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)

Thank you ABCtales...

for choosing my piece as your Story of the Week. It gave me just the lift I needed yesterday morning. I've been in a weird place this week. Not feeling great, health wise, and a big dip in confidence and faith in my work. In a dark moment I picked up the first novel and read a few pages. Ohmagod! Think it's more than deeply flawed; I will give it another once over when two more rejections come in, or once the first draft of number two is complete. Also, I am starting to feel that the second one is going the same way, after what felt like such a good start. I need to get a firmer handle on one of the supporting characters; I feel like I've lost her and it's troubling me. Anyway, what a moaning minnie I am today. Didn't get enough sleep last night after a very interesting art event - Pecha Kucha, meaning chit-chat in Japanese - curated by Blank Studios and the wonderful Blast Theory. No doubt all will seem brighter in the morning, and thank you again Tony - ABCtales editor - you made my Friday!

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.

Blogsplash - Fiona Robyn's Thaw

Ruth's diary is the new novel by Fiona Robyn, called Thaw. She has decided to blog the novel in its entirety over the next few months, so you can read it for free.

I'd like to add that I started the book yesterday and I am thoroughly enjoying Robyn's trademark lyricism as well as the cracking storyline. For me, there's nothing quite like owning a copy of a book, and you can get Thaw for under a fiver on Amazon. Go on... you know you want to!

Ruth's first entry is below, and you can continue reading tomorrow here.
*
These hands are ninety-three years old. They belong to Charlotte Marie Bradley Miller. She was so frail that her grand-daughter had to carry her onto the set to take this photo. It's a close-up. Her emaciated arms emerge from the top corners of the photo and the background is black, maybe velvet, as if we're being protected from seeing the strings. One wrist rests on the other, and her fingers hang loose, close together, a pair of folded wings. And you can see her insides.
The bones of her knuckles bulge out of the skin, which sags like plastic that has melted in the sun and is dripping off her, wrinkling and folding. Her veins look as though they're stuck to the outside of her hands. They're a colour that's difficult to describe: blue, but also silver, green; her blood runs through them, close to the surface. The book says she died shortly after they took this picture. Did she even get to see it? Maybe it was the last beautiful thing she left in the world.
I'm trying to decide whether or not I want to carry on living. I'm giving myself three months of this journal to decide. You might think that sounds melodramatic, but I don't think I'm alone in wondering whether it's all worth it. I've seen the look in people's eyes. Stiff suits travelling to work, morning after morning, on the cramped and humid tube. Tarted-up girls and gangs of boys reeking of aftershave, reeling on the pavements on a Friday night, trying to mop up the dreariness of their week with one desperate, fake-happy night. I've heard the weary grief in my dad's voice.
So where do I start with all this? What do you want to know about me? I'm Ruth White, thirty-two years old, going on a hundred. I live alone with no boyfriend and no cat in a tiny flat in central London. In fact, I had a non-relationship with a man at work, Dan, for seven years. I'm sitting in my bedroom-cum-living room right now, looking up every so often at the thin rain slanting across a flat grey sky. I work in a city hospital lab as a microbiologist. My dad is an accountant and lives with his sensible second wife Julie, in a sensible second home. Mother finished dying when I was fourteen, three years after her first diagnosis. What else? What else is there?
Charlotte Marie Bradley Miller. I looked at her hands for twelve minutes. It was odd describing what I was seeing in words. Usually the picture just sits inside my head and I swish it around like tasting wine. I have huge books all over my flat; books you have to take in both hands to lift. I've had the photo habit for years. Mother bought me my first book, black and white landscapes by Ansel Adams. When she got really ill, I used to take it to bed with me and look at it for hours, concentrating on the huge trees, the still water, the never-ending skies. I suppose it helped me think about something other than what was happening. I learned to focus on one photo at a time rather than flicking from scene to scene in search of something to hold me. If I concentrate, then everything stands still. Although I use them to escape the world, I also think they bring me closer to it. I've still got that book. When I take it out, I handle the pages as though they might flake into dust.
Mother used to write a journal. When I was small, I sat by her bed in the early mornings on a hard chair and looked at her face as her pen spat out sentences in short bursts. I imagined what she might have been writing about; princesses dressed in star-patterned silk, talking horses, adventures with pirates. More likely she was writing about what she was going to cook for dinner and how irritating Dad's snoring was.
I've always wanted to write my own journal, and this is my chance. Maybe my last chance. The idea is that every night for three months, I'll take one of these heavy sheets of pure white paper, rough under my fingertips, and fill it up on both sides. If my suicide note is nearly a hundred pages long, then no-one can accuse me of not thinking it through. No-one can say; 'It makes no sense; she was a polite, cheerful girl, had everything to live for', before adding that I did keep myself to myself. It'll all be here. I'm using a silver fountain pen with purple ink. A bit flamboyant for me, I know. I need these idiosyncratic rituals; they hold things in place. Like the way I make tea, squeezing the tea-bag three times, the exact amount of milk, seven stirs. My writing is small and neat; I'm striping the paper. I'm near the bottom of the page now. Only ninety-one more days to go before I'm allowed to make my decision. That's it for today. It's begun.
Continue reading tomorrow here...

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...

Getting better

Some uplifting news this week. My novel made the long list for the Virginia Prize for an (as yet?) unpublished novel. Obviously, it would have been much better to make the short list, but given that Part 3 of the book is in need of a face lift, I was cheered by this. Also, over fifty per cent of the short list are novelists with form - they have published books. All six on the short list sound interesting, and I wish the authors the best of luck for the ceremony in Richmond later this month. The winning book will be published by Aurora Metro in the Spring. As for me... I'm beginning another rewrite and will start sending out again in the New Year, all being well. So three lucky agents have something to look forward to in 2010 - Hahaha!!!

Boo-hoo-hoo

Anne-Marie Doulton has finished my book and said 'no'. Her feedback isn't all bad, she said some very nice stuff, but in the end it 'wasn't quite as involving as (she'd) hoped', so I'm guessing this means that she just didn't love it? Oh, boo-hoo. At least she responded promptly and I can open my emails now without my stomach turning over with anticipation and dread. Back to the Writers’ and Artists’ Year Book. Of course, I'm really disappointed and beset with all those 'what if no one loves it' and 'what if it's crap' feelings, but I understand that rejection is the norm in this business and not the exception. The worse thing is that in a funny way I feel like I’ve let her down – the use of the word ‘hoped’ has sparked this I’m guessing – because I think that most people want to like stuff. Anyway, onwards... It’s my boy’s birthday today, so I have to get my ‘happy mummy’ face on. Kids are great for stopping self-pity and navel gazing.

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

A review of Walk the Blue Fields by Claire Keegan

Claire Keegan’s first collection of short stories, Antarctica, heralded her as a literary talent to watch. It won the Rooney Prize for Irish Literature and Keegan has been compared to Raymond Carver and William Trevor. Her second collection of short stories, Walk the Blue Fields, has been eagerly anticipated.

Keegan was raised in county Wicklow and all bar one of the seven tales are set in rural Ireland. But these stories do not speak of a pastoral idyll. The Ireland evoked here is dark and unsettled, the characters dislocated and alone, despite the proximity of others.

All the protagonists in these stories are well formed, despite the brevity of the narratives. She provides glimpses into significant moments in their lives rather than complete explorations and the short story form is perfectly suited to this. Keegan is dedicated to the form, it’s all she really wants to write, and this shines through her work. So though the reader is treated to a mere snapshot of characters’ lives, the impression left is deep and resonant. There is a haunting melancholy to Walk the Blue Fields.

In ‘The Parting Gift’ a young woman articulates her reason for leaving Ireland, and her familial home, for New York. It is a moving and disturbing piece made all the more so by Keegan’s use of the second person point of view. Lonely Martha is unhappily married to the forester, her only joy, her daughter, the result of a brief liaison with a passing rose bush salesman. Tension builds slowly and imperceptibly until everything comes tumbling down.

In the title story, an achingly beautiful piece, a priest marries a young couple and throughout the celebrations he is haunted by the memories of a love affair and the choice he made. When everything begins to close in on him, he leaves the party, and walks and walks. He stumbles upon another alienated character in the region, a Chinese healer and masseur, and his cathartic touch releases the priest from pain. “Why is tenderness so much more disabling than injury?”

The characters do a lot of walking in these tales – across the green fields, along beaches and in all sorts of weather - and it is an indicator of Keegan’s connection to the land, her truthfulness and her deep understanding of human nature. For in times of pain, anger and confusion how many of us have experienced the restorative power of walking?

Keegan is a true wordsmith and her lean, elegant prose has no need of fancy tricks. These tales are dripping in atmosphere and their austere, visceral touch stayed with me for a long time. Bleak though the stories may be the collection is not without humour. A talking dog, strange customs and odd human behaviour add a light comic touch.

‘Night of the Quicken Trees’ borrows from Irish folklore and is a personal favourite of mine. A damaged, barren woman moves into the dead priest’s house, burns all the furniture, makes a habit of urinating outside and embarks upon a strange relationship with the middle-aged bachelor living next door. A delightful, quirky story of love lost and found, magic and mystery. Quintessentially Irish, finely nuanced and unforgettable.

The priest in Walk the Blue Fields reflects on “How strange it is to be alive.” This superb collection captures this observation beautifully.

Walk the Blue Fields by Claire Keegan, published in paperback by Faber and Faber, £10.99