Path To Publication

June 5, 2019

Writing Honestly

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Writing Honestly

Whether I am drawn to writing self-help, science fiction or fiction, for me, there is nothing more fundamental than writing honestly. Not brutally, but endeavouring always to be clear about my motives and what I am trying to say.

It is through writing honestly that the conviction forms in me that can lead to convincing writing, authentic dialogue, heartfelt emotions. For each genre the disciplines will naturally differ, but without core honesty – which perhaps I could call freedom of expression – I find my writing withers and loses its purpose.

We write for a number of reasons:-

– To learn about something or to gain empathy. This drove me to write my memoir.
– To earn money and make a living: an honest and worthy motive, which helps us to be clear what parts of our material might appeal to others and thus bring commercial success.
– As an outlet for personal or artistic expression. For joy, for hope, writing has its purest justification, one which is often at risk of being downplayed, particularly by writers who are dismissive of what they bring to the writing table.

But whatever our motivation, it seems to me that our writing can only take root and flower if it is an honest reflection of our lives and experiences. Naturally we hope to emulate writers we admire – how else can we refine our own style? – but though imitation may be the sincerest form of flattery, flattery, almost by definition, flirts with the truth. I do adore flattery… – I’m sure I’m not alone – but when the chips are down, I find that gently offered truth is more valuable.

Thanks for listening.

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June 3, 2019

Emotional support for writers

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Since all writers borrow from their lives to pen their novels, articles, memoirs and stories, emotional support for writers is essential. Yet the habit which writing breeds of doing things alone and by oneself, can be hard to leave behind.

We write, presumably, because we feel compelled to; and presumably also because some part of us enjoys the process or the sense of achievement from the final product and its outcomes.

Yet perhaps, since reading – so often a precursor to taking up the pen – and writing are silent, we writers may well become accustomed to learning, listening and doing by ourselves, quietly. We may not all begin life as rugged individualists, but I suspect that, in order to write, we may also have to cultivate the art of doing many things tolerably well alone. Words on the page are quiet and perhaps we assume we have to be too?

All of which helps to explain how writers can become isolated. And to excuse the fact that, with all that training in aloneness, it can be very difficult to ask for emotional support. Asking for help isn’t easy, though there is little doubt that having practical and emotional support helps us to stay grounded, relaxed and on top of our workload.

Paradoxically, I’m not sure that I would have managed to write or publish what I have, without the demands made on me by others: I must eat, and yet, when I lived alone I rarely made the effort to eat well. I have to sleep, and there is something in the routines of next day, that encourages me more often to go to bed at a reasonable hour. I know that twenty-four-hour days do not suit me, yet when I live alone, I tend towards exciteable neglect.

I do know, that although it has ultimately saved my life, writing my memoir was a long and very difficult thing to do. Ironically, I wrote it and dreamed about it, and lived through the pain of it alone, because I needed to come out of isolation. I am grateful also to remember, now, that when we need help, we can ask for it, and benefit from precious friendships we make along the way.

Thanks for listening.

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May 30, 2019

Testing my resolve

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There appears to be a belief among authors that of course we enjoy our writing, or else, why would we bother writing anything? And for most writers, that assumption is probably broadly true, though I suspect many of us also have procrastination down to a fine art. But when I began writing, it soon became obvious that doing so was testing my resolve almost to breaking point.

Though memoir reads like fiction, and enjoys elements of fiction, we may not get much enjoyment from writing our life stories.

Interestingly, while writing my memoir, I felt as if I was inhabiting a parallel universe. Writing about something that happened when I was, say, fourteen years old, other forgotten parts of that time would come vividly to mind, prompted, I am sure, by my sojourn with a particular set of recollections. These felt so sharp, as if they happened yesterday, which realisation has given me many occasions to wonder about the nature of time and memory.

Is everything we have ever thought, felt and believed stored in our minds, just awaiting recall; and, like a song learned fifty years ago, never forgotten? Why do our minds work that way, recalling sounds, conversations and scents decades after the event? What a massive repository of experiences our minds turn out to be.

Writing for me started as a compulsion, not at all enjoyable. But it had to be done, both to push against the boundaries of what I thought I knew, and testing my resolve to see how far I could push. Perhaps that was a bit reckless, but it was my version of the physical and emotional risks that we all have to take – the cat climbing the wall may fall to her death, but that doesn’t stop her trying to reach the window above – if we are going to take our personal leaps to the next stage and live life to the fullest.

Thanks for listening.

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May 20, 2019

Time well spent?

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Time well spent?

Recently, I have been asking myself again, has my time – my life – been well invested? Why have I put myself through another difficult, emotionally draining and – let’s face it – financially unrewarding decade?

If I was an outsider considering the pros and cons of writing, on the surface, I would conclude that Fran Macilvey is peculiarly driven: to work early or late; at any rate, while her family sleeps; driven to continue with the next project, the next hope, despite setbacks, illness and puzzlement from those more sober and grounded citizens of her acquaintance who really would prefer that she apply her energies to a proper, reasonable, sensible and obvious job. Why, for goodness’ sake, must she always be different?

Because I am, is all. I make that sound nonchalant, easy to say. But if my life has taught me anything, it is the total futility of trying to keep up with other ‘ordinary’ people who have ‘ordinary’ jobs. I’ve tried that – really, I have – and it has only led to heartbreak and losses of a different kind.

In the old days, the pain was about not belonging, never fitting in, and never really understanding what was going on; I had that sinking feeling which made it plain that I never would understand, no matter how hard I tried. Nowadays, though there have been a few disappointments and false starts, I am increasingly certain that I understand the basics of life, its purpose and meaning, and that I will continue to make progress. On my present path, every difficulty lends itself to a purpose, for a reason and I notice the ways in which unexpected outcomes serve a longer-term goal.

I write to share my experiences. I can write, and so I do. I can explain, and so that is my attempt, in the hope that those who may read my pieces know that I understand something of their loneliness, their anger, even their desolation. It is not unusual to have these feelings, it is not peculiar or suspicious. They are just part of life.

Gradually, writing has revealed that our ‘bad’ experiences can complement the ‘good’, making our lives a contrasting tapestry which, when we look back at it, hopefully fills us with gratitude and optimism. That is how I see myself making the best of life’s knots, at any rate.

Thanks for listening.

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May 16, 2019

Writing is a funny business

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Writing is a funny business

Writing is a funny business: compulsive, open-ended and exhilarating. It is also isolating, solitary and sometimes downright weird. Here we sit with our characters and our ideas, and who else is that bothered about them?

There have been times when I think back and suspect that, if I had known what I know now, about the long hours, the pay rates, the promotion and the nerve-racking waiting to see, I would never have started. As I say, it can be a strangely solitary pre-occupation…

But if I hadn’t bothered to tell my story, and if I hadn’t won the writers’ equivalent of the Lottery and persisted until I found a publisher, I would never have met hundreds of truly wonderful and supportive friends, in Authonomy, but also on Facebook, Twitter, all my on-line networks, within my faith community and simply in the world at large. I would never have known what I was capable of.

Writing is often a way in which we grow through our lessons to something more powerful. We learn that we can do many things, and that we owe it to ourselves to try.

Many writers worry about writer’s block, editing, publicity, promotion and all that goes with it. They worry about revealing their ‘babies’ to the public. They fret about the cost, the long hours and how they can fit in their writing around ordinary life. But many writers are reluctant to trade their obsession for something more ‘ordinary’, and few regret having learned valuable lessons. There are not many authors who find the same buzz in a day job. Because, when the chips are down, there is nothing more exciting, there is no thrill that compares to finding a story, writing it out and finally deciding to call it finished.

Thanks for reading.

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May 13, 2019

Reading cheerful books

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Here is a listening version of this blog post.

Reading cheerful books

Increasingly I find I make a virtue of reading cheerful books. I have read a lot of chic lit – that brand of rather uniquely sexist literature that fashionistas decry because they say it appeals to the lazy instincts of womankind. Woman meets man, loses man, finds him again; or woman loses man, finds herself, finds a better man. We are prone to scoffing at such easy, soft options for reading, as if by not reading Proust, or the latest discoveries unearthed within the pages of ‘Archaeology Now’, we are letting down the side, betraying the freedoms for which our older sisters and mothers fought so hard.

But what if the lot of women is already hard? What if the first thing woman does when she rises at seven, is to put away the laundry, open the curtains and make the beds? What if, when she reaches the kitchen and is within hailing distance of her breakfast, the first thing she sees is the pile of unwashed dishes at the sink? There is not much room there, for escapism, and precious little to look forward to, unless, of course, she is that delightful fiction of mankind, the woman who enjoys cleaning and clearing, and finds daily menus a delightful challenge.

As it is, I manage several loads of laundry a week, half a dozen cooked meals and an assortment of domestic duties, usually with considerable aplomb. On the occasional occasion when I mention my dislike, my husband, who rarely does laundry, says I make too much of my dislike. A few years back, his incomprehension would have been my cue for an argument and a bout of despair. Now, at least, I can think of a calm reply with a hint of humour, “Spoken like a true officionado” or some such… It’s just a pity that it takes me a week to formulate it, by which time the moment has passed.

There are times when the sheer loneliness of domestic isolation can become a bit overpowering. Held down by such feelings, happy stories and humour are a vital escape, allowing the mind to lift, and then find solutions, strength and new resolve. If Alice in her cupcake shop can tell the CEO of a large multi-national corporation that she is not interested in promotion, then I can find the steely resolve I need, to withstand long periods of fatigue, failures in communication and the demands that everyone makes on my time.

Thanks so much for reading.

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May 7, 2019

Ownership of our writing

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Ownership of our writing

Here is a listening version of this blog post.

How proprietorial are we about what we have written?

For me, the most fun part of writing is the first bit, when ideas are running away from me, down the page, sometimes so fast that my fingers slip off the keyboard while my thoughts are pushing ahead. The excitement of chasing down an idea and framing it to the page is really the best part of the writer’s day. Having these ideas, and the words to work them into something, is what art and craft are all about. That first draft, the energetic outline, may be fleshed out very quickly. But we cannot leave it like that, can we?

A good first working draft is one thing. But surely, the most difficult part of creativity – and one part of writing which I actually enjoy very much – is the discipline of re-reading, discarding and re-writing, even if that means that sometimes we agonise for hours or days over one sentence or turn of phrase.

Every artist has pieces of their creativity littering their lives, the piles of which would very quickly become unmanageable without some sweeps of culling and clearing. I find that it is the processes of tidying, reinvention and re-writing that most tax a writer’s courage: how often should we re-write, and what should we throw away? Anything that we know in our heart of hearts will not appeal as much to our readers as it does to us, will probably be heading to the recycle bin.

Madrazo, Portrait of a Lady, MM.2014.03

Writing is not only about retrieving beautiful passages of prose and poetry from our souls. It also encompasses the benign destruction of our favourite passages, to allow the light of understanding to penetrate so that others can more easily share our enjoyment. Like a rosebush that is pruned hard to the ground and blossoms easily and wildly the following year, if we have faith in what we are writing and some patience to brew the final result carefully, that first taste of a good finished piece is surely worth the wait.

Thanks for reading.

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March 10, 2019

Visiting the London Book Fair

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Visiting the London Book Fair

This year will be my third visit to the London Book Fair.

I bought my train ticket early, booked the same room as in previous years, and have printed my entrance ticket. Apart from checking dates and times obsessively, I only now have to pack my gear, and catch the train to London for the Book Fair, which is running this year between the eleventh and fourteen of March.

Was it brought forward from its usual slot in April because of fears of Brexit? Perhaps. But whatever way I look at it, I intend to have fun, to rest a bit, take a stroll through the green parts of Kensington and take refreshment in the warmer climate, the trees doubtless already in bloom.

I’m taking my three books of fiction, two copies of Trapped and a copy of my radio play. For whom? Who knows? But I know that if I don’t go, I’ll never know what might happen, who I might meet at the Fair. I may perhaps meet some of my on-line friends there, as I sometimes do.

There is no way to progress one’s life by sitting quietly alone at home… And husband is happy to support me, which helps so much. Not once has he suggested I surrender this writing lark in exchange for a more reasonable prospect of remuneration – in other words, an ordinary job. Instead, he has been totally supportive with my plans. I am blessed in this, as in so many other ways.

Thanks for reading.

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March 4, 2019

Writing again

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Writing Again

I’m happy to be writing again. Yes, I know I’ve said this many times before, but this time – and I know I’ve said that many times before too – I know that I’m back on track. I have life organised, so before it throws me any more curve balls, I’m writing as fast as I can. Fast and furious. Because I’ve realised that when we are getting a work done, any writing will do. Any writing on a longer piece of work is worth doing, and we had best simply write it and censor later, edit later, later… First, write. In so deciding, the path clears a way forward.

So that is what I am doing. And feeling happy about it too. I am so reassured that the lessons I have previously taken on board about the way I write, appear to be holding true for each successive piece that I set myself.

But there is another agenda going on, which is that the third book in my fiction series will not be my last piece of substantial writing. I also want to get on with a stage play for Trapped which I was prompted to start some years ago by a series of dreams. So, as I sometimes do, I put down the introductory scenes which I have left until now. I was re-reading them lately, thinking – as we sometimes do after a long break – “This is surprisingly good…!” which means, I have to get on with that soon.

I work best when I have an end in view. Which, perhaps rather unusually in this case, is to make space for a stage play.

Thanks for reading.

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March 1, 2019

Dilemmas of a memoir writer

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Dilemmas of a memoir writer

I didn’t realise it at the time, but when I wrote my memoir I was tacitly agreeing that my life would be open to public view. In retrospect, of course, that much is obvious; yet even after publication, the idea of being available in that way took time to get used to: not only my writing but my life became, in some ways, a matter of public interest. An outcome that scarcely occurs to writers of fantasy fiction, say, or historical whodunnits.

Because of the quasi-public nature of my first three books, I try to conduct my life with probity and discretion, and to treat everyone who reads my books with consideration. But the fact remains, readers will get to know a lot about me, while I, absent-minded at best, will probably learn very little about my reader friends. I have difficulty sometimes remembering people’s names – my own, too, so it’s not personal – and in even the most kindly exchanges with readers, I have no idea whether they have one sister or two, unless they choose to share personal details like these with me, or write blog posts about family.

Writers like Elouise, whose blogs I have followed for a few years I admire particularly,  I suspect, because she also chooses to share the story of her life and her birth family. And I notice that I tend to gravitate towards other memoir writers whose books I have read. But then, I have always enjoyed reading life stories.

Happily, it rarely occurs to me to notice that the information exchange with my readers is a bit lopsided. In any case, the end point of any memoir already puts that story into a kind of historical context, marking a full stop beyond which life moves ahead steadily. I’m already a different person from that woman who looked out at the world a month ago.

But I do forget, sometimes, that people know more about me than I know about them. And have to remind myself that I don’t need to explain…

Thanks for listening.



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