Visualisation and writing: living the dream

A recent conversation with a fellow blogger and novel-writer exposed how my perception of my novel, in its transition from MS Word to this blog, changed.

"All of a sudden," I said, "it was real, it was no longer a secret project, it has an audience."

Novels in their early stages become real through a series of processes: from notebook to screen, screen to printed A4 page of double-spaced chapters, then a whole manuscript, then tailored to however the agents want it ...

My book is taking on corporeal form, the more I work at this, the more I plan, the more I push ahead with my plans for self-publishing.I can imagine what it will be like holding my professionally printed book in my hand.

I'm a very visual person. Most of my education has revolved around film and media, barring my most recent journalistic studies. I love film and photography and art.

During the writing of Annie, the Doll, its Thief and Her Lover, I used various visualisation techniques to "be present" within the narrative and characters.

In some cases this involved downloading pictures of actors I liked who I thought could easily play the characters, should the story ever be turned into a film.

For example, David Thewlis is my ginger-haired hero Simon; Kate began life as looking a bit like Kate Winslet, though maybe not as glamorous. Annie was depicted in her character file as an unnamed Victorian woman.

When I drew up my publication schedule and made this blog, I began to realise that the novel I wanted to hold in my hand could really be real. I feel its weight in my hand, I turn its pages and I know what it looks like.

Another turning point was when I took the cover photo. I am beginning to imagine myself at public readings, talking to reporters. It's not day-dreaming, it's preparation.

I loved one particular poignantly perceptive Doctor Who episode in the last series. He and Amy took Vincent Van Gough into the future to see why his creative toil was so worthwhile, why his self-belief wasn't just insanity and ego.

So, it might help us, in the grey moments where we struggle to believe in ourselves, to look to our intended futures and legacies.

See your audience - whether that's great-great grandchildren or international lovers of literature - they hold your book, they're are reading your story, the smiles on their lips and the tears on their cheeks are coaxed by the persistence of your voice down the ages.

We're not all Vincent Van Gough, or "insert preferred literary example here", but we still live the dream.

Self-publishing, ease of, and professional growth

Richard Rogers laments in the Observer that self-publishing puts the onus of sorting the slush from the literary upon "us", the readers.

Well, what's new, really?

Springboarding off a Laura Miller article in salon.com, Rogers notes just how bad the majority of the slush pile is.

I instantly fell in love (so fickle) with commenter AprilLHamilton for her eloquent response of: "Odd how I never hear of anyone discouraging indie filmmakers or musicians on the basis that there are many bad indie films and songs out there, yet many people have no compunction whatsoever about discouraging indie authors."

This is exactly why I have decided to self-publish. Why should I not have dreams? Why should I not question the authority of those who have so far read and rejected my manuscript? Why should I not put my metaphorical money where my keyboard is, and attempt to create my own success?

Of course, no-one is saying outright that I cannot and should not. I feel defensive, though. The article hints that self-publishing is an easy option for failures who would otherwise be snapped up by the publishing houses.

But many of us have read in the Writer's and Artist's Yearbook about how Virginia Wolf self-published, and William Blake. There are stories of self-published authors being snapped up by publishing houses who see how well their over-looked manuscript is doing (even the ocasional celebratory post on the Authonomy forum) which means that these are more than Urban Folklore to perk up our spirits.

What would I do if one of the agents currently reading my first three chapters expressed an interest? Nay, better still, found me a publisher?

I'd obviously consider it, I'm not going to get self-righteous here and pretend I would turn down a good deal. But what I would bring to the process is different to what I would have three months ago. In the process of planning my own marketing, my product, me myself as a product, I have learned how to think about these things, and would be prepared to work harder with my agent and publisher to make my book a success.

Because, in fact, all I set out wanting from them was a nice cheque and a list of what they were going to do for me, alongside the idea I would enjoy a book-signing tour of Waterstones at some point. Organised for me, of course.

Rogers wrote that "anyone with the will to type can simply upload their cherished titles on to the lists of high-profile online booksellers".

It's really not like hammering out an article and sending it through the system to the news editor on its route towards an established audience. Simple, it's not, I assure you.

Scoffing, with mixed metaphor sprinkles

I have been scoffing the rich advice of other writers on writing like someone who's been on a lettuce diet for the last six months.

I'm not so much anticipating indigestion, on the contrary: there is so much sustenance out there for the newbie author. I am indebted.

However, after reading Laurie Pawlik-Kienlen's Fear of Success - Signs of Self-sabotage in the Writing Life, I realise I need to take a few moments for self-assessment. Or, proper digestion, if I'm not going to mix my metaphors.

Don't get me wrong - read further down my blog and you'll see the reference to the state of my house. As I write, tiny tumble-weeds of animal fur are rolling across the laminate flooring in the slight breeze caused by my husband's journey from the sitting room to the kitchen. Domesticity is not an issue here, as far as diversions go.

(Actually, not-so-tiny, and one appears to have its own eco-system. Ew.)

There is no doubt I need to research self-publication, to occasionally nibble the nutritious goodies, but I also need to retain a sense of what I am trying to achieve and not lose myself in what others are saying. I have dined, I am full, I can stop eating for a few hours.

The irony is that a theme of my novel is this very thing: forgotten dreams, the forgotten magic, lives diverted and some so thoroughly derailed that those who live them can't get back on track.

Now, I used a railway symbolically in my book, so that's not such a clumsy introduction of imagery as it first appears. However, to continue the food metaphor, let's say some of my characters ordered the wrong main meal at a restaurant, others accepted the wrong dish, and not all of them have the gumption to change their minds or complain to the manager.

Anyway.

I will quickly post this to my blog, forget about it until tomorrow, and get on with the process of learning how to actually prepare my novel for ebook and print. Perhaps even jump right in and do it.

The manuscript is ready, you see. It's as ready as it's ever going to be without the input of an agent. It's been pored over, spell-checked, ruthlessly has anything remotely purple edited out.

So I need to have faith in my judgement at this time, and go ahead, push forward, and not sit here writing about it any more!

Until tomorrow.

Why manuscripts get rejected

A list of 17 reasons.

Frank Sidebottom & me

I've been reading the obituaries and memorials to Frank Sidebottom. Aside from the fact that since I turned 40 earlier this year, I have become obsessed somewhat with my own mortality, I have a personal interest: I think I once kissed him.

Now, anyone who has 'lived' can claim to have kissed or shagged a celebrity, I know this. And the event itself was unremarkable enough for me to forget it, until now.

It happened half a lifetime ago, in the Sugarmine, the Bournemouth University student venue. Picture a dark, smoky dancefloor, a buxom goth with lots of hair and a little unsteady on her feet after Happy Hour, and a proposition from a man who whispered in her ear that he was Frank Sidebottom.

In retrospect it is a WTF moment; but I accepted his proposition and snogged him. Not because he was allegedly Frank Sidebottom, trust me when I say papier mache is not my kink. Partly it was the kindred Northern accent, also it was the alcohol, and the fact I like snogging, and he'd been bold enough to ask.

His obituaries are poignant, human, touching, as they should be. As a reporter I have loved writing obits, speaking to families about their loved ones, gently touching and trying to portray the connections between people that last beyond death, what else remains when ashes are the only visible remains.

Obituaries are also a tool by which we can examine our lives: what trace do we leave, who will miss us, what did we contribute, what did we achieve, and did we achieve our dreams?

The last is a question rarely asked by a reporter to a grieving family. At least, I never asked it. It's an uncomfortable concept: did your husband die happy, or was he unfulfilled? Were there times in your wife's life that she expressed a keen desire to do something, but didn't manage it? How did they feel about that? How do you feel about that?

Frank's death and ensuing trip down memory lane reminds me of my younger self, the one with ambitions that middle-age and the fear of mortality delivered a kick to. He's a fine example of someone who made something unique and lived his dream, too. Presumably.

Being read

Spending the morning submitting my blog to other sites. It's a very long and moderately technical activity, in some cases. Yesterday's navigation around Google Webmaster made my brain hurt.

Anyway this latest is Technorati. It seems to be relatively user-friendly.

The more I walk down this road, the more the horizon loses its haze and comes into the foreground.

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Marketing and me

I am quite fascinated in the way my novel's marketing plan is coming together ... nay, impressed: I am, and have, a product. Go me!

As I quote openly (unashamedly, too) have a background in PR and journalism, you might think, "Huh? She didn't realise any of this earlier?"

Frankly, no. It is an organic process and different from publicising someone else, I assure you.

The more I travel down this path and make my dream a reality, the more real it becomes: I have a publicity schedule, a press contacts list drawn up, a press release being crafted, and meanwhile I am building this blog into an attractive sales window.

The Writers' and Artists' Yearbook talks about marketing yourself, mainly in the arena of helping your publisher market you. "Offer a peg to your publisher", it says (p 268, 2002 edition).

As someone who has helped to publicise other people, projects and organisations in the course of my career, I understand this completely.

As a rather private person myself, it makes me wince a bit, I have to be honest with you.

My main 'pegs' for myself are these, so far: I am born and bred in the location my novel is set (local knowledge, known locally); I am a former local reporter (already established as a writer of some description).

At this point I realise I need to discern how much of myself becomes public. Everyone who courts the media's attention knows they have things they want to be brought to light, and things they wish to remain in the box under the stairs.

The next peg is the book information: why will people want to read it, who will want to read it, where can they read it and for how much?

If I thought my mettle was being tested during the writing and editing process, it's being pushed past all known frontiers now. If I allow myself to doubt the worth of myself or my novel, this is where I will flounder, because the closer I come to ticking off the items on my launch schedule, the more real and exciting and terrifying this becomes.

Still, currently, the prognosis is good: I remain quite fascinated.

Writing, and the Perfect Day

After-dinner. Go back to the study, turn on the music and write like a bastard, because I'm awake now

This is AL Kennedy writing in the Guardian about her perfect day for writing. As I read it, laughing, I was aware - as AL pointed out - that there are so few writers I can imagine experiencing this.

AL's ideal of a perfect day is to pamper body and mind, waking up from idyllic slumber and easing herself into creativity over a period of hours.

Inspiration creeps upon her ninja-style so she ends up within an almost orgasmic whirl of creativity before it vanishes. Hence the 'write like a bastard'. That's the same as 'make hay while the sun shines', though how frenzied and passionate farmers become when they're bailing, I don't know.

Anyone who has ever worked for an employer, in what we might call a 'normal job', knows that productivity needs deadlines. As a former journalist, who sometimes had up to six deadlines an hour, I can manage my time very-well-thank-you.

I catch myself in a guilty eyeshift. But my procrastination isn't all my fault, honest.

My ideal workday would involve being in a quiet house, a clean one too, actually. But it's not just external clutter that gets in the way of creation.

These are my notes to myself about my workday:

1. Ignore the general filthy and untidy state of the house. The others you live with make the mess, so they must like it, even if you don't.
2. Don't worry about the teenager and all his woes. Be a supportive, good enough mother. If he's clean and fed and on time for school, by 14 the rest is up to him. The same basic rules apply to the husband.
3. If the cats bring home the rodents and birds to play with in front of the patio window, that's just nature - and they're sharing their success with you. Close the door to the noises though, unless you're writing about torture, murder and decapitation.
4. The dog is a princess and pouts at everything. She's not lonely/dying of a broken heart/bored.
5. Do not open any email pertaining to roleplaying. You can look at the title of it if you must, but know that the game will not combust without you.

However. The washing up, the laundry, the shopping, these still all need to be factored in. Just NEVER AT THE EXPENSE OF A GOOD PARAGRAPH.

Still, I long for a study, like AL has. To fester in my own tidiness, to listen to my own music, to not be asked a zillion questions a minute when everyone gets home ... I'm quite sure I'd have something close to a perfect day every day.

Self-publishing: Feel the fear and do it anyway

The more I learn about self-publishing, the more sense it makes - financially, and because communication doesn't happen in a vaccuum.

My creative writing used to be a possessive, secretive activity and rarely did I show others the fruits of my labour. Right now I'm reminded of Back To The Future and Marty telling his girlfriend "but I don't think I can take that kind of rejection!"

Laying yourself bare, asking for criticism, stating to the world that, actually, you think you've done something worthwhile: what a risky business this is.

After reading about self-publishing, recognising that the world of publishing is such that an agent or publisher may never see my worth, it boils down to this: I do not want to lie on my deathbed with terrible regret at things I did not try because I was scared.

Coming soon!