to write my very own novel. I attended a wonderful Writers’ Festival recently, and went to a number of seminars where I was inspired to think I might actually…
A: Sorry, can I stop you there? Please? Just… stop?
Q: Have I said the wrong thing?
A: No, you’re fine. Absolutely fine. I like it here under the desk. Curled up in a ball like this, I can suck my thumb, rock back and forth, and feel a sense of slight physical comfort. Also, my remaining dog, Daisy, is under here with me, licking my ear as she does whenever she’s worried.
Q: Perhaps I should come back when you’re feeling a little more… steady.
A: I’m fine. I’ll be good. Just let me get the damn plastic wrap off the top of this bottle. My fingernails are so chewed-down I can’t hook them under… Wait, I’ll gnaw it off. There. I can get the cork out now. I’ll just have a wee dram… And another… And one more for…
Q: I’m a little concerned. I understood this was an advice column but you appear to be in need of some basic medical or psychiatric attention.
A: No, no – everything’s fine. I’m good. Right as rain, in fact. See? I’m out from under the desk and ready to face whatever question is thrown at me. You want to be a writer, eh?
Q: At the risk of sounding immodest, I can string a sentence together, and I have some wonderful ideas about…
A: No! Don’t tell me the wonderful ideas. I’m as likely to pinch them and claim them as my own. You keep them secret, eh? We’ll keep the discussion general. Just one more belt of this whisky…
Q: Are you sure you should be drinking that much?
A: Absolutely. Now, writing. I suppose you’d quite like to be published, eh?
Q: If I’m good enough.
A: For all I know, your ideas are richly layered, deeply emotional, complex stories drawn from a lifetime of acute observation, parsed through a mind of great empathy and intelligence, and that you are capable of weaving words and phrases and stories into a whole that surpasses any literature that has come before. However…
Q: Ah, I sensed that was coming.
A: However, you might want to consider a recent stat that suggests, for example, that around seven per cent of the Australian population regard themselves as being engaged in ‘writing’ as a past-time, a miniscule proportion of whom are professionals writing for an actual living. The total of those ‘writing’, just in this country, is one million, six hundred thousand people, a large percentage of whom will harbour idle and not so idle thoughts of being published. Being published would justify their ‘writing’ as having ‘meaning’. After all, if you dedicate large amounts of time to, say, constructing a detailed seventeenth century sailing ship in a bottle, you’ll want some kind of appreciative comments from friends and relatives when this worthy task is completed. Similarly, as you discover writing is A LOT FUCKING HARDER THAN IT F… Sorry. Very sorry. I lost it briefly for a moment. I’ll just have another dram… Where was I? Oh, yes. As you learn that writing a novel is easy, and writing a good novel is considerably harder, you’ll also learn that writing a publishable novel is akin to climbing Everest sans oxygen while wearing a cheap hoodie and track pants from Rebel Sports. It will eventually dawn on you that the, frankly, insane amounts of time required to do it right, work which has distanced you from friends, family and activities you formerly held dear, is impossible to justify to anyone else unless you get published. At this point you may also realise that your chance of being published, despite the genius of your story and breathtaking beauty of your prose, is – how shall I put this – slim.
A: I’m beginning to sense you have reservations about my enterprise.
Q: You know what? Fuck it. Sorry. I mean, go ahead. Write. Write your heart out. Write to give yourself joy. Bring tears to your own eyes. Make yourself laugh so hard you can’t type properly. Take exquisite care over plot and prose and character and nuance. Keep going to writers’ festivals and keep on dreaming, eating, sleeping and thinking story. Just accept that your only reader may only ever be yourself, and find some way to be content with that. If you can do this, you’ll be welcome to sit with me and share this bottle. I hope this helps
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Reviewing books
Q: I’ve been asked to review a novel written by a colleague and it’s just awful. It’s edited by an idiot and appears to be written by someone with the literary equivalent of ADHD, which should make it fast-paced but it somehow manages to be slow-moving, dull, misspelled, factually incorrect and confusing. How do I tell the truth without offending anyone, especially my fellow author?
A: Lie. I hope this helps.
Q: It doesn’t. Can I write a review that just sticks to the positives?
A: Lie, yes. I think I covered that already. The alternative is tell the truth and be despised forever by all your writing colleagues, all the people they talk to, and everyone in publishing. This will destroy any chance you have of being published, and you’ll spend the rest of your life cursing your mistake, living a life of quiet desperation wondering what it would have been like to be a published author loved by all. In future, know what to do when a literary colleague asks the same favour - if stairs are available, throw yourself down them and hope both arms and all your fingers are broken so you’re physically unable to write a review. If they aren’t, read the warning labels of your household cleaning chemicals until you find one capable of causing temporary blindness and use accordingly. Other ruses I have used with varying degrees of success include feigning sudden epilepsy, inappropriate and disorienting declarations of love, claiming to hear voices and articulating the hope that the police arrive before I am forced to kill again. The rule here is simple: Never, ever review other colleague’s books. I hope this helps.
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Handling rejection
Q: I just had a novel knocked back by a publisher. It hurts. Any tips on how to handle rejection?
A: Spiralling into doubt, self-loathing and existential angst do it for me. Then it’s just a matter of drinking until the realisation hits that the stupidest thing you could possibly do, and the thing you are most comprehensively useless at, is writing. Then take a break from what is, after all, an absurd exercise in childish self-indulgence and do something useful with your life like gardening, art or starting fights in bars. Then, battered, bruised and rotting in a remand cell, politely ask the nice screw to lend you a book to while away the hours and, as you turn the yellowed, dog-eared pages of some pulp-fiction mass-market airport novel, you’ll slowly realise your story probably isn’t fundamentally any worse than the one you’re reading. Reading more widely, perhaps in court-mandated rehab, you’ll see that clean prose with a clear narrative direction, combined with an authorial flare for self-promotion will always win the publisher’s heart. If you can manage one but not the other, then writing to be published is probably not for you. You can only give it your best shot so many times before you decide to quit – there’s no use in being a damn fool about it. I hope this helps.
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Who wins in a fight between author and editor?
Q: My editor wants me to rip out a couple of side-stories contained within the main narrative of my latest manuscript because he thinks the intended audience, young adults, won’t cope with a narrative that isn’t from a single, continuous POV. I think the digressions, self-contained stories in themselves, are crucial to the themes, character development and overall story. I trust my editor’s opinion on this, but I also don’t want to rewrite from scratch because I think I’ve got a sound first draft - and a good story. Is an interrupted narrative always a bad thing?
A: A technical question, huh? Wow, we’re finally getting some serious writers coming to this crummy site. Time to monetise. Anyhoo, yes and no. Yes, your editor is correct – YA’s might baulk at jumping through your intellectual hoops. Some will, some won’t but, really, you don’t want any reader to put your book down halfway through and give up on it. In television, there’s a saying when a small technical script or story glitch is raised – ‘if they’re looking at that, we’ve lost them’. It’s a fatalism that refers to the reality that not everyone will like everything we write – if they don’t, they’ll see all the faults, no matter how trivial. What sort of novel are you writing, champ?
Q: It’s an historical novel.
A: There you go then. Rhetorically, what sort of kids are reading historical novels? They’re either bright, interested readers or students being dragged through a curriculum by a long-suffering teacher – in either event, the reader is going to read the whole thing. So if your self-contained stories work on their own, and the interruptions aren’t too jarring, I’d suggest you’ll get away with it. If, on the other hand, you’re looking at pure commercial fiction with a historical flavour, then your editor is probably more right than you are. Readers are less patient with commercial fiction, and aren’t likely to give you word-of-mouth if they tripped over, twice, while reading your work of staggering genius.
Both you and your editor have to remember that the journey you offer your readers must be as authentic and emotionally truthy as you can make it. Single or multiple POVs aren’t beyond the intellectual means of teenagers who are used to every variety of storytelling device in films, TV, manga, anime and video games – their brains have been taking in continuous, interrupted, multiple and single POV perspectives all their lives, so if your side-stories are powerful in themselves, and add to the whole, I don’t see the problem. Finally, as long as you thoughtfully and honestly engage with your editor’s criticisms, no one can blame you if you decide to reject their advice. It’s your book, not your editor’s. Tell the story you want to tell. I hope this helps.
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How do writers get their ideas?
Q: Where do you get all your ideas from?
A: Huh, funny question. You guys never fail to catch me out. I actually can’t believe they’re not teaching this in primary school English classes but, anyhoo, ideas are the easy bit. Seriously, any idiot can come up with a bunch over the course of half a bottle or so; I come up with dozens every day.
Draw up a grid on a big piece of paper or just on the wall with a sharpie like I have. Above the top row of boxes you write: My favourite films and tv shows. On the side you write: My favourite books, comics and self-help manuals.
Then, in each of the boxes at the top and the sides, write in your favourites of each sort until you run out of favourites. Then you pin that sucker up on the wall, open another bottle and start throwing knives.
Just to show you how it’s done, I’ll have a throw. I use a United Cutlery UC2509 triple set for around $25, btw – cheap, good for beginners, but avoid throwing them at anything hard. Apparently, Neil Gaiman uses Magnum Bailey adjustables but a/ he’s a pro, and b/ the prick can afford them.
Okay, here we go… Right, our first throw has landed in a square. All we do now is track up from that square to where it leads to… Lost in Space – the original TV series, not the shit film from the 90’s. Tracking sideways from the square we hit is….Catch 22. Combine the two and, bingo bango, you’ve got a satirical space opera based on a family caught up in intergalactic war, fed up with risking their necks to kill aliens, and doing whatever it takes to get sent home. Hilarity ensues. Actually, that’s brilliant. I’m keeping that one. I’ll do another throw for you.
Okay, let’s have a look. We have a combination of How to Win Friends and Influence People – like that really worked for me – and…Alien, the first movie in the Alien franchise. So, that’s an, uh, interesting combination which gives us either a psychological drama of the French noir variety, featuring the angst of a displaced alien who needs to find fresh bodies to parasitise despite his belief he'll never gain their permission, OR a delightful rom-com farce of the love between a young exec on his way up the corporate ladder who falls for the killing machine that bursts out of his chest at the most hilariously inconvenient time.
So, yeah, that’s where ideas come from. I hope this helps.
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Story ideas – how to get them
Q: Where do you get your ideas from?
A: I was a weird kid. I mean, some kids just are, right? Some kids like books, some kids like sports, some like to break things, some like to lie face down in the grass making a humming noise and looking at bugs. I wandered about, earnestly drifting here and there, apparently in a world of my own, barely responding to adult suggestions or commands. When I hit my teens I made the mistake of mentioning the voices, and I was quickly diagnosed with schizophrenia. So, yeah, I went through all that pharmaceutical shit and none of it worked. Even though they hit me with everything and turned me into a zombie, I was still hearing the voices. I stopped telling them about the voices – I said they’d gone away – so eventually they gave up on me and I pretended to take the pills. By the time I hit eighteen, the swirling clouds I thought everyone saw wafting around myself and other people, were more distinct. I could make out they were people. Well, ghosts. Hence the voices. My mum told me in a co-counselling session how difficult my birth had been. She thought maybe it had something to do with my ‘schizophrenia’, and she felt guilty about that. I forgave her to make her feel better but when she explained I technically died on the table right after I was born, and for a horribly long time, I guess that’s when and how I became a halfie.
The voices of the ghosts rarely make much sense. It’s just rambling rubbish for the most part – some of it sexual, some of it guilt and worry, some of it happy and peaceful. Sometimes they come to me and they’re a bit more ‘there’ if you know what I mean. They look me in the eyes and they’re more expressive with their hands and faces. Sometimes they’re asking for help, sometimes they’re trying to give the advice they really wanted to give their loved ones, sometimes they tell me stories.
I’d rather be a chippie or a road sweeper or something useful, but I can’t concentrate on anything like that with all the ghosts bugging me. They’re all around me now, mumbling, commenting, drifting, singing, suggesting stuff I should write.
And that’s where my ideas come from.
I hope this helps.
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Helpful Writing Tips
Q: Go any tips on writing you’d like to share?
A: As it happens, yes, I do. If you're serious about your writing you need to have a plan. It's like being part of a group of ninjas about to plant bombs in the White House. You can't just turn up and expect to plant bombs that reliably and spectacularly go off killing dozens or, if you’re lucky, hundreds. You need to plan and train regularly, learn what you can and use that to improve your skills. You also need to practice. For example, moving regretfully away from the ninja bomb-planting metaphor, I’ve written my Man Booker winning speech over four hundred times. This allows me to feel like a winner, and feeling like a winner is exactly what you want to be if you’re going to crush other writers underfoot. And win the Man Booker.
Here are my top tips to help you make that writing plan, and begin thinking of yourself as a Writer.
Find time every day to write. Yes, we're all busy people surrounded by deadbeats that drag us down and prevent us from doing whatever the hell we want - bosses, co-workers, spouses, children, lawyers and lazy bar staff. Everyone's busy. But if you don't find time in your day to write, you won't write. So find the time. For me, ten hours is a minimum. Anything less and you should, frankly, get your hand off it. Look in the mirror – is there a haggard, pale, tortured, hung-over creature staring back at you with a fine motor tremor and facial twitches? If there is, well done. You’re on the way.
Set that writing routine and practice. Even if it's just the six hours from two AM to when you have to go to work, and another six in the evening, any writing time is better than none.
Find a special place to write. Under a coffee table in the foetal position is often good for me. On the pavement outside The Broken Arms is another place you’ll find me, often in the early hours, despite the difficulty of locating an electronic word processor in such a location at such a time. This is where your iPhone or iPad can be used as a slim pillow while you scrape haikus into soft bitumen with knives from the pub dining room that have found their way into your possession. My point here is you need a relaxed space in which to write - somewhere you feel comfortable and inspired. I make a point of always hiding a small writing device – a pen or pencil, it doesn’t matter – somewhere the police won’t find it. The look of surprise when they open the drunk-tank in the morning to find the walls are now a literary masterpiece is well worth the effort.
Block out distractions - turn the internet off so you don't get distracted by social media, porn and cute animal gifs. Another trick is to secretly replace all the locks on the apartment, enabling you to keep family, creditors and stress outside. Mattresses piled up against doors and windows will ensure the shouting is barely heard over the Wagner and the smashing of empty bottles.
Start a writing journal. Collect story ideas in one place, so if you're stuck for something to write about, you can just look back at your journal. Your first thoughts may be ‘my God, how drunk was I?’ but dig a little deeper and you’ll find the nub of an idea that may yield that Man Booker prize-winning novel.
Write when you're inspired. Write when you’re not. Make hypergraphia your psychiatric illness of choice. If you feel like writing outside your set hours, just write – sleep is for pussies. If you have writer's block, or your body keeps trying to lie down and rest, just write anything until an idea pops into your head. Write utter drivel if you like. A bit of editing later on and you can call it contemporary literary fiction. Any old rubbish will keep those wheels greased and the grant applications moving. Write about what you can see out the window, what you find in your pockets or under your fingernails - anything. Just keep writing until that Man Booker idea comes.
Keep a recording device next to your bed. Sometimes the best ideas come in the middle of the night and you won't remember them in the morning when the hospital orderlies are kicking you out of the casualty department. To be sure, I record everything I do and say. I have, gaffer-taped to my chest, a small recording device. In the morning I download and transcript the contents to a program that turns it into text that I admit looks and reads a lot like a bad translation from English to Italian then back to English - but in a good way. I don’t lose any of my vital creative journeys, and who knows which of these vital, visceral writings will bring me that Man Booker? I don’t, you don’t, but we can both agree it’s only a matter of time.
Allow yourself time to think - time to come up with ideas to write about. That means quiet time without computers, social networking or any kind of social life. Music is fine if that's what inspires you. Drugs, alcohol, jogging, vigorous sex, Plants versus Zombies – whatever gets you going.
Set yourself writing goals. They can be large or really huge. Make sure they are achievable. For example, if you're busy with work, you might only set yourself a goal of 10,000 words a day or 50,000 words a week. It has to be an amount that you feel you can achieve without being hospitalised. I know this because in hospital they take electronic devices away from you due to the adverse effect they have on sensitive monitoring equipment. People can and do die if you sneak Mac Airs into HDUs.
Reward yourself. When you've achieved your daily writing goal, celebrate it with other writers or just reward yourself by doing a fun activity you don't normally do. That bottle of Laphroig that’s just been sitting there for days? Get stuck in and feel good about yourself. And remember to hide that writing implement where the police can’t find it during the strip search!
I hope this helps.
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Writing short stories versus novels
Q: I’ve just done a creative writing course, and I’ve got what I think are a few good ideas. That said, I know I’m a noob to publishing, so should I start with short stories or just get stuck into writing a novel?
A: An acute query, one that suggests a reasonable IQ and begs the question as to why you’d put yourself through trying to be a published writer. Have you recently gone off your meds?
Q: Sorry, I’m not with you.
A: Never mind. So, short versus long-form fiction. I’d advise starting with short stories because the pain and difficulty of creating a well-rounded short will discipline and focus your creative thinking and, with luck, make you realise you should go outside and play with the dog instead, the latter bringing you a series of small joys, the former causing you untold life-long misery. As for long-form writing, any idiot can write a novel – I’ve written three and a half so there’s your proof – but few can write a satisfying short story. With the long form, it’s easy and fun to bang on at length with just a story premise and a couple of characters. It won’t be until page 128 that the whole flimsy structure of bad metaphor and convoluted back-story you devised to shore the whole thing up, grinds to a halt on the reefs off I’vegotnoideawhattodonext Island. You’ll be standing there, scratching your head, looking at the thing, sinking into a sea of words, realising you forgot to come up with a really strong ending and fully motivated characters that will do whatever it takes to get there.
Read short stories until your brain bleeds, write short stories until you win a Highly Commended certificate in the annual competition of the local writers’ group, then think about trying a novel because, god knows, the world needs more new novels.
Or you could go back on your meds. Whatever. I’m not judging you.
I hope this helps.
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Writing – business or creative pursuit?
Q: Is writing to be published more a business than a creative pursuit?
A: Yes. I hope this helps.
Q: It doesn’t. Not even a little bit.
A: Okay, I’ll bite. Why the sad face?
Q: I’m a writer for chrissakes. I’m an introvert. I just want to write stuff and get paid for it, not be some kind of literary cyber pole-dancer.
A: Terrible metaphor but I feel your pain. Here’s the reality check: publishing is risk-averse, editors, like any media persons, are PC and self-censoring to the point of puritanism, not to mention being sacked left, right and centre, and punters just want escapist fiction that doesn’t make them think – that’s the reality. You either deal with that, work to a genre and niche demographic, or bail from the whole game. What’s happened with the music industry is happening with publishing. You have to whore yourself until enough people want a taste, make a whole lot of friends, at which point you gently monetise your output by telling everyone who actually cares, ie the nice people, that you’re fond of stuff like eating to stay alive and would they mind paying just a tiny bit each and you’ll celebrate by paying the rent and buying a bucket of KFC.
Q: I’m beginning to think doing a course in tax accountancy is the way to go.
A: Well done. I hope this helps.
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Ten Rules for Good Writing
Q: Do you have any rules for writing?
A: I do, thanks for arksing. Just off the top of my head…
Rule 1: What you’re writing isn’t what you think you’re writing.
Rule 2: What readers read isn’t what you wrote.
Rule 3: A great deal of what’s written is rubbish, including your stuff.
Rule 4: Plots, themes and characters fade; a good idea doesn’t.
Rule 5: Spellcheck. I mean, come on. Press the fucking button, ffs.
Rule 6: Provoke emotions or take up another hobby.
Rule 7: Know what you’re talking about.
Rule 8: GSOH mandatory. People in extremis make fart jokes.
Rule 9: Understand that you are sexist, racist and homophobic, and why.
Rule 10: And, finally, never forget - it’s a shit business.
I hope this helps.
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Where do story ideas come from?
Q: Where do you get your ideas from?
A: Huh. Interesting question. I never really thought about it much, but I guess the story goes something like this.
About twenty years ago I had a normal job, alternating as an outback nurse and working in various city ICUs. Over a short period of time back in the nineties I found myself behaving well out of character. It got worse, to the point where I ended up getting a job in television.
Friends became concerned, and I finally had to acknowledge I had a very real problem. I went to the GP, and explained I was now writing stories and scripts virtually seven days a week, and even incorporating commercial breaks and cliff-hangers in my dreams. I was sent off for a scan, and was told they’d found a brain tumour. It was oddly shaped, like a pencil sharpener, and was pressing on parts of my prefrontal cortex. This explained why I was now a writer, and why I behaved as I did.
Careful monitoring over a period of months showed it wasn’t growing – at all. Suspicions began to rise when I had further scans with improved resolution. It turned out that the pencil sharpener shaped tumour was, in fact, a pencil sharpener.
My doctors theorised that I must have pushed it up my nose when young, and simply forgotten about it. It slowly made its way up and, with the inadvertent assistance of a number of high-speed motorcycle crashes, lodged where it did.
They offered to remove it, which opened up the possibility of returning to a normal life again, though I’d require considerable therapy to regain some basic social skills, and rehabilitation to deal with the alcoholism and cigar-smoking.
The only drawback would be a ninety per cent likelihood that I would begin to like, and play, jazz.
The decision wasn’t an easy one. The thought of a normal life – a life where storytelling wasn’t a twenty-four seven pursuit hunched over a laptop, where there weren’t empty bottles of whisky clanking under the desk as the dogs chased the tennis balls, or ashtrays overflowing with cigar stubs, or the stereo blaring obscure east European and early American music, or the inevitable prospect of an old age living in poverty, and the concepts of holidays being unimaginable – it all made me yearn for the normality I once had, and could perhaps have again.
I didn’t have to die in unshaven poverty in a Salvation Army cot halfway through scrawling a new story on the wall with inch long tobacco-stained fingernails.
But the thought of jazz…
I refused the surgery and here I am, still writing and telling stories.
I hope this helps.
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How to handle rejection
Q: Nine months after I sent in my manuscript, I get a rejection email two lines long. Two lines. Six years of soul-searching hard work and I get two lines generated by a computer. How do writers cope with this stuff?
A: Good question, well put. We all have to deal with rejection at one time or another. Or many dozens of times.
So, how do we deal with it?
Drug-use, alcoholism, deep depression and suicide are all options, I grant you, and many choose these paths. Others think those are all good as far as they go, but don’t allow for an outpouring of vengeful hatred that might soothe the hurt and console our reptilian cores that howl for blood.
Firebombing the publisher, sending anthrax-laced letters, and kidnapping senior editors may seem like practical solutions, obvious even. But, apart from being unimaginative, it’s what they’ll be expecting. And you’ll end up, yet again, in a trailer park, surrounded by AFP and SWAT, your back against the wall loading your last bullets and feeling mighty foolish.
Boy, haven’t we all been there, right?
But you don’t have to serve a lengthy jail sentence and electroshock therapy to learn there are other ways of dealing with rejection.
No, put down that semi-automatic. Instead, let’s turn to our trusty weapon of choice. Words.
Here’s a response to a rejection letter that you’re welcome to cut and paste, tweak with your particulars, and send to the editor who just cruelly dismissed your nuanced, literary, passionate and daring work of ineffable beauty and genius.
Dear Ms Cow-Face,
Yep, you heard me. Your face looks like a cow. A cow’s bum. That’s right. It’s [insert your name here], the writer of [insert your manuscript title here] and I want you to know you’re a big dummy. You’re dumber than a really dumb thing that just had a lobotomy and got way dumber.
You think my title’s ‘not suitable in its current form’? Well your whole face and brain and body and everything you do and all the people you know who think you’re actually okay but actually you’re not aren’t ‘suitable in its current form.’
How do you like them apples, huh? Doesn’t feel so good to be on the receiving end, does it, you big fugly dumbo stinky bum-face.
One day soon someone not stupid like you are is going to read my manuscript and be like oh wow, this is amazing. And six months later I’ll be like, oh wow, thanks for the Man-Booker dudes, and you’ll be suffering in your jocks because you were too stupid to see how great my book is. Yeah. Think about that. Think about how dumb you’ll feel. You’ll be sorry then, huh.
Yours sincerely,
[insert your name and contact details here]
So, there you go – without breaking any laws other than malicious damage for wrapping it around a brick and throwing it through the publisher’s window, you’ve used the power of words to express yourself succinctly, and in a way guaranteed to make the editor in question not only deeply regret their mistake, but also tip them back into a cycle of binge eating and self-loathing they thought they left behind years ago. You can expect an embarrassingly cringe-worthy apology within days, and maybe even a few spare royalty cheques they had lying around the office.
I hope this helps.
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Giving Workshops 101
Q: I’ve been asked to run a workshop on Character Development for the television company I write for. The whole idea of it makes me want to break my legs just to get out of it, but I feel I owe it to my junior colleagues to help out. Other than deliberately having a high-speed car accident, any tips?
A: I feel your pain.
Pro tip #1: Don’t pass out or have a panic attack just after the moderator introduces you.
Also, don’t turn up full of Dutch courage, cranked up on meth or barely breathing on narcotic - unless you’re an absolute genius with substances and you can take just the right amount of all three and appear confident to the point of God-like with your audience, in which case, go for it.
Pro-tip #2: don’t Taser audience members who startle you with comments or questions, no matter how much they’re asking for it.
For some reason people like to ‘interact’ with other people. You’ve probably noticed them doing this at parties, or at work, in the street, or at sports events and so on. This means that some intellectually inferior types will question what you’re saying or assume they’re smart enough to add a point of their own. As irritating as it is, you have to let them.
Anyway, the trick here is to smile and nod and look as if you’re listening. Note a phrase they use and, when they finally shut up, repeat it and imply you’re grateful for their input before you continue with the charade that you know what you’re talking about and the audience give a shit.
Prot-tip # 3: Don’t shout in a paranoid fashion at people who take notes or demand to know ‘who they’re working for’ and rip their notes away to check they aren’t written in some kind of code.
Some people are best compared to sheep. If told to flock at the edge of a cliff then jump off, they would. These people are the ones who take notes. Incapable of rational thought for themselves, they will use your simulacrum of wisdom to imagine that by the sheer act of repeating it on the written page, they have subsumed aformentioned wisdom. Obviously, yes, they’re still as dumb as a sackful of hammers, but this is the way they think and it’s efficient to let them go on doing so.
Pro-tip #4: Use PowerPoint when you want to sedate your audience into submission.
Or go totally old school and riff on a whiteboard and be prepared for the whole ‘interaction’ caper. PowerPoint is, obviously, a redundant technology like faxes and Blackberries still in wide usage by corporate types and motivational speakers. If you wonder why people who use PowerPoint don’t simply do a course of mesmerism to achieve complete control over their audience, the answer is simply a reflection of their IQ. But PowerPoint does efficiently eliminate interaction, and allows the people who pay you to imagine you have a quasi-magical ability to summon low-res gifs and cat-based memes at will.
On the other hand, if you’re ready for ‘interaction’ with your audience, whiteboards allow you to rub out the bits of rubbish you wrote initially and replace them with other rubbish more in keeping with the ‘consensus’, which is what some call the Wisdom of Crowds, others call Common Sense and sensible people call ‘the groans of the howling mob’. Zombies are a good metaphor for your audience, btw. Keep moving swiftly and they won’t bother you in the least. Slow down or be foolish enough to listen to their maundering and you’re in real trouble. It does absolutely no harm to carry a baseball bat just in case.
I hope this helps.
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Dealing with agents, publishers and senior editors
Q: Hi. Sorry about your dog, by the way.
A: Thanks. I’m a pretty sad writer these days. How can I help?
Q: Now I’ve got a few manuscripts written, I’ve had a few interviews and one-on-ones with senior editors and publishers. The trouble is I basically go into some kind of fear-coma. I sweat – I mean I literally soak-my-clothes-wet-sweat – and I gibber without any control over what I’m saying. When they ask sensible, straightforward questions about my manuscript, I babble on about how I just discovered the use of semi-colons or how important fonts are. At the last writers’ festival I went to, I actually found myself in a lift with a publisher who asked what I was working on, and rather than just tell her the sentence I’d spent hours memorising for just this kind of event, I faked an epileptic fit. Is there anything I can do to get through these kinds of situations without looking and sounding certifiable?
A: Boy, you’ve got it bad, huh. Okay, think of someone you admire, a confident author.
Q: Um…Hemingway?
A: Good choice. Manly, brave, forthright and hammered.
Q: You’re suggesting I get drunk?
A: Let vodka be your be your new friend, my friend, and senior editors will swoon as you pithily describe your latest WIP and act out the exciting bits. Or, if vodka’s not your tipple, many publishers have told me they love the smell of whisky on an author’s breath. Poor things can’t help themselves because, if we’re all being honest here, a drunk author is a sexy author. Am I right?
Q: Actually, I’m not much of a drinker.
A: Did I say it was easy? No. You’re going to have to work at it. Find the right line. You want confident, eyes sparkling, with a lazy, sexy smile on your face. You don’t want lurching, leering or vomiting on publishers’ shoes. Why not? Because publishers spend more money on their shoes than they do on their cars. That’s a scientific fact right there. So if you go blowing chunks on their Manolo Blahniks, it’s likely you won’t get published, and if you do the romantic bits will be printed in Comic Sans, your name misspelled, and the back cover blurb will feature a barely literate one-star Amazon review from a bored tween troller in a South Carolina trailer park. So, get drinking and good luck. I hope this helps.
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Getting Paid to Write
Q: I read somewhere that you write for money. I think that’s awful. I think writers should write because they love to write; because they have a passion to tell stories and because they can’t not write. I think making writing just another materialistic occupation demeans the literary canon.
A: Hi. You have a job, right?
Q: I’m a teacher actually.
A: That’s great, and just for the record I think you should get paid more.
Q: Thank you. I think that teachers are undervalued and underpaid.
A: Right on, sister. Hey, see? We’re agreeing on something. It’s like we’re old pals. Oh, except, hey, screw you.
Q: I beg your pardon!
A: You heard. Now listen up. I’ve been earning money by living on my wits as a writer, such as they are, for twenty fucking years. I don’t have any super, I don’t get sick pay, I don’t have insurance and if I lose my gig, I’m out on the street. I’ve written full-time for twenty years and I’ve got next to fuck-all, so when I say I write for money, I write to eat. Food. You like food, right? The stuff that sits on your hips and puts you on that lame exercise regime and keeps you alive?
Q: I take your point but there’s no need to be so rude about it.
A: Hey, the guy that writes the blog for this stupid site is the nice guy, okay? I’m the prick who gives bad advice to people like you. And let me tell you I put everything into my writing – blood, sweat and fucking tears. More than that I put love. Yes, love. Not some wussy version of love that makes you go aww but deep, gut-wrenching love dragged from the bowels of the relationship we have with the planet and with the species that’s killing it – us. Oh, and my dog is dying.
Q: Oh. I’m sorry about that.
A: Yeah. So am I. I’m writing scripts to make a fucking living and I can’t stop crying. He’s just there by my feet chewing his ball and he’s dying.
Q: No, really, forget I said anything. I’m so sorry.
A: It’s okay. Sorry I was so angry at you.
Q: That’s okay, really.
A: I know you’re a good person. Life’s just hard sometimes. I hope this helps.
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Generating Ideas for Stories
Q: Where do you get your ideas from?
A: Gosh, you guys keep thinking up the wackiest durned questions. Seriously, where do you get them from, lol rofl, etc.
Okay, so basically I get my ideas from everywhere. Overheard conversations, television programs, the internet, and so on.
The other day, for example, I was reading a newspaper, and I spotted an ad for Europa Luxury Car Importers right next to two articles, one about ivory smuggling, and another about Romanian Gypsy orphans who sell flowers and small bags of amphetamines at traffic lights in Bucharest. I instantly got a craving for East European food, and went out looking for a place that sold rollmops. Despite trying a whole bunch of delicatessens and food importers, I was damned if I could find any, but I did end up in a warehouse tied to a chair with electrodes attached to me and a very hairy man standing over me demanding to know “who I was with”. The guy was actually Armenian, subcontracting for a Russian bratva outfit, and when he wasn’t beating fake confessions out of me, he listened to country and western music, one track of which was Lost Highway, by Hank Williams, one of my all-time favourites. Well, that got me thinking, whenever I regained consciousness, about times I’ve travelled this wide brown land of ours, and I remembered there was one time I actually bothered to look up what “girt” meant. Out of all the people who sing the Australian National Anthem on any given day, not many know what being “girt” consists of, and after the Armenian got sick of me asking for vodka and pickled herring, and dumped me outside the Accident and Emergency department, I chatted with some of the people waiting to be treated. Only one knew what all the words in the anthem meant, and just before he faked an epileptic fit to get enough attention to get his arm sutured up, we had an interesting conversation about motorcycles – specifically if the Norvin, a Vincent 1000cc v-twin motor shoved into a Norton ‘featherbed’ frame, was the best bike ever. We agreed, and, as he was carried off, it suddenly came to me! A motorcycle gang is just Pony Club for guys! Think about it – the average Pony Club girl has glittery stickers all over everything she owns, the average gang member has every inch of his body tattooed. Pony club girl loves her horse more than life itself; gang member loves his bike more than life itself. Etcetera.
And that’s how I came up with the idea for my thesis / novel: Perceived Gender Ideation and Acquired Risk Factors in an Incarcerated Population of Outer Space Zombies.
So you see, something as mundane as a quick read through a newspaper can yield an idea that is pure publishing gold. I hope this helps.
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Author’s Platforms
Q: I’m finally on top of creating my ‘author’s platform’ via my blog, website, Facebook, Twitter-feed, Pinterist and Linked-in. I think I’m ready to actually write a book but I’m not sure I’ve got time to do so while I’ve got all the above to maintain. To be honest, I’m exhausted. Have I done this the wrong way round?
A: Definitely not. We, the reading public who don’t simply download free Amazon books and PDF novels from writers so desperate they think giving away years of hard graft is the only way to establish a ‘presence’, are now intimately entwined with the soap opera that is your life. The livestream feed from your webcam gives us a connection with you that allows us the kind of link with you as an author that in primitive times, say, the seventies, would only be achieved through regular, vigorous sex. Keep up the good work, and consider installing cameras in your kitchen and one in the hall so we can get a view into your bedroom and the entrance hall. I hope this helps.
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Plots v characters
Q: My characters feel flat and listless, my antagonist seems depressed, and even my protagonist told me she’s not sure about finishing the whole book. I mean she was nice about it, and vaguely complimentary about my descriptions of the embossing on the Dragon Lord’s war-shield, but I’m scared the last six chapters will just describe the sound of a dust-dry breeze ruffling the yellowed pages of a coffee-stained manuscript discarded on a faded window ledge in the sun. What can I do?
A: When your protagonist talks, it’s good to listen. When you engage in prolonged two-way conversations it’s also good for you to think about getting back on the meds and seeing your GP but, hey, don’t take that as a negative because if we’re being honest there’s only two kinds of people; medicated and non-medicated.
So, the first issue that springs to mind is plot. If your characters have no clear-cut and very immediate conflicts to deal with, no ferociously desired goals to attain, and no massive internal and external obstacles in the way, then it’s no surprise if, six chapters into the manuscript, you find all your characters down at the mall texting each other, eating junk food, and comparing the salient features of various sports shoes in boring monotones.
Find your endpoint. Imagine the most thrilling denouement possible in the history of ever, then add flying monkey-dragons from another dimension plus a plot-twist that reveals the character the reader trusted most is bad to the core, and the nemesis has a heart of yearning, wistful, poignant and thwarted love so we suddenly and unexpectedly care for them.
Then all you have to do is tell your characters about the end and let them figure out how to get there. I almost always let mine run that side of things because they’re generally smarter and more resourceful. I hope this helps.
Q: It does, but I’m kind of wondering about my characters too. I like Tracy and Sandra, who are like BFFs working as dental hygienists at the same practice when the new African doctor leaves his mysterious ju-ju medicines in the x-ray room overnight and opens the portal for the earliest human gods to appear some of whom are friendly to humans and some totally aren’t, but the girls aren't very interesting as people. And my bad guy, Mpango, the witch-warrior who wants to cleanse the Earth of all humans so a new species of god-creatures can rule, spends almost all his time reading books on physics and mathematics and trying to tell anyone who’ll stand still long enough all about some math monster who lives in like twenty-six thousand dimensions or whatever. He gets boring real quick, you know?
A: Okay, I’m not your friend, just an anonymous electronic advisor you can never track down, stalk and kill, so I can tell you that you’re an idiot. Seriously, I love Tracy, Sandy and Mpango already. How can you not see that? The young women are ordinary people thrust into extraordinary situations. Mpango is a stranger in a strange land. Right there you have two staples of narrative fiction. Get your ending sorted and let these guys find themselves for you on their journey. I hope this helps.
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New Year’s Resolutions for writers
Q: Hi, Ben! Happy new year! Any New Year’s Writers’ Resolutions you’d like to share?
A: [groans] Stop shouting at me.
Q: Sorry! I’ve been told I use way too many exclamation marks. LOL.
A: [lifts head from floor] I’m dying. What do you want?
Q: New Year Resolutions for Writers. I thought you might like to share yours.
Q: Who says I’ve got any? I only just regained consciousness from 2012.
A: I bet you’ve got some totally wow resolutions. I bet they’re terrific and deep and writery.
A: Will you stop talking at me if I make some up?
Q: Absolutely! Oh, sorry. There I go again! (Help! Somebody shoot me!)
A: [drops head] Resolution one: write a story about a man who only develops any kind of awareness and sensitivity to the big picture of life when he’s terminally hung-over following new years eve, and all of it hurts.
Q: Whoa – that is so like totally Bukowski.
A: Resolution two: fix the roof so it…
Q: Sorry, but that’s not really writery, is it? For a writer’s New Year’s Resolution List, I mean.
A: [sighs heavily] …fix the roof so it doesn’t leak when it next decides to rain which, going by the last six month’s rain patterns could be never, so that it doesn’t leak onto my computer, shorting it out, frying the hard drive and electrocuting me mid-sentence.
Q: Oh. Right. I suppose that is kind of relevant.
A: Resolution three: go on writing despite the conviction that everything I write will be rejected by the Writing Police. Resolution four: stop…
Q: Wait, sorry – ‘writing police’?
A: Shhh – they don’t like being talked about. But they’re there, watching, waiting. One day, they’re going to kick in the doors, make me step away from the keyboard, impound everything I’ve ever written, beat me senseless and throw me out of their van near an emergency department.
Q: Rrrright…
A: Resolution four: stop reading YA. Seriously, enough already. I get it. I get what the best-sellers are doing. As soon as the second and third in the Ketty Jay series by Chris Wooding arrive and I’ve read them, that’s it. Just say no to YA.
Q: Isn’t it important to be well-read in the genre you’re writing for?
A: [groans, opens one eye] Are you still here?
Q: Uh huh.
A: Whatever. I don’t know what genre I’m writing for. The people genre. The people who read books so they don’t have to think for a while genre. Do you have any codeine?
Q: Actually, I think we should just forget about the whole New Year Resolution thing. I think you should maybe drink a litre of orange juice and go to bed.
A: [lifts head, stares at hard wooden floor, puzzled] Mm. Okay. Oh, wait – resolution twelvety: whatever I write, I’ll know what the point is before I start writing it.
Q: How do you mean, ‘the point’?
A: The idea, the core of the story, the grit in the oyster, the thing I’m building a story around. Oh, and to finish Curly Bill and The Sea of Death, do edit #8 on Strange Water, edits two through four on The Pricking of Thumbs, plus write a feature script. Plus remember I’m married and spend more time with Brenda doing fun stuff and not thinking about writing all the damn time. [head drops back to floor with painful thud] I hope this helps.
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Getting Published
Q: How long does it take to get published? I’ve been writing for nearly two years and I’ve got nothing already – what’s the deal?
A: Great question. Okay, it normally only takes about two weeks to get a major publishing deal. You send in your manuscript and, that night, one of the editorial assistants takes it home and reads it instead of sleeping with her boyfriend or girlfriend, then she goes into the office the next day waving your manuscript about and getting enough copies made so everyone in the building can share the excitement. Then, toward the end of the week when everyone’s finished reading and they’re all totally pumped about getting your book out so absolutely everyone can read it, they meet with the girls in marketing. This is serious stuff and a big hurdle to what comes next. What kind of cover do they put on it and what sort of font do they use for your name? I know this seems inconsequential to you but it’s an important detail that assists the buying public know that they should buy your book and not the trash next to it on the bookshop shelf. Meanwhile, the publisher’s lawyers are drawing up a contract to submit to you, offering all kinds of goodies like overseas trips and seats at the Man Booker awards. Then, finally, they’ll give you a call so they can arrange a meeting and have all the media outlets all lined up and ready to talk to you.
Q: Wow, I mean this sounds great and all but – two weeks?
A: Absolutely. A month tops. So we have to ask why it’s taking so long with you. I have a theory, but you’re not going to like it.
Q: Theory? What theory?
A: Well, it’s tough but I think there might be a conspiracy to keep you from being published.
Q: Conspiracy? That’s nuts. What kind of conspiracy?
A: Strictly between us, published writers loathe new, exciting, articulate and good-looking up-and-comers like you. It fills them with jealous rage that sales of your book will eclipse theirs, and that as soon as the media get hold of you, they’ll be forgotten along with their inferior books.
Q: Wow, yeah – I can see that.
A: Exactly. So what they do is hang around the mail rooms of major publishers, often disguised as janitors or pretending to be temps from upstairs. When they see a big thick envelope with your manuscript in it, they grab it, take it out the back and either burn it or toss it in the dumpster behind the local KFC. And trust me, no one’s going into a KFC dumpster to fish out anything, let alone a manuscript.
Q: Is this for real? I mean, do you have evidence for any of this? It’s just, you know, it sounds a little far-fetched.
A: Oh, really? I was ordering a Family Bucket last Friday – you can make those suckers last an entire week, right? - and I saw with my own eyes Alex Dimitriades in the back alley dumping what looked like five or six manuscripts. He looked crazy-angry so no way was I going to mess with him or point out what he was doing was wrong. Another time I was in London, being thrown down the steps of Random House, and I saw DBC Pierre waiting in a parked car with some serious looking guys. As I was checking I hadn’t smashed the bottle, the postman shows up. DBC and two of the big lads intercepted him, and went through his bag. Any thick manila envelope they found got thrown in the boot of their Audi. And I know for a fact that Kate Grenville has a deal going with Peter Carey, Tim Winton and Helen Garner to take turns raiding the mailrooms of the few big publishers left in this country. When you see them on TV, butter wouldn’t melt, right? But in their private life, your average best-selling author is a vicious, ambitious and totally ruthless thug.
Once they get a sniff of anyone with real talent, like you, they’ll do whatever it takes to make sure your writing career is killed before it even starts. If I were you, I’d take up another hobby before what happened to author Gerald Buffington happens to you.
Q: Gerald Buffington? I’ve never heard of him.
A: Exactly. I hope this helps.
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Why be a writer?
Q: Why is writing so big these days? Everyone wants to ‘be a writer’. Are they hoping people will think they’re smarter than everyone else? Do you think you know more than the rest of us? What’s the deal smart-guy?
A: The more I study the art of writing, the less certain I am of any talent I might have and the more certain I am about how clueless I am about writing and about life. I have no wisdom to impart, only questions to phrase. So, no, I don’t know more than the rest of anybody.
It’s a fact that, in a statistic I just made up, ninety-eight per cent of ‘everyone’ ‘wants to be a writer’, and my professional guess is that this is because of the glamour surrounding the concept. Note: I use the term ‘glamour’ in its original sense. Look it up in the Shorter Oxford.
I mean, I’m a frickin’ writer - if only for television - and even I imagine clever, blithely confident writers in sunlit rooms, looking out over a charming seaside vista or garden, pausing to take a call from their agent, then resuming the next bestseller based on the six-month research trip they just finished in Venice.
Or, at the other end of the imaginary-writer scale, the tortured writer, who wakes, still drunk and drugged, driven by demons to scrawl a few more lines of deathless prose or poetry that will survive beyond their tragically short life.
So good writers, the ones who make any money at least, probably are smarter than us – after all, you’re asking the question and I have no decent answer so there’s your proof.
The other reality of writerishness (a word trademarked by me) is that we, as a species, live in a sea of stories. Our memories are constantly evolving semi-fictional narratives, our conversations and jokes are an endless back and forth of shared stories, our entire culture and history are endless layers of accreted story. We dream, we daydream, we think, we gossip and tell jokes, we watch TV, and we read stuff – all of it narrative of one form or another. All of us do it all the time, so why not be better than the next person at doing it? We compete at everything else, right?
But the real answer to your question is this.
People need labels for themselves so they have an identity they can refer to. Mother, fireman, conservative, writer, etc. (Why they need them is another topic but, okay, we need these sorts of identities to function on any meaningful social level.) The label ‘writer’ sits well with folks at this time and place in history. It’s got cachet, cred, glamour, whatever. Which is why everyone and their dogs desire this label for themselves – how hard can it be to write a book? And they’re right. Any idiot can write a book. I’ve written four. Case closed.
And finally, yes, you’re right, people do like to imagine they’re smarter than other people. And, as people think writers are smart, well, you do the math. I hope this helps.
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Music and writing.
Q: Do you listen to music while you write?
A: Yes. My usual playlist is…
Q: Actually I wanted to ask about whether music helps focus the mind by acting as a kind of filter to block out extraneous noise that might otherwise distract you, as well as provide an emotional resonance that fits with the particular mood of the piece you’re writing at the time.
A: That’s a question, is it?
Q: Well, it was going to be but now you’re getting all grumpy.
A: Only because your question was a set-up to spray your ‘opinion’, which is most likely cut and pasted from the letters page in New Scientist.
Q: Okay, whatever. So what music do you listen to?
A: Mostly instrumental. Sometimes I play Gorecki’s elegy to the Holocaust, occasionally I listen to early recordings of east European and Slavic orchestras to reconnect with the river of human misery. From time to time I play 45’s of Canadian ambient metal band, Northumbria, with the turntable switched to 33rpm to remind me of the pointlessness of getting out of bed and entering a world where I might have to interact with someone other than my wife and my dogs.
Q: And this kind of music helps your writing?
A: Gloom and doom reminds me of death and dying which in turn reminds me of all the things I love. And love – apart from all the other reptilian motives people have - is what underpins any good writing. I also like Hank Williams, Burial, Underworld, and Lady Gaga remixes. I hope this helps.
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Top 10 tips.
Q: What are your Top Ten Tips for beginning writers?
A: Ten tips. Why not, say, three? Or sixteen?
Q: * sigh * All the top writers have Ten Top Tips to give other writers, okay? I’m asking for yours. Unless you’re not a top writer, of course.
A: Your cunning use of the passive-aggressive mode has provoked my competitive reptilian core. I shall give you my Top Ten Tips. Are you ready?
Q: Well, yeah. Duh. Is this an advice column or what?
A: Tip #1: Think. Constantly - while reading, going to the toilet, making love, doing the dishes, wherever. Think so much it goes beyond habit and becomes pathological. Think until people give up talking to you. Think until the bags under your eyes grow to the point where people think you’ve got some awful disease.
Q: I hate thinking. I prefer doing. Thinking’s boring.
A: Okay, enough thinking. Tip#2: Write. Constantly. Write so much it goes beyond habit and becomes pa…
Q: Yeah, yeah. I get the point - see above.
A: You’re a step ahead. Nice one. Tip#3: Always start a novel with a lengthy prologue. This hurdle ensures your reader is worthy, and sufficiently warmed-up to tackle your dense, descriptive prose. Any reader who doesn’t make it through the prologue is a mouth-breather, and you’re better off without them.
Q: I hate prologues. I never read them. I’m like let’s just cut to the chase.
A: Good call. Glad you suggested it. Tip#4: Always start with a detailed description of the weather. Just as people love nothing more than to talk about the weather, they love to read about it. In fact, a book hasn’t really kicked off until the reader is fully cognisant of the meteorological conditions present in the scene.
Q: For real? People want to know if there’s like meteors? :[
A: Absolutely. :) Tip #5: Use lots of adverbs and adjectives and metaphors. Proper writers use these essential literary devices to make their writing stand out. If you use enough of them, you’ll win a literary award. True story.
Q: I thought…
A: Hey, we’re done thinking – we’re doing. Tip #6: To clearly signal when something dramatic is happening, use the word ‘suddenly’ or the phrase ‘and then, unexpectedly…’. Oh, and exclamation marks. How else will readers know something’s important or being shouted or whatever, right?
Q: Right. I totally agree!
A: Excellent. Suddenly we’re starting to get somewhere. Tip #7: The sucky thing about books is you can’t see the characters, right?
Q: That’s why I’m like waiting for the dvds to come out for heaps of books.
A: Sensible. But, while we’re waiting for the film, give your reader at least a page of description per major character - more if you need to pad it out. Hair, eyes, face, clothes, overall look, posture – these are just starting points. Knock yourself out.
Q: Writers are hopeless when it comes to stuff like what are they wearing. When’s the last time you ever read what shoes they’re wearing? Like it doesn’t matter? :p
A: Exactly. Tip #8: Put plenty of jargon and colloquial expressions into dialogue, and don’t hold back with accents and speech defects or whatever. This will help the reader ‘hear’ the voices as you’re ‘hearing’ them. A lot of readers are thick – you need to lead them by the hand with this kind of stuff.
Q: Like “Oh, my goodness – I am berry, berry annoyed with you for shop stealing, isn’t it. I am calling the police.” That’s like some Indian dude.
A: Wow. I was, like, there in that, like, corner shop. Totally. You have a gift. Tip #9: Don’t plan, just write. Go with the flow.
Q: Seriously? What about plot and stuff?
A: Make it up as you go. Hey, this is what writers do – use their imaginations and make shit up. Have fun. Literary writers don’t win awards without ignoring boring stuff like ‘plot’. If you want fascist ‘plots’ become an accountant or a tax dude, right?
Q: Right on. Hey, you’re not such a total jerk.
A: Tip #10: Copy your favourite writers’ styles and general plot lines. They’re making out like bandits so why reinvent the freaking wheel, right? I’m not saying cut-and-paste without mixing it up a bit, but as long as no-one can tell, why not? It worked in high school, didn’t it?
Q: Damn straight. Hey, cheers, man. You’re okay.
A: Dude. Hope this helps.
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How to get published.
Q: Is publishing contracting to just two types of novels – best-sellers and literary award winners?
A: Yes. Well spotted. I hope this helps.
Q: No, it doesn’t. Not at all. I don’t write either type of book.
A: Have you considered another hobby? I hope this helps.
Q: Some advice column you turn out to be. And I’m not writing as ‘hobby’.
A: Are you published? No. Are you paid for what you write? No. What do you want me to tell you? That your sensitively-told, impressively-researched literary masterpiece, with a plot and characters rivalling anything Tolstoy wrote, deserves to be published even if only fifteen people in the world want to read it?
Q: Yes.
A: I can see the tears in your eyes and hear the quiver in your voice. Damn you. You have touched this stony heart.
Q: I didn’t realise you…
A: Shut up, you’ll break the spell. Okay, here it is. Pain, blood and suffering are required. Unless you’re young, pretty and hooked up to all the right people circling the publishing world.
Q: I’m neither young, nor pretty. Nor connected.
A: Normally I’d say you’re fucked, but okay, here’s the secret key to get past the gatekeeper. Ready?
Q: ‘Secret key’. *sigh*
A: I’m impressed - you’re more cynical than I am. The secret key is the idea. Can you cough up the idea to your novel in a single sentence? A sentence that captures the heart of your story, intrigues the reader, and leaves them gagging to know what happens?
Q: Um…
A: Come on, I haven’t got all day.
Q: I think it’d take a few sentences to fully…
A: Shut up. Either the core idea, summed up in a sentence, captures hearts and minds or you’re well advised to consider building small, ornate wooden boats inside bottles. Or collect stamps. Whatever.
Q: A single sentence?
A: Agents and editorial assistants have a five-second attention span, they’ve heard it all before and they loathe tossers. Deal with it. I hope this helps.
====================
Writing different characters differently.
Q: My novel revolves around the death and funeral of an old person, and several characters' reactions to it. The age-range and cultural differences between these various characters are considerable - the question is how do I make them sound completely different from each other? Also, someone suggested (a horror writer actually) that I should let the corpse speak too. What do you advise O Learned One?
A: Gee, a book about death and old people – you’ve got the makings of a blockbuster there, kid.
Okay, the question is how do you assume the identity of other people for the purposes of creating dialogue and action specific to that character?
Make it up. Use your imagination. That’s what writers do – make stuff up and tell lies. With my television scripts and novels, I shift character constantly. It’s like dressing up. I put on an old coat and, hey, I’m an old man facing his last moments. I put on a surgical gown and, hey, I’m operating on a young child, knowing one tiny slip and this precious human life will expire. I put on a Hello Kitty dress and, hey, I’m a ten-year-old girl being bullied at school because I'm a math geek.
And, no, I don’t literally dress up. Not for ages, anyway. Not since my wife caught me that time.
Damn, where were we.
Okay, let’s say you’ve got a situation you haven’t personally encountered before – a middle-aged man is about to visit his dying father for the first time since that terrible argument twenty years ago.
Let’s take small bites at this problem. First, imagine what you’d do in that situation. Then imagine how it would be different for a middle-aged man to face that situation. How would it be different again for a Greek middle-aged man? How would it be different for a Greek middle-aged dentist? Finally, how would it be different for a gay Greek middle-aged dentist?
That’s one way to tackle a what-would-they-do roadblock.
Another is to do your research. Visit gay Greek Dental chat-rooms under the name Dimitri, make an unnecessary visit to the dentist and take notes, spend a ridiculous amount of time thinking about teeth – immerse yourself.
Next point: character is everything. If you truly know what drives your characters, what gets them out of bed in the mornings and what keeps them kicking against the pricks, you know how they’ll react in any given situation.
Oh, and, hey, give them distinctive dialogue too – not too much so you irritate the reader, just hints of their personality from time to time. It helps if you hear their voice. I hear lots of voices. All the time, in fact. Sorry, what? Kill who?
Finally, dead guys talking? Hell, yeah. But first check whether it goes against the world you’ve created. If it’s horror, of course dead guys speak. If it’s magical realism they’ll make twelve page speeches. If it’s comedic, they’ll take off their skull and dance with it. Have fun. Let's face it - a book about death and aging needs all the laughs it can get. I hope this helps.
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Creating your Author’s Platform.
Q: I’m an unpublished novelist. Should I get a website and a blog up? And what about Facebook and Twitter?
A: Yeah, great question. Thanks for asking. Sure – go for it. All the available advice I’m aware of says get an ‘author platform’, which consists of Facespace and Tweetville and LinkedUp and whatever. Link them all to a website and a blog so all the readers you don’t yet have can keep up with your every bowel movement. Then you have to link to other blogs and get them to link to you until some kind of critical mass is reached and you start to get a dribble of people visiting your website to read every last fascinating detail of your writerly life.
Q: Um, you sound kind of cynical about all this stuff.
A: Cynical? Perish the thought. How could anything literary or bookish be a pretentious waste of time?
Q: Actually, I don’t think I suggested there was anything pretentious about it.
A: Of course you did. It was in the sub-text. You’re a writer, you understand sub-text don’t you?
Q: Well, yeah, but… Look, should I go with the website and blog or not?
A: Seriously, what would I know? I’m an unpublished author. I’ve done all the things they said to do and pretty much the only visitors to my site are bots from Belarus looking for opportunities to send me Nigerian scam emails. Which gets boring after a while. Though Eleven Million Pounds and Fifty-Six Pence does sound a very attractive return for simply sending them my bank details and a thousand dollars. Where were we?
Q: Websites for unpublished authors. Yes or no. *Sigh.*
A: Okay, well apparently we’re supposed to offer the visitor to our sites something useful, like writerly advice – hence this invaluable column – and links to other resources on other writers’ sites so they link back to us, plus slip in a hint or two that we’ve just written a heartstoppingly awesome novel and maybe they should consider buying it. Except, oh yeah, we’re unpublished.
Q: I think I’m beginning to see where you’re going with this. In a really long-winded way.
A: I like to vent slowly, in a nuanced way. It’s more literary. Anyway, consider this question before you ignore my advice and go with what all the sensible people are saying: what happens when every writer, published and unpublished, has their own website, blog, twitter-feed, LinkedIn status and Facebook page up and running? And every day there’s a thousand more. Every week, another ten thousand. What happens when the levels are all set to eleven and it’s all just white noise?
Q: Are you suggesting the existing publishing model, including the transitionary one, is completely f**ked?
A: Again, what would I know? All I can see is all of us struggling to be published, and publishers struggling to make a buck in a new marketplace. There's buckets of goodwill right through the system, but because everyone and their dogs wants to be published, the gatekeepers are overwhelmed by sheer numbers and publishers who will only make safe bets. That leaves the rest of us with no way in wondering what other hoops we need to jump through. The cheerful, patient extroverts who are good hoop-jumpers, who scrub up well, and write good are the ones who win through. The rest of us are all just shuffling along en masse behind them, unable to see forward, practicing our Man Booker speeches as the heels wear out on our shoes and the flickering flame of hope slowly dies inside us. I hope this helps.
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How to deal with doubt.
Q: How do you deal with the crippling self doubt?
A: Easy. I wake at three AM and lie there worrying until just before dawn.
Q: Actually, I was hoping for something a little more positive.
A: Sorry, have I got this right? You're a writer, hoping for 'positive'.
Q: Well, yeah. Some encouragement to 'keep going' and 'trust your gut' and stuff like that would be good.
A: Trust your gut. Keep going.
Q: You're just saying that. You don't mean it. I thought this stupid FAQ column of yours was advice for writers.
A: My best advice for writers is to marry into great wealth.
Q: Not helping.
A: Okay, well, I always find...
Q: And don't say whisky helps.
A: Okay, fine. Be like that. Sheesh. If you're a writer, crippling self doubt distinguishes you from poncy narcissists who write literary fiction. Crippling self doubt stops you from disappearing up your proverbial and thinking your proverbial doesn't stink. Crippling self doubt makes you question everything. Crippling self doubt lashes you about the quality of your writing, the point of writing, your thinking and your ideas. Crippling self doubt is your friend, guide and the monkey on your back. That crinkled ugly vicious face who torments you at three AM, who makes you worry about the drains, the dog registration, the funny knocking sound in the car engine in third gear, your relationships and your totally pointless addiction to writing words and more words is what makes you human and slightly more sane than people who are certain about things. I hope this helps.
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Dealing with doubt.
Q: I’ve been writing for years and can’t get published. Years and years and years. Manuscript after manuscript after manuscript. What can I do about the anxiety I feel?
A: Good question, well made. Alcohol.
Q: Sorry, is that your answer? “Alcohol”?
A: Did the sentence have an “A:” in front of it? Yes. So yes, that’s my answer.
Q: If you don’t mind me saying so, that’s not terribly helpful or responsible of you. Alcohol problems are a big and troubling issue in our society, and suggesting it’s some kind of solution to generalised writing-related anxiety strikes me as extremely irresponsible.
A: Correct. What would you like? Wine, beer, I’ve got some Irish whisky…
Q: Sorry, but I feel you’re being a more than a little flippant here, glib even.
A: Correct. I’m picking you for a whisky man. Or cognac possibly.
Q: I have friends dear to me who are struggling with alcohol addiction. I don’t find anything amusing about it being offered as some kind of panacea for writing anxiety.
A: Correct, again. Boy, you’re really onto it. Come on, just a hint – you’re not a closet cocktail drinker are you?
Q: No, really, this is enough. I’ve come to you with a serious problem – that my writing doesn’t seem to be appreciated by anyone else, I’m going broke from all the competitions and mentorships and grant applications, my wife is increasingly distant, my friends’ eyes glaze over when I try and answer their question “so what’s your book about?”, I’m increasingly feeling no-one takes my extensive scholarship and hard work seriously – and all you can do is make fun with jokes about alcohol that are, frankly, in bad taste.
A: Correct. So, what’ll it be?
[LONG PAUSE]
Q: Irish you said?
A: I’ve got cigars to go with it too. We can talk about books we like and books we hate. There’s some absolute rubbish out there, isn’t there?
Q: I’ll say. Actually, perhaps a small one would be nice. Cheers.
A: I hope this helps.
======================
Quoting other writers.
Q: Writers often put quotes in the front of their books by writers what write gooder than they do. Smart marketing or can I go on thinking they're tossers?
A: "I love you, as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul." Neruda, Sonnet XVIII
Q: Wow. That's really quite cool.
A: I know. I want to use it in my latest book. But, yeah, writers are tossers. I hope this helps.
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Writing memoirs.
Q: Everyone’s always on at me to write a book – ‘You should write a book’ they say. Should I? Is it harder than it looks?
A: Not at all – any idiot can write a book, and I speak from years of experience. Is it about your amazing life, by any chance?
Q: Actually, yes. I’m a bit of a raconteur I suppose and people seem to enjoy me banging on about some of my adventures in China, Afghanistan, the United States, Yugoslavia and that one brief week in Manila. Are they just being kind?
A: They’re being quite sincere but, on the other hand, they were all at least a little drunk when they said it, yes?
Q: Mm. Good point. I should forget the whole thing and just keep boring people at parties, eh?
A: Probably, but, like we say in television – ‘make it familiar but fresh’. By that I mean if you create a new program or in your case a new book, put a fresh twist on a familiar genre. Your travelogue of adventures would, frankly, put me into a coma – unless you slip some zombies in there. Or you invent a portal to a parallel universe that opens up only when you’re waiting for your clothes to dry in a variety of Laundromats around the world in between your more regular adventures. Do you see where I’m going there?
Q: I think I do. Basically, I should spice things up a bit. Not let facts get in the way of a good story and so on.
A: Tell stories that don’t depend on just your sparkling personality. Have you read other people’s memoirs?
Q: No. Hang on a minute.
Okay, I’m back. God, they’re awful. Completely tedious, self-indulgent rubbish.
A: I hope this helps.
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Completely pointless question.
Q: What’s your favourite colour?
A: Whisky. I hope this helps.
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Where story ideas come from.
Q: Where do you get your ideas from?
A: Great question. Actually, it’s a little embarrassing, as most writers just seem to think up their ideas, whereas mine come from my teeth. During the war, I was shot down, and later, in hospital, my shattered jaws were replaced with titanium and steel. As a result, in certain weather conditions, I pick up short-wave radio signals from all over the world. It comes in fragments of sentences and words which, oddly, quite often form coherent sentences that appear to be part of a story. I take those fragments, write them down, and before I know it, slushpiles around the nation grow one manuscript higher. I hope this helps.
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Drama v Melodrama.
Q: In reference to your experience as a television writer, how would you define the difference between drama and melodrama?
A: Excellent question. The difference is money. I hope this helps.
Q: Actually, no, it didn’t.
A: That’s not ‘actually’ a question but allow me to elaborate. The difference between, say, Neighbours and The Wire is the time spent on creating the stories, refining them and doing multiple drafts of the scripts, using a skilled team of ego-less collaborative and talented writers. If you look at the time, and therefore the money, spent on a single episode of The Wire, an equivalent amount of time and money was spent on an entire decade of Neighbours. I hope this helps.
Q: Sorry, but that really doesn’t answer my question about definitions of drama and melodrama.
A: Again, not a question but here at WordPirate we appreciate ‘special needs’ readers like yourself so here goes: conflict isn’t necessarily drama, but drama is always about conflict.
Q: Okay, got that.
A: Shut up, I haven’t finished. Drama is caring. Drama is fully-motivated action by characters the reader / audience cares about. Without a fully fleshed-out character with internal and external conflicts, there is no drama. If you have a 2D “character”, you can bounce them around all you like but we won’t give a fat rat’s what happens to them. IE melodrama. Hollywood it all you like with big guns and equally big tits, but it’s still going to be mental toilet paper with a big meh-factor. IE melodrama. Some say soap opera doesn’t allow for good character development, but it takes as much time to write a character with legs as it does writing up a bunch of tedious personality traits wrapped around some physical attributes. So if you don’t know what constitutes character, stop writing and find out. Or go back to sleep or jogging or having an active social life or whatever the fuck non-writers do. I hope this helps.
Q: I don’t appreciate being called ‘special needs’.
A: Considering all the smart people I know who do the stupidest things, and how often I fuck up on the most basic levels, ich bin ein Special Needs. I hope this helps.
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Where stories come from.
Q: I didn’t quite buy that whole “teeth” thing. Where do you really get your ideas from? Truly, I mean.
A: The truth? You think you can handle the truth? Okay, fine. Every second Tuesday of the month I get an envelope in my mail box. There’s no return address and no clues as to who sent it. Inside is a high concept idea I could never think up on my own. I don’t question it, I just use it. There. You have the plain, unvarnished truth. I am a sham. I hope this helps.
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