Path To Publication

March 31, 2022

Have lateral flow tests, will travel

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Have Lateral Flow Tests will travel

After a break of two years, I’m taking my three novels, now completed, to the London Book Fair 2022.

They are printed double sided, on lighter paper, which I calculate will save me about a kilo of carrying weight, which is a significant blessing. I’ve been triple vaccinated and will take a clutch of lateral flow tests, masks and sanitiser, which I hope will see me through the two-and-a-half days of my attendance at the Fair without major mishap. Here’s hoping. While Covid will, in all likelihood, become endemic before too long, so far, I have escaped infection and I hope my luck will hold while I am in London.  

Fran with Author Soulla Christodoulou at London Book Fair

I did book to go to the London Book Fair in 2019, saying then that it would be my last visit. And, as on so many other occasions, my prediction proved premature: life had other ideas, the 2019 Event being cancelled at the very last minute. This year, hospitality prices have plunged, are all refundable until point of travel and can be paid for as one arrives at the hotel, so there is every reason to travel. And with a kilo less of weight, it looks as though this year is going to be a win-win-win, whatever happens.

***

I have other good news to celebrate. As part of events to celebrate International Women’s Day 2022, Engender, Scotland’s Feminist Policy and Advocacy Organisation published this post on their blog, for which I thank them most sincerely. It’s wonderful to work with others who are dedicated to meeting the challenges of equal representation for women in all parts of our lives, public and private. If women were more equally represented, I do believe the world would be a more balanced place to live, and everyone would benefit.

Thanks for reading.

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January 24, 2022

Plans for 2022

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Plans for 2022

When I look at that date, I can hardly believe it’s already 2022 – where do the years go?

But unlike the somnolence of last year – the lingering uncertainties around lockdown, movement and meeting people anywhere but on Zoom – it looks as if travel will be possible this year and I hope to take full advantage of that freedom. I won’t be taking it for granted; which is another way of suggesting that I intend to enjoy my travels, in the full awareness that travelling any distance anywhere outside my immediate neighbourhood is a privilege.

Thinking back to pre-Covid times, many of us used to travel routinely to and from work on early flights. In the last few years, I’ve also made good use of early planes to get to Schiphol before the morning rush. Now, so many meetings take place “remotely”, I can’t help but wonder why it took a national pandemic, and all the crises management that that implies, to get me to change my ways. It’s not about “having” to meet people in the flesh, though that is undoubtedly a wonderful thing; but so much of what we formerly assumed was indispensable to our way of doing business, has been revealed as a luxury, a thing to appreciate and enjoy, and hopefully take more carefully than we usually would have done formerly. If only one good thing comes out of the last couple of years, it is that we are learning, I hope, not to take what we can do for granted.  

Plans for 2022 include a visit the London Book Fair, which this year is open for visitors and happening between 5th and 7th April. Hotels nearby that used to charge a king’s ransom and insist that their bookings were non-refundable without the payment of a hefty premium, and that all sums be collected at point of booking, are now falling over themselves to be accommodating. Bookings are about half of the price they used to be, refundable practically up to the point of arrival and payable only when inside the hotel doors. All of which makes travel arrangements much more relaxed, enjoyable and affordable than they used to be.

Thanks for reading.

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March 7, 2020

Cancellation of the London Book Fair 2020

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Cancellation of the London Book Fair 2020

On Wednesday, I thought I would check the website again. So I looked, and only ten minutes earlier, the cancellation of the London Book Fair 2020 had been announced.

In what would have been its fiftieth anniversary, the news was all over Twitter and Facebook, yet I found myself compulsively checking and re-checking, making sure there wasn’t a mistaken double-negative tucked somewhere in the public statements.

So I’m not going to London next week. Not such a big deal, you might think, apart from a meeting I have been very much looking forward to, the non-refundable train fares and costs of accommodation near the venue. No problem.

Except… The Fair is the one place I may hope to meet like minded folk, since, for the rest of the year, I spend too many hours with my nose up against my computer screen and communicating in the virtual world of avatars and emojis. This annual meeting of minds also throws in my direction the hope that I may meet interesting folk with a lot to say, and who have the same obsession with writing that I have, albeit with a different flavour and emphasis.

I feel at home in the London event even if, as usually happens, I come home with lots of postcards, fliers and ideas, few of which get further than my jotter or notes. But the hope inherent in such a gathering is motivation enough for me. Because the hope is what keeps me going.

Without that jolt of hope and enthusiasm to the system, the rest of my writing year now looks very different. And now, where will I find that jolt? Well, from me, obviously. I can hardly expect anyone else to supply it. So that’s where I’m at: despite the gloomy global forecasts, I have to start applying to myself and my own life, all the lessons that I wrote about in my three books to date: I know the theories, and now is the time to bring them out of retirement – that is, the satisfied glow of publication – dust them down and use them every day to take me forward, peacefully, happily, and in the certain knowledge that the biggest miracles I may bring into being, start with me.

Thanks for listening.

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December 9, 2019

A very necessary process

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A very necessary process

Stage one “splurge” writing is, I contend, a very necessary part of what will end up – several years later – as a finished memoir that someone else may read with pleasure. Stage One splurge is the leap of the cliff that may end badly, but since we are writing alone and for ourselves only, we do have total freedom to write and re-write whatever we like, as often as we need to, until our scalding thoughts have cooled enough to be moulded unto something more presentable.

I suspect that without this very necessary process of uncensored writing, our finished product may be very polished, but may lack heart. And since one of the purest defences to any allegations of unkindness, cruelty or falsehood is authenticity, I think that the creative splurge at step one of memoir writing is a vital part of the creative whole. 

So we splurge, and then after acres of scribbling we surface and then what? Well, if you are anything like me, you will rewrite and edit about a million times, because while splurge is necessary for our sanity, it does not always make the best reading. It may be that only very select parts of our original splurge spree will ever get into print. A process of trimming and excision that is particularly true of memoir.

It is not much use asking a memoirist at the early stages in their journey to “stay objective” or “be nice to other people”. If a memoirist is worried about being unkind or subjective or cruel, s/he are nowhere near ready to go public. If, during the process of editing and refining, we are asking a memoirist to reconsider aspects of what they have written, that is either because (a) we are reading an early-stages manuscript that should still be locked-down and private, or (b) we have been invited to give editorial feedback on a manuscript which needs paring back and reorganising.

Thanks for listening. (To be continued.)

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December 2, 2019

Life would have been easier

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Life would have been easier…

Life would have been easier, certainly, if I had ever positively, finally, decided to give up all my ideas of writing “Trapped”, or indeed, of ever writing anything properly. I never did positively decide not to. The idea just kept creeping up on me until it was irresistible, so I guess memoir writers just have to get used to living dangerously…

And I can’t say that, though life would have been easier, it would have been more fun. I would have had plenty more time to worry whether I was doing the best I could, whether I should be writing and whether I was missing opportunities. I would probably have wilted away to almost nothing. But hey, what’s that, compared to the damage we could do, making the effort to write and perhaps, in the process, offending someone else’s notion of propriety?

Memoir is defined as the story of our memories, written in what the industry categorises as “narrative non-fiction” style; that is, like a novel, but with elements of truth in it. The difference with autobiography and biography is instructive. Biography utilises verifiable names, dates, timelines and events, whereas a memoirist  concerns herself with the recall of her memories, which may have little or no bearing on what actually happened: a crucial distinction which in itself reveals both the dangers of writing memoir, and the defences we can deploy in the interests of harmony and to shield ourselves from adverse comments.

It is possible, indeed probable, that on occasion, and perhaps when we least expect it, we will have to contend with unreasonable people. It’s never those whom we assume are bound to be most offended, who are. And when writing anything that we hope will one day see publication, we must accept the risk that there will be those who will be unhappy both with what we have written, and with the fact that we have bothered – or dared – to publish it.

I’ve never let another person’s lack of reason or self-discipline stop me from expressing myself; and, sensible caution aside, I contend that anyone who lets worries such as these stop them writing, is putting the cart before the horse. Publication – probably the point at which most people will read our work for the first time – as a goal can take anything from two to ten years. Writing – which only we need ever read – we can start immediately.

Thanks for listening.

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November 27, 2019

The dangers of writing memoir

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The dangers of writing memoir

This is a new series about the challenges that attend anyone writing memoir. In this series I will be attempting to address and soothe the largely fictional fears that stop us from writing what we want to about our lives and what has happened to us in the course of them, and more pertinently, what we may have learned through the process of growing older that has benefited us, and may, perhaps, benefit others.

Many writers seem very concerned about the risks of getting their memoirs published, and although there is definitely a good reason why many authors write under a pseudonym – perhaps it helps us to write more honestly, and it can be kinder to others to add that element of privacy – I suspect we can worry too much about the dangers of writing memoir. Our worries may be worse than they need be because we don’t quite know what aspects to consider or where to start.  

Most memoirists fret a bit, especially if family happens to be vocal, numerous or in the public eye. If I write all about this, will my family still be speaking to me once I’ve finished? Isn’t my sister going to be furious at me for washing family linen in public? What right do I have to do that? What about defamatory comments, or even, a totally unreasonable member of the family deciding to take exception to what I’ve written and threatening to sue or cut off contact? Might it be better to not go ahead? Best just forget it?

I haven’t yet met a memoirist who writes under a pseudonym only or mainly because they are concerned that if they were ever to reveal real names and places, they might be sued or disowned. I’ve no doubt there are some. Even in such cases, there are things we can do, well before publication, to ensure that any likely disputes with aggrieved others are resolved before they escalate.

Thanks for listening.

(To be continued)

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November 18, 2019

Books are learning tools

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Books are learning tools. 

Writers know how important reading is, even if we go through periods when reading is not a big part of our lives. Books are learning tools not just for kids and teens, but for adults who write or who aspire to write, as well.

I may dislike the content of a writer’s work – I can’t read Jack Reacher books any more simply because they are too violent for me – but I do learn a lot from an author’s style of writing about how to create tension, how to keep the text minimalist and moving so that we quickly get to grips with a storyline. I have learned a lot from Lee Child’s techniques for writing good fiction.

And similarly, I don’t read Stephen King’s novels though I do respect him hugely for his persistence and for the discipline of his writing habit. I also appreciate that he takes grammar and syntax seriously, not merely writing off these aspects of clarity as fussy, fin de siècle snobbery.

And while I recognise the usefulness of daily word counts, I do still feel free to digress from the writerly discipline of these greats, because my circumstances and priorities are different from theirs. Stephen King suggests, for example, that we should aim to write several thousand words a day, every day: which is something for me to aim for, certainly, but until I make my living by writing, not something I can reasonably set my mind to. Though Nanowrimo might be a good place to start, I seriously doubt being able to keep up that kind of work rate.

There are writers whom – ssshhh! – I cannot read. And again, it is hugely instructive to work out why not, and what and how I would do things differently. Since understanding that I need only aim to write for “my tribe” I am quite relaxed about different tastes in writing. As with most other things, it’s a case of different strokes for different folks.

Thanks for listening.

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November 7, 2019

Letting dreams go

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Letting dreams go

For years now – well over a decade – I’ve had a dream of how I thought my dreams would turn out. Too personal to articulate clearly, I’ve seen in these dreams my varying paths to “success”, “happiness” and all the other achievements we want for ourselves. Who among us does not see that in our dreams?

But instead of a light, colourful anticipation, my wishes have hardened into something akin to an obsession. Instead of loving these dreams into existence, a compulsion has me in thrall. And meantime, my time has passed me by too quickly. Not without results, outcomes, ideas and considerable progress; though never quite what I have hoped for.

Immersed in the dream, I have missed so much colour, action, love; all the things I thought the dreams might bring me. Instead of which, its grip has kept much of what I sought – intimacy, adventure and joy – at bay.

So I’m letting dreams go: releasing them from the cage of my expectations. I know that if the hope is to return to me, it will do so in its own way and its own time. I cannot force the future to be what I want it to be, nor what I expect. I can only keep faith and hope for the best.

We all keep our dreams alive, but not by caging them. They will come back to us if they are meant to. Otherwise, the best we can do for them and for ourselves is to release and get on with loving ourselves better.

Thanks for listening.

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September 27, 2019

A Sea of Silence

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A Sea of Silence

I’ve been busy with submissions lately, and shall be taking a break, now, until I come back from Germany. That’s to say, I will be working, but not with a view to meeting deadlines, submitting or fretting about competitions, articles and the like.

The next couple of months are set to be fairly busy, so it will be useful, after all, to keep a little space in reserve, both to help with the unexpected – things do have a habit of keeping happening – and to allow me a bit of a breather. It does get tiring managing the needs and wishes of my husband, daughter, mother and myself and doing my utmost to give the benign impression that I can manage that sort of balancing act indefinitely, no bother at all, chum. No-one can, and it is plain foolish, sometimes, to make the attempt: the Universe has a way of telling us when we need to slow down and stop.

On of the hardest things about managing submissions is that we send our work out into the world and hear nothing back. There is plenty of activity, doubtless, but a sea of silence descends, and it can take a while to accustom oneself. Another sign that I need to rein back is that I read Georgette Heyer compulsively. I have known of women who read her novels every day, a little at bed-time, but my currently avid perusal does suggest that I am needing a bit of escapism. Perhaps if I let go of my usual routines, I may find an adventure or two and work them into something more tangible and with future value. If I do, you’ll be the first to know.

Thanks for listening

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June 17, 2019

Reading real books

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I like electronic readers. They are handy and lightweight and they fit easily into a pocket. I can carry one anywhere and load literally hundreds of books onto it. E-readers are slimline and sensible.

But – there’s always a “but” with that kind of optimistic opening statement, isn’t there? – despite their bulk, I still prefer reading real books. Perhaps some part of me is put off by the way in which electronic text sits flat behind a screen, perhaps it’s the way that the obviously monochrome quality of the delivery leaves me feeling disengaged and somewhat unconvinced, perhaps it’s that real books all feel different – different weights, different sizes, fonts, covers, page thicknesses… Reading a book, I can almost feel it speaking to me, in a way that I find missing with electronic media. Is it that electronic book files are almost too alike, or self-consciously clever? I’m not sure.

In any case, my house is now overflowing with books – and I speak as one who keeps her sentimental attachment to them well under control. Living in a small flat, with a husband who is loath to part with his volumes and a daughter whom I am trying to encourage back into a reading habit, I cannot afford to do otherwise.

I’ve also been helping my mother to sort and deliver many of her books to the local second-hand stores, where they are gratefully received. Mum adores books and sees each of her favourites – and there are many – almost as a personal friend, an intimate acquaintance who has been with her on the journey as she has researched and written a dozen books. While she has done a great deal of her research online, still, she would be appalled if I suggested to her that all the material benefits of real books could be replicated by reading electronically. Indeed, she would scoff, demonstrate my folly, and then perhaps suffer a panic attack at the very notion. So we are, and will be, reading real books for the foreseeable future.

Thanks for listening.  

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