Tuesday, 7 June 2011
In Between The Showers . . .
Like the weather, nothing much seems settled in my writing head at the moment. I have two novels in desperate need of revision and keep attempting 'research' (ie. idling away an hour on the internet) for a new novel. Today I reread the opening to one of the finished novels, determined to strengthen the motivation of the main character, but ended up deleting large swathes of text instead. I don't seem capable of deciding what's the next best thing to do. Maybe I should take a break from writing for a couple of weeks?
Tuesday, 17 May 2011
Driving Home . . .
To North Wales yesterday to visit a school. A great time was had talking about writing and reading, getting children involved in drama activities and answering questions. They even invited me to open their library and tell a story at the end of the day. I came away full of enthusiasm. Thanks very much to the staff and children of Rydal Penrhos School.
Then, on the way home, driving on the coast road through rain coming in from the Irish Sea, I listened to a programme about newly qualified social workers and was struck by the sharp contrasts we have in childhood experiences in this country. An hour earlier I had spoken to a group of eager girls, who wanted to be writers, doctors, vets and a whole host of other professions. On the radio, I then listened to stories of children locked in their bedrooms to protect them from dangerous relatives. And governments still want to blame social workers and teachers for not radically changing the outcomes for these children because it deflects from the very real mess in some inner city areas where governments can make a difference. Like Sure Start nurseries, for example. A simple idea, well-executed, that worked and is now being cut severely.
Then, on the way home, driving on the coast road through rain coming in from the Irish Sea, I listened to a programme about newly qualified social workers and was struck by the sharp contrasts we have in childhood experiences in this country. An hour earlier I had spoken to a group of eager girls, who wanted to be writers, doctors, vets and a whole host of other professions. On the radio, I then listened to stories of children locked in their bedrooms to protect them from dangerous relatives. And governments still want to blame social workers and teachers for not radically changing the outcomes for these children because it deflects from the very real mess in some inner city areas where governments can make a difference. Like Sure Start nurseries, for example. A simple idea, well-executed, that worked and is now being cut severely.
Tuesday, 10 May 2011
Worlds colliding . . .
My worlds collide today.
Recent emails and phone calls from editors about forthcoming stories have sent me scurrying back to read them again and recall how much I enjoyed writing and revising them. Consequently, I have neglected Mr Sheen and the lawnmower for higher thoughts.
Last night K brought home the reading SAT for 11 year olds from her school and we spent a good half hour ranting, which we like to do from time to time. A child may love reading books, may have read a book a week for most of their lives. Whether this test can sum up their experience and skills, I doubt. A good teacher could do it in a few sentences, but apparently ministers need a number instead. The writing SAT is yet to come, but you can bet your life it'll be a piece of functional writing. Nothing wrong with that, I hear you cry. No, but where's the fun gone in writing? I asked a child the other day when they'd last written a story or a poem and all I got was a blank look.
Which leads me on to the third aspect of my working week - teaching. It seems to me the idea that education can be a transformational experience has all but disappeared now. Government interference with the political football of education is so rife now that career politicians are telling us what to teach and how to teach it. Many schools, under severe pressure, have been forced to view education as only a necessary preparation for entering the working economy as an adult. And that means we risk stifling creativity, independent thought and innovation.
So this morning I planned an author visit to a primary school, determined to do my bit to inspire children to write because they enjoy it, not just because they have to do it.
OK. I've put it off long enough. Back to the Dyson.
Recent emails and phone calls from editors about forthcoming stories have sent me scurrying back to read them again and recall how much I enjoyed writing and revising them. Consequently, I have neglected Mr Sheen and the lawnmower for higher thoughts.
Last night K brought home the reading SAT for 11 year olds from her school and we spent a good half hour ranting, which we like to do from time to time. A child may love reading books, may have read a book a week for most of their lives. Whether this test can sum up their experience and skills, I doubt. A good teacher could do it in a few sentences, but apparently ministers need a number instead. The writing SAT is yet to come, but you can bet your life it'll be a piece of functional writing. Nothing wrong with that, I hear you cry. No, but where's the fun gone in writing? I asked a child the other day when they'd last written a story or a poem and all I got was a blank look.
Which leads me on to the third aspect of my working week - teaching. It seems to me the idea that education can be a transformational experience has all but disappeared now. Government interference with the political football of education is so rife now that career politicians are telling us what to teach and how to teach it. Many schools, under severe pressure, have been forced to view education as only a necessary preparation for entering the working economy as an adult. And that means we risk stifling creativity, independent thought and innovation.
So this morning I planned an author visit to a primary school, determined to do my bit to inspire children to write because they enjoy it, not just because they have to do it.
OK. I've put it off long enough. Back to the Dyson.
Tuesday, 19 April 2011
Friday, 15 April 2011
Going With The Flow . . .
The locusts have been off school and college all week but they're late risers (some days it's barely worth their while) so I've managed three or four hours writing every morning before they rise and point to their mouths.
There are so many pieces of advice out there about writing. Some of them are useful, some trite, some so idiosynchratic that they're only of use to the people who offer them. But one of the ones generally accepted is re-writing.
Usually I re-read what I've written each day and edit it for style, punctuation, spelling and occasionally delete most of it. But this week I've barely read a word once it's passed my line of sight on the screen. Five days, 15,000 words, all in a rush. And I'm scared to read it now.
Why did this happen? Well, it's the first time it's happened, that's for sure. I write in fits and starts, usually about 3 or 4000 words a week. Sometimes it's easier than others, but this week it's been a piece of cake. I knew where the story was going, already knew the characters, had my research all around me. And it just flew out, unhindered, and felt exactly as I'd imagined it. But now I'm frightened to read it, in case it's a pile of rubbish. In case I have to rewrite it.
Oh, and another rejection letter in the post this morning . . . next to a proof copy of the lovely paperback edition of Winter Shadow.
There are so many pieces of advice out there about writing. Some of them are useful, some trite, some so idiosynchratic that they're only of use to the people who offer them. But one of the ones generally accepted is re-writing.
Usually I re-read what I've written each day and edit it for style, punctuation, spelling and occasionally delete most of it. But this week I've barely read a word once it's passed my line of sight on the screen. Five days, 15,000 words, all in a rush. And I'm scared to read it now.
Why did this happen? Well, it's the first time it's happened, that's for sure. I write in fits and starts, usually about 3 or 4000 words a week. Sometimes it's easier than others, but this week it's been a piece of cake. I knew where the story was going, already knew the characters, had my research all around me. And it just flew out, unhindered, and felt exactly as I'd imagined it. But now I'm frightened to read it, in case it's a pile of rubbish. In case I have to rewrite it.
Oh, and another rejection letter in the post this morning . . . next to a proof copy of the lovely paperback edition of Winter Shadow.
Tuesday, 5 April 2011
Feeling rejected . . .
After a few years of practice and a good few dozen rejection slips, I began to write more for children. Not because it's easier, or I thought it would be easier to get published. It's not. Unexpectedly though, my first attempt was picked up by Barefoot before I'd collected too many rejection letters.
That was it. Now the floodgates would open and I would get an agent and be free to publish whatever I wrote. Err . . . actually no. That didn't happen. True I have managed two new contracts since then, but finding an agent still seems almost impossible. The old chestnut of it being more difficult to get an agent than get published certainly rings true with me. In fact, I think I might give up trying . . . I've wasted a lot of time and paper and energy in research and submissions and although they do more often than not ask for the full manuscript these days, I'm still no nearer. I can't afford £300 to have a manuscript edited by a consultancy each time, either. Neither can most writers, so stop putting it on your form letters.
So, how does a writer deal with rejection? Well, first off I would suggest that anyone who writes for money would be better off getting a proper job ( not that there are many around at the moment). Writing is just something I've always done. I remember turning up to school early one summer morning just to finish my first chaptered story in junior school (Mr Hanson, thank you very much). If people told me my stories were awful I'd still do it in secret anyway. So when a publisher or agent rejects a manuscript my heart sinks, like anyone's does, but only for a few minutes. I've even had an agent say she loved one of my stories but couldn't see a place for it in the market. Another wanted me to rewrite a young adult novel more ''like Cornelia Funke''. Well, we live in thrall to the market now, don't we? Demand dictates supply, apparently, not the other way round. But I won't write about vampires or wizards (no offence to anybody who does - it's a personal thing).
If you feel destroyed by each rejection, you'll soon stop writing ( or at least submitting). I comfort myself with the thought that many more eminent writers from the past would never be published today because nobody would take the risk.
So just write. Send it off if you think it's good. Let people read it and offer you an opinion, especially people whose judgment you trust. But most of all, do it because you like doing it.
That was it. Now the floodgates would open and I would get an agent and be free to publish whatever I wrote. Err . . . actually no. That didn't happen. True I have managed two new contracts since then, but finding an agent still seems almost impossible. The old chestnut of it being more difficult to get an agent than get published certainly rings true with me. In fact, I think I might give up trying . . . I've wasted a lot of time and paper and energy in research and submissions and although they do more often than not ask for the full manuscript these days, I'm still no nearer. I can't afford £300 to have a manuscript edited by a consultancy each time, either. Neither can most writers, so stop putting it on your form letters.
So, how does a writer deal with rejection? Well, first off I would suggest that anyone who writes for money would be better off getting a proper job ( not that there are many around at the moment). Writing is just something I've always done. I remember turning up to school early one summer morning just to finish my first chaptered story in junior school (Mr Hanson, thank you very much). If people told me my stories were awful I'd still do it in secret anyway. So when a publisher or agent rejects a manuscript my heart sinks, like anyone's does, but only for a few minutes. I've even had an agent say she loved one of my stories but couldn't see a place for it in the market. Another wanted me to rewrite a young adult novel more ''like Cornelia Funke''. Well, we live in thrall to the market now, don't we? Demand dictates supply, apparently, not the other way round. But I won't write about vampires or wizards (no offence to anybody who does - it's a personal thing).
If you feel destroyed by each rejection, you'll soon stop writing ( or at least submitting). I comfort myself with the thought that many more eminent writers from the past would never be published today because nobody would take the risk.
So just write. Send it off if you think it's good. Let people read it and offer you an opinion, especially people whose judgment you trust. But most of all, do it because you like doing it.
Wednesday, 30 March 2011
A Change In The Weather . . .
After several weeks of blue skies and spring sunshine it feels intensely gloomy today. Usually a change in the weather in a story prefigures a plot or character development of some kind or another, but in reality it makes little difference to people. Except . . . I do feel a bit miserable today, for no good reason.
Today was a teaching day. Not a writing day. Or a cleaning day. This afternoon, we made circuits to power a motor attached to a chassis (previously constructed of wood) and connected to an axle. They worked, but were tricky to connect. One girl asked me to do hers.
'No,' I said, 'but I'll show you how to do it.'
She shrugged and walked away. Clearly, I hadn't given the answer she was looking for. Three minutes later I looked round to see she'd persuaded another pupil to connect her circuit to the chassis. Oh well . . .
Today was a teaching day. Not a writing day. Or a cleaning day. This afternoon, we made circuits to power a motor attached to a chassis (previously constructed of wood) and connected to an axle. They worked, but were tricky to connect. One girl asked me to do hers.
'No,' I said, 'but I'll show you how to do it.'
She shrugged and walked away. Clearly, I hadn't given the answer she was looking for. Three minutes later I looked round to see she'd persuaded another pupil to connect her circuit to the chassis. Oh well . . .
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