more like a boulder: stone #17

Today’s stone is so large that it’s more accurate to call it a boulder. Apologies for breaking the rules…

I don’t write crime and have never had any desire to do so. Until now. Maybe.
I’ve been thinking about the strange encounters police officers experience in their day-to-day working lives. I’m not talking about the big stuff – murder, robberies, assault – but the little things.
Why? At 6.30am I awoke to the sound of GingerTwo calling me. It is unusual for him to wake up at such an ungodly hour, and it is doubtful I would have arisen with quite so much haste had I not thought I heard a single tap at the front door. Dazed and bleary-eyed, I stumbled downstairs, clutching GingerTwo’s sticky hand, wondering if I’d imagined it.
As we crossed the hall, it came again: a distinct rapping at the door. I peered through the window at the bottom of the stairs. Two police officers, one male, one female, shuffled on the doorstep. Without a second thought I flung open the door. A look of horrified bemusement washed over the young (yes, yes, I know…) man’s features; I was in a t-shirt and knickers. He spoke. But, realising the sight I presented, I did not hear the words and replied, ‘I’m half naked,’ before turning to climb the stairs in an attempt to retrieve another item of clothing.
As I went he said, ‘Are you *****’s mother?’ Perhaps he thought I looked too young to have a teenage child? Okay, okay, this is nonsense, but it was worth a try… When I replied that I was not, that ***** lived at number *, they both bumbled profuse apologies, and made their way to the correct house.
So all day I’ve been pondering. Like doctors, police officers encounter people at their most raw, sometime most guileless. They see us without our clothes on, both literally (in my case) and metaphorically. No wonder so many authors write about them.
The young person in question is perfectly safe, had come to no harm. I wish the same could be said for the young copper. I doubt his eyes stopped smarting all day.

Funny old life

Over Christmas a relative asked me the road to publication question, followed by the ‘what’s it about’ one. I realised how little practised I am in both, and thought I need to get some practice in. To the second I managed to bumble it’s about a woman who discovers that she’s not who she thinks she is when her son is diagnosed with a hereditary condition. To save his life she must unearth family history and secrets. I finished with a regrettable; it’s a kind of identity quest story. I think it’s better summed up thus: A former foreign correspondent must uncover the truth about her origins. Her son’s life depends on it. The first question was much easier to answer, if considerably more long-winded, and the answer is, I think, a great example of how life can take the most unexpected turns.
It's almost two years ago to the day that I printed out the first draft of my novel, BloodMining. It took twelve months to write; snatched hours in between working full- time and looking after my two little lads, GingerOne and GingerTwo. Although it was ropey I felt I'd achieved something. Like so many people I’d harboured an ambition to write a novel for years. I wasn't sure I could do it. I'd written non-fiction for much of my adult life, but fiction is SO much harder. But after penning a handful of short stories with minor success (they seemed manageable with a new born baby - GingerTwo – JK Rowling I'm not) I thought the time had come.
The first draft took twelve months, but it was a complete novel. I spent a further eight months redrafting and editing until it was in a state that I was, if not exactly proud of, not desperately ashamed of. I joined a writers' group and showed chapters to 'proper' authors: people who had masters’ degrees in creative writing and even had books of their own published. They were encouraging, and so I entered a debut novel competition. To my surprise I was long-listed. I wrote another draft and sent the first 10,000 words and synopsis to Roz Hart at Real Writers. Her comments blew my socks off. Once I’d finished basking in her praise (thank you, Roz, it meant the world to me, still does) I addressed the concerns she’d raised, those that resonated. When I set off on the journey I did not write with publication in mind, but I started to think maybe, just maybe...
So I wrote to half a dozen agents. Most said no immediately, but two were encouraging and asked to see the entire Ms. Whey-hey! In the end they both declined to represent me, but offered enough kind words to make me think it’d be worth battling on. In the meanwhile I entered two other competitions and this time I was short-listed in both. I wrote to another three agents and a handful of independent publishers. Although the odds are stacked against (independents publish, on average, just six novels a year) independents are more likely to take on unusual or first time novelists. Again, two came back asking to see the entire Ms. And again, both said that although they admired the book they didn’t love it enough to spend a not-inconsiderable sum of money and months of hard labour on it. I heard back from one competition: I had not won.
Pessimism set in. I re-read the book and was dismayed to find all sorts of things I hated about it. Some easily fixable, others more difficult to nail. It’s flawed, complete rubbish, I said. And by now I had almost completed the first draft of novel #2 and was having a whale of a time with it. Putting BloodMining in a virtual back cupboard, and consoling myself with the knowledge that few writers get their first book published, and how much I learnt along the way, I forgot all about it (almost).
Then one morning in October I received a call from the lovely Debz Hobbs-Wyatt at Bridge House. I’d won their debut novel competition! They wanted to publish the book! I was at work, in the staff-room, I had to sit down. For days I wandered round in a state of shock. I told few people; I didn’t believe it was real; I expected the ‘Gosh, I’m so, so sorry - we misread the winner’s name, it was Laura Wilson that won, not you,’ call. It never came and slowly, I came round to the idea that it was really going to happen.
Contracts have been exchanged, a designer has been appointed, marketing strategies are in discussion, I’m due to meet my editor, Gill James, this week, and I still can’t believe my good fortune. Thank you Bridge House for taking a chance on me.
If there’s a lesson here I guess it’s to take the work (as opposed to yourself) seriously, be critical, take criticism from those in the know, learn from it, be persistent and, possibly most importantly, keep writing.
I’m looking forward to another draft of BloodMining, and once that’s done doing the same for novel #2 and getting started on novel #3. I have lots of ideas, lots of background reading to do, and I’m excited about writing it. What more could I ask for?

Old-fashioned diaries

Although I’m a fan of technology and use outlook more than any other calendar, I absolutely have to have a paper diary to carry round with me. Also, it doubles as a mini-journal, and reminds me to take notes whenever an idea or thought strikes (not as often as I’d like). No matter how great an idea I find if it’s not committed to paper there’s a strong possibility that it will slip from my mind, and I’ll be wracking my brains later trying to retrieve it. My Mslexia diary arrived on Friday – well done Mr Postman, as it’s very icy here on the hill – and although I find the head girl tone of the magazine irritating on occasion I one hundred per cent love the diary. The first I bought in 2005 when, after years of writing non-fiction, I committed to writing fiction. Buying the diary was a symbolic gesture to take my work seriously (if not myself). I have six of them now, and they remind me how far I’ve come and how far I’ve yet to go. GingerOne and Two are off now so chances are I won’t blog again before Christmas. So Merry Christmas everyone and here’s to 2011.

So close and yet so far, and other clichés

I heard today that my first novel, BloodMining, (yes, the one I'm trying to sell) was short-listed in the 2010 Cinnamon Press Novel Competition. I’m delighted and gutted all at the same time. Delighted (and a little amazed) that I made it that far, and gutted that I didn't make the final hurdle given that there's a cash prize and publication for the winner. Publication being the main thing, naturally, though cash isn't to be sniffed at in these recessionary times. Or are we officially out of recession by a cat's whisker now? I'm hoping that the novel isn't going to be one of those ‘also rans’, 'almost published' etc. By way of consolation judge and Cinnamon editor Jan Fortune-Wood said, ‘The writing in this competition was the best we’ve ever seen to date and all the novels in the final list of ten were of an excellent standard – any of them would have made it into the final five in previous competitions.’
Excuse me while I just scream… (the finals usually get published by Cinnamon)

Can't stand up for falling down

Well, here we are in leek and daffodil month and I’ve heard back from three of the six agents I wrote to in mid-January… All have said pretty much the same thing – No. Sign of how few new clients we’re taking on rather than your writing, personal, don’t give up, keep at it, other agents may feel differently… So with the three rejections before Christmas that’s a half dozen. Yackerty-schmackerty.

I understand that agents cannot, and will not, give reasons why something hasn’t ticked all the boxes for them, but it’s really hard to know whether or not to keep sending it out, especially given that, in truth, I’m not sure that it’s publishable. I’ve enough experience and I’ve had enough positive and encouraging comments from readers, writers and professional editors (not to mention the Virginia Prize long-listing) to know that I can churn out some nice prose when I put my mind to it, but whether or not I can produce a 100,000 word plus tale with a coherent plot, convincing characters that we care about, interesting ideas and that all important X factor remains to be seen. My big niggle is saleability, given that I’m playing with genre and I’m not Margaret Atwood or Susan Hill (I bloody wish), and agents and the big publishers like to put new writers in boxes. Ho-hum. Perhaps I ought to start approaching the independents given that although they publish far fewer books, they are said to take more risks (or some of them do). So, I’m sticking at it for some time yet – at least the entire year, I think - as well as scribbling away at my second novel, which I’m having far too good a time writing to trust it at the moment. There’s no pleasing some people, eh?
I read a Japanese proverb in this month’s Writers’ Magazine. ‘Fall seven times, stand up eight’. So here am I standing up for the seventh time.

New Year, New Book

2010... Year of the Tiger, and so it should be a good one for me. Let's hope so, eh? Now that the big thaw has started I can move around in less than six layers and, more importantly, I can feel the tips of my fingers, so I aim to bash away at the old laptop and get on with the next book. Working title Transformers.
Nice start to the year - two stories are to be published this month. The first, The Deepest Cut, here in Telling Tales magazine. The Long Mile Home is out soon in Beautiful Scruffiness magazine, edited by poet Katie Metcalfe. Details to follow...

Another day, another rejection

Strange one this. Or maybe not? Maybe this is common. I don’t know yet.
Anyway, I received a ‘thanks, but no thanks’ from a small Kent-based agent the other day. So what’s odd I hear you cry? Well, I received the email at lunchtime the day after I’d posted my submission package… So they’d had it for a maximum of four hours.
Either this agent doesn’t receive the usual gazillion MS a day like most others say they get, and hence their slush pile is so miniscule (non-existent) and they have so little to do for their existing clients that they have the luxury of being able to read each submission as it drops onto their clear desk, or they bin them straight away, unread. If so, fair enough, but why not make it clear on the website that they are not looking to take on any new clients unless they are JK Rowling or Dan Brown? The email was so standard that I wondered if the package had been read. (It must have been opened, they had my email address). It wasn’t even topped or tailed. No ‘Dear Laura/Ms Wilkinson/Misguided Fool. No ‘Yours sincerely/yours dying of boredom having just read the turgid nonsense you laughingly describe as the opening chapters of a novel’.
Perhaps the work experience kid charged with the daunting task of ploughing through the slush pile read it, chucked it on the ‘You’ve GOT to look at this’ pile, but it slid off, unnoticed, onto the ‘Chuck IMMEDIATELY’ pile? Ha ha. Perhaps someone read the synopsis and thought ‘Cobblers’, or read the opening paragraph and thought the same? After all, I will choose a book in a shop in this manner. Who knows? Perhaps many agents are, as the fabulous Mr Edit says, plain rude? I’d like to think not. In optimistic mood, ‘til the next time…

The Whispering Wall

A short story of mine, The Whispering Wall, is published this month, November Issue 09, in First Edition Magazine. You can find copies at all good bookshops. Well, WHSmith and Borders at least...

You'll find the website here - http://www.firsteditionpublishing.co.uk/

Good Golly Mrs Molly!

The almost unbelievable has happened. One of my four applied-to agents has requested the entire manuscript. Says she likes the first two chapters, though they may need a little work (a very good sign I feel. I know the book is flawed and will be suspicious of any agent who doesn't request edits), and would be delighted to read more.
Ohmagod! I had to read and re-read the mail to check that I hadn't missed something, or that it wasn't a prank. I wanted to scream out loud and laugh and cry... I will NEVER, EVER laugh at those actresses who blub on the Oscar podium as they receive their award... I was pathetic.
Anyway, I whizzed over the remaining chapters and I wait with baited breath. Now this was two days ago and the euphoria has worn off. I am still a long way from representation, let alone publication and I am already convinced that she will say 'no' in the end. However, I have to remind myself that it is a good sign... If she likes it, others will, and having validation from an industry person is priceless. Unless she's completely bonkers, of course.

Fancy a literary splash?

Fiona Robyn is going to blog her next novel, Thaw, starting on the 1st of March next year. The novel follows 32 year old Ruth’s diary over three months as she decides whether or not to carry on living.

To help spread the word she’s organising a Blogsplash, where blogs will publish the first page of Ruth’s diary simultaneously (and a link to the blog).

She’s aiming to get 1000 blogs involved – if you’d be interested in joining the splash, email her at fiona@fionarobyn.com or find out more information here.

Thank you!

----------------------------
http://www.fionarobyn.com/
http://www.plantingwords.com/

A Personal Odyssey

I've not blogged for a long, long while but I am feeling the need once more. And why I hear you cry?

For nigh on two years I have used almost every bit of free time writing and, more accurately, rewriting a novel. Like many who write I harboured a dream of writing a novel for years. For many moons fear held me back. That and two young boys and a full-time job. I continued to write non-fiction - journalism, copywriting, reviews and the like - and even wrote a small selection of short stories, with a moderate degree of success. But the novel existed in my head only. Finally, I read Jacqui Lofthouse's marvellous The First 30 Days, a brilliant guide to ending procrastination and getting a thousand words a day down on paper, or pc. It worked for me. Less than twelve months later I had a first draft and another eight months on I had a fifth draft that I was, if not exactly happy with, at least not desperately ashamed of. No doubt it is flawed, but it is 100,000 words of a coherent story, and I'm proud of it.
The whole thing started as an experiment - to see if I could do it - and I was always open to the idea that I might not be able to. It was only when I reached the 60,000 word mark and realised that I knew, finally, where the story would end that I admitted that I would complete a novel. Good grief.
What a journey it was. I learnt so much and, most importantly, I enjoyed the process. So much so that I am starting my second book and seeking representation for the first. Hence the blogging again. I will record the next stage of my journey here on A Scorpion Scribbles...
The story so far.
I have submitted a one page synopsis and the first 10,000 words along with a brief covering letter to four agents. I sent my submission package to three in the first instance - around five weeks ago - and pledged that as the rejections come in, another package would go out. So, I have had one rejection so far. And if one is to believe the stories by literary luminaries like Sarah Waters and Joanna Trollope I have 29 or more to receive before the six figure deal is struck and the Brooker prize awarded (ahem)! Although it was disappointing it was at least not a rejection of the 'have you considered taking up horticulture as a hobby Ms Wilkinson?' variety. Onwards say I.
Of course, being human I am beset with doubt and easily depressed by (the increasingly frequent) newpaper reports detailing the death of the publishing industry and difficulties faced by debut novelists struggling to get published. But I am a realist, and do not dream of giving up the day job and revelling in a life spent at the pc pouring out bestseller after bestseller. It would be a dream come true to have the book published and read by more than a few hundred people. Keep your fingers, toes and anything else you can think of crossed for me.

I'll keep you posted...

A review of The Loudest Sound and Nothing by Clare Wigfall

There is something of the fairy tale around the publication of Clare Wigfall’s collection of short stories – you can read about it on her MySpace site http://www.myspace.com/clarewigfall - and so it is gratifying to report that indeed there is magic in her words. If not happy-ever-after endings.

‘Safe’ is a haunting, menacing tale set in present day Britain about the mysterious disappearances of newborn babies and a plague of malevolent rodents, seen from a new mother’s point of view. There are overtures of The Pied Piper of Hamelin and Wigfall cleverly ensures that we are never certain how much of it is the product of a disturbed, or chronically sleep deprived, mind.In ‘The Party’s Just Getting Started’ Wigfall brings Adam, Eve and Adam’s first wife, Lilith, to modern day LA. ‘Night after Night’ transports us to shabby, post-war Bethnal Green where Joycie’s husband is arrested for a heinous crime. And in ‘The Ocularist’s Wife’ we are taken to a besieged nineteenth century Paris.

The sheer breadth of variety and style on display in The Loudest Sound and Nothing is enough to impress. On top of this striking diversity, you can add plaudits like beautifully crafted, an original voice, erudite and fresh. And this is a debut collection.All seventeen tales are meritorious, and deliciously surprising. Wigfall packs a mean punch into the shortest of stories - there is no excess flab in her work and she proves beyond any doubt (if you were ever in need of any) that less is most definitely more.

If you like resolution in your tales you won’t find it here. These stories are laced with ambiguity, and their depth and power lies in the silences, the ‘nothings’, which Wigfall leaves to her reader's imagination.Unforgettable, dark stories covering the prosaic and the extraordinary, often in the same breath. Wigfall is a talent to watch.

The Loudest Sound and Nothing by Clare Wigfall, published in paperback by Faber and Faber, £12.99