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.
When I was a kid, my idea of heaven was to go with my father to his work, and into the store-room where they kept the stationery. The blocks of A4 pads of lined paper, the fancy water-marked paper for posh letters, which we would hold up to windows so that we could trace the lion rampant and colour it in, where my idea of infinite possibility, with so much room for all my ideas to go anywhere I wanted – heaven!
It’s a pity that, instead of preserving that sense of the infinite and using it to my advantage, writing now feels a bit daunting, as if there are simply too many words to choose from, so many ways I could take a line of thought. So, habitually, I think that writing is hard because it contains too much possibility. How easy it is, by comparison, to write to a brief, to follow instructions, to know where you are heading.
But perhaps that is to look at the way I write, the wrong way. Perhaps the better idea is for me to wait patiently in writing mode, wrists and fingers at the ready, to see what comes through. I’ve heard of other writers who listen and write, and who record stuff that they later read and think, “Did I write that?” and who, reading it, decide, “This isn’t half bad, actually…!”
Perhaps that is the best way to go forward. It’s certainly one of the more restful ways, and who knows what it might produce?
My sister says, if I can’t get peace at home, I can go to hers for a few days. A writer’s retreat, she might call it, with time to think during the day and lots of space in which to allow my thoughts to wander without interruptions, and without having to think about school timetables or the soup boiling over in the kitchen… Nice idea. Problem is, life keeps getting in the way, so a more useful way to proceed, is to get up earlier, get organised and get on. Which I am doing.
Meantime, I am very heartened that Martha is reading Susan Scott and, she says, thoroughly enjoying it. She has found one typo – corrected – and pointed out a few small changes that I have taken on board. Very useful. But what is really truly heartening is that she says she stayed up late one night to read it…! A sudden gift to me that makes me realise, “Yes, I must do this, keep going and finish it.”
Book review sites, in particular, pour scorn on reviews by family members, suggesting that they are bound to be partial. It may be a fair assumption to make, but it is not my experience. Be that as it may, I am delighted to accept my sister’s encouragement as a signal that to continue and finish my latest project is worthwhile, and that the time to write is now. How lovely to have that vindication from a woman who is already immensely busy, and who has a rather less saccharine view of the world than I do.
I read women’s fiction because, just occasionally, I need that species of escapism. Martha would not usually delve into women’s fiction, assuming she would find the time to read at all. Further vindication, if I ever needed it, that my writing is worth persisting with. Thank you, Martha.
By some miracle, I now have three books published, two more written, and another underway. What will I do with myself when I’ve finished writing my latest book? Write another?
I endow my characters with
more practical skills than I have, more confidence, as well as the hope that
everything will work out in the end: I am writing women’s fiction, after all, and
it seems only right to have an optimistic ending. But also, I write because I
can make use, then, of some of my mistakes and turn them to more hopeful account.
Writing is not merely wish fulfilment, it is also a form of apology, it allows
us to consider different endings, and maybe, just maybe, it gives us extra
courage to try for happy endings ourselves.
There is no doubt that an eventful life is excellent fodder for fiction. So is a life littered with wrong paths, poor choices, and the boulders that crop up when we know we are going the wrong way, but seem powerless to turn away. In some ways, fiction represents a synthesis of the best and the worst bits of life lived thus far, with a sprinkling of magic and strong characters whom – oh, yes – we can love and loathe, but whom it is hard for us to ignore.
It seems a very worth-while thing to do; to take a million-and-one mistakes and turn them to good account by writing about them, so that I can laugh and learn the lessons of acceptance. Letting go of my mistakes in such entertaining fashion, I move forward into something better.
My plans for 2019 are still in flux. A lot depends on the health of my mother, which continues to be a cause for concern. Vagueness morphs into neediness which might, at any time, slip into a gentle crisis, though I suppose if I am not there to help, so be it. One thing I have learned is that it is not possible to be in two places at the same time.
I am travelling to the London Book Fair in March this year, with my novels and my radio play. What will be the outcome of my visit, I cannot tell, but I do know that nothing was ever progressed by sitting behind one’s desk for all eternity: if I don’t go, I won’t know. If I have good news, I’ll let you know, and if not, at least it will procure me some food for thought and the occasional blog post. To prepare for that, I would like to finish Book 3, or at least, have a notion about plot developments so that if anyone does express an interest, I will have some idea of to what to say.
Preparation is key, so in 2019 I shall be doing my best to clear backlogs, keep up to date and work efficiently, with minimal interruptions and expectations that bolster my ambitions, instead of sidelining annihilating them.
We’ve all been guilty of expecting too much from ourselves, so this year, I also intend to go more gently and have more fun. I do so enjoy being happy; and if that is not the point of life, I’m not sure what else could be. So that is my aim in 2019. To have fun, to appreciate all my opportunities and make the most of them in the right spirit.
I suspect that one reason why we writers shy away from writing is that we are scared of it. I know I am – I have been – but I suspect that this fear, which can be paralysing and lead to all kinds of delaying tactics, is based around a fundamental misconception about how writing works.
Writing is basically about having fun with words. And worrying about writing is obviously not fun. But why do we worry?
I suspect that one reason we delay, fret and make endless excuses not to write is because we fear we have to ‘get it right’. Since we are frightened that our text is never going to be the best it could be – and it should be easy, FGS, we are writers after all – we shy away from it.
But if we are holding ourselves back from doing what we can enjoy – having fun with our writing – through any belief that we ‘have’ to get it perfect, we have forgotten that every single piece of work evolves over time by a slow process of idea, expression, editing and refinement, often in ways that are highly personal.
Nonetheless, the key realisation that breaks through personal dread, is that all writing has to evolve; and each writer works in a different ways and at a different speeds to reach an end point which may be months or years ahead. Evolution is a process, implying that every story, every item of literary expression has to be worked at, refined and perfected.
By definition, our first, often most creative writing phases – the ones we are scared to attempt – and not going to be perfectly polished, and are never intended to be. The best they can hope to be is to be perfect material for the next stage in the process.
Once we realise that our writing is not expected to be totally perfect the first time we put it down, we are suddenly much freer to simply relax and allow ideas their expression. Expressing ideas and giving characters and events form in words is, almost by definition, a hard thing to do, so it is rare that an idea announces itself fully formed.
There are times when I have been able to put down a chapter without making many changes, but, simply considering the law of probability, this is bound to happen to all of us occasionally and does not disprove the general rule, that most writing is a labour of love, crafted in different ways and stages over a period of time.
Recognising that our version of perfection may take a while to turn up, suddenly we feel much freer to write whatever we feel like writing, as a first draft. And, paradoxically, admitting that writing is a many-stage process, frees us up to be more confident and to take that leap, to fly by the seat of our pants.
They say the trick is to make it look easy. But writing a smooth finished product rarely is. But that’s okay, as long as we realise that every good thing takes time to get right, and that our time is well invested.
I may have said this before – okay, so you’d have to be entirely new to my blogs not to know – that I really love Marian Keyes’ books. It’s the same with any author we love: we read their books to shreds, and each time, uncover new wisdoms and ideas that strengthen our own lives. Why else would we read them?
I first read “This Charming Man” soon after it was first published in 2008 – I was in the early stages of serial reading: find the latest, read it, and wait impatiently for the next book to be written and published. I’ve done that with all the authors I love. Elizabeth George, Dick Francis, James Herriot, Peanuts, Tintin…
There is a seam of real-life tragedy running through Marian’s books, often to do with alcoholism and co-dependency, and this book pulls no punches. Telling the stories of four women, Lola, Grace, Marnie and Alicia – and assorted friends, lovers and colleagues – and their entanglements with a certain Paddy de Courcy – if you google him, he will come up, though he doesn’t yet have his own Wiki entry – it’s a gripping and intricately woven story about abuse between couples and how to survive it.
Though the overall narrative has domestic abuse as its main focus, it is also, and very tellingly, about the lies that vulnerable people indulge in to keep themselves trapped: hiding from the truth by being stuck in the past, constantly rehearsing old wrongs, blaming others and refusing to see what might have changed, fielding the fear of change by swamping oneself in self-pity.
I’ve been there and done all that and more. Self-harm comes in many guises, not just the obvious physical signs but also in the shying away from life, the refusal to engage with real people, in keeping oneself isolated and alone so that “I can never be hurt again”, and in refusing to acknowledge that our refusal to engage with the world – and with all the wonderful people in it – is what hurts us most.
So read this book, please, if you want to learn from the example of a master story-teller. But once we have read the book and digested some of the lessons – it’s a big book and might take a while – we owe it to ourselves to go out and live. Not to just get by in life, by reading books.
I finished Book 2 in my “Lisa Somerville” series of novels and then confidently expected to carry on with Book 3 and just write it. You know, just fill the page with wonderful, easy text that would be lifted from me as if by magic.
But Book 3 had other ideas. “You need to rest for a while,” it said, “You need to take a bit of time to find my new characters and get a feel for them, before you can write me.” And most obviously, “We are different voices, which may take a little time to emerge, so just keep listening.”
Obvious, really. Now that I come back to writing properly, I find myself editing with relish, to locate the slightly different voices of the characters and their varying vocabulary. My main character, whom I think I voice correctly though she rarely speaks, is staying with others who insist that they have their own way; and if I will only just be patient and listen to them, they will show me. Speaking for themselves, once again I am pleased to find myself listening to my characters and taking notes.
So I tread carefully, I listen – with no music on, at the moment – and I write and edit; and I am pleased to feel my characters relaxing and coming alive. Each of my characters has different motivations – Mr Semple is a bit taciturn, but good at heart; his son is not kind, but then, Ian is motivated by his own fears, so what are those? My MC simply has to navigate the best she can for the moment, until she can pluck up enough courage and resources to take her next steps.
And if I can trust the process of listening and flying with the story, and be available for it, then I can learn a great deal from it. Certainly, it has never felt truer for me, that my characters are teaching me a lot about life.
I have decided that I’m going to collect all of Marian Keyes’ books, re-read them and keep them. They are not only some of the best books I’ve read – funny, heartfelt and honest, as every reviewer has said – but every time I read them, I learn something more about myself. I see aspects of myself clearly in the characters of her books. And perhaps now it’s time to engineer some of their happy endings for myself. Yet, after reading these novels, nowadays I am struck with a new question: “Am I reading books or hiding?”
In many ways, I still feel I need to get a life. To stop being a social voyeur. Learning from other people’s mistakes – even through fictional characters – is all very well, but there is no substitute for true life.So despite the fact that – or perhaps because – Marian’s books are such compulsive reading, I’m not going to be reading as much as I have done.
Also, I can’t help noticing that I have used reading – huge irony, it is one addiction that we can carry around in plain sight that no-one will object to – to hide from what else I could and should be doing: going out to meet people, having fun, keeping in touch with my far-flung family and friends. That I can use reading as a professional excuse, just makes it easier to hide behind the covers, when what I really must do now, is stop hiding and get outside, into the world.
There is nothing stopping me. Nothing at all. Hubby is at work, and daughter is at school. She has her own social diary, so does Eddie. It’s me that sits at home, feeling fed up – or worse – and wondering why. It could be reading, it could be a hundred other reasons, but one thing I know. It’s time to get outside into the world, and meet people again.
“Lucy Sullivan is Getting Married” by Marian Keyes
I like Marian Keyes. Correction, I love Marian Keyes. Her writing, that is. And probably her too, if I was ever lucky enough to get to know her. It’s been said before… but I find her books brimming with empathy and the kind of dark humour that so often appeals to me. It’s as if, in drawing her characters, her own life, with all its ups and downs, is waiting just below the surface of the “fiction” to reveal itself, full of the hidden, twisted logic that so many of us resort to when our lives are less than stellar. There is a fairly universal appeal in the humour, the hidden compromises and the self-knowing deprecation.
I have read LSIGM before but, as is so often the case with good books I re-read, I have collected very different messages from it this time around. While ostensibly about a group of women who get their fortunes told and see them fulfilled, this is really a story about a woman’s coming of age. She is in her mid-twenties, when she realises that the role model her father offered as she was growing up was not supportive; and in order to break away from the usual, poor compromises she takes for granted, she has to see things as they are, and not as she would wish them to be.
I’m very glad I have read LSIGM now, because the deeper messages of self-worth and making the best of life, deserving to be happy and not settling for less, are what I need to hear right now. The more I read of this story, the more I gleaned of value until I was sitting totally engrossed, watching the emergence of a shy character from caterpillar-dom to full, glorious butterfly.
The psychology of this novel is gripping and very well observed. I have learned a lot from reading Ms Keyes’ novels, but this unassuming volume is my current champion for all oppressed persons everywhere. If you have issues around trying too hard, wanting to be all things to all people, addiction or co-dependence, take a gander through this funny, heart-warming story and you may find that at its heart it has more than sentiment. Highly recommended.
March 10, 2019
Visiting the London Book Fair
Fran Macilvey Path To Publication, The Rights & Wrongs of Writing, Women's fiction and chic lit 4 Comments
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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