Conference Call!

I think it’s time for a positive blog post – my last was pessimistic in the extreme. And, after all, I have something upbeat to write about.

This weekend, I attended the SCBWI (Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators) conference in Winchester. This year’s theme: Cracking Characters.

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This was significant for two reasons: first, I was returning the county where I grew up; second, this was my initiation into the world of SCBWI conferences. Here’s the good news (I said this post would be upbeat)…I’ll be going again next year.

For anyone with even the faintest sense of fairness and equality, the past months have been a shock. Along with so many others, I’ve found it hard not to allow myself to be dragged down into the morass of gloom and hopelessness left behind like a dark, sticky slug’s trail by the year’s events. I think I’d stopped trying to get unstuck.

And then came Winchester.

From the moment conference started I felt a resurgent sense of purpose. The opening remarks set the tone for me; referencing the doom that is 2016, we were reminded that as writers, we have a role to play in forcing light into the dark. He Who Must Not Be Named need not succeed…we can all defeat the menace, one scribble at a time. And with that, I felt the weight of our collective annus horriblis lift ever so slightly.

And it continued to rise throughout the weekend. David Almond couldn’t help but inspire with his instinctive joy and enthusiasm for writing for children. And if learning that he can make sense of the apparent chaos of his notebook – turning it into award-winning, vital stories – doesn’t fill you with optimism, nothing will!

Volunteering on the merchandise stall at lunchtime was always going to give me a boost, in the way that volunteering does. As the wickedly loveable muppet puppets of Avenue Q sing…”when you help others, you can’t help helping yourself”.

(Please enjoy this musical interlude)

Plus, I got to resurrect my link-selling skills from my short-lived retail days at Body Shop…turning, “Would you like some conditioner to go with your hemp shampoo?” into “Why not buy a soft, cotton tote bag to wrap your SCBWI mug in?”. I particularly excelled when a fellow delegate asked if I had a pen he could use to fill in his raffle tickets. “Certainly,” I replied, “how about these lovely SCBWI pens? Just £1.50 each”.

Then came the moment which gave me the biggest lift of all. The ‘Hook’. I’d entered this “pitch your book to a panel of agents” event for the same reason I’d offered to volunteer and for the same reason I’d decided to go to conference at all: Why Not? I realised that I’d have nothing to lose…in fact, in this event, win or lose, the finalists’ pitches would all be heard by the agents and any one else in the audience. Yes, I was nervous (very); yes, I doubted myself (more than once); and yes, it was hard work preparing for (hours spent going over the pitch and recording myself).

It paid off and I won the event. My prize: a meeting with the agent of my choice from the panel. I chose Thérèse Coen, from Madeleine Milburn Literary Agency.

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Therese Coen and a very happy contestant.

She now gets to read my whole manuscript before we meet. This is such a huge opportunity, I can’t thank the organisers enough. And I couldn’t be more pleased with myself that I went for it. The sense of camaraderie between the five of us during, and after, the event, only added to the growing lightness of heart.

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The five ‘Hook’ finalists, some in cunning disguise.

Why did I put myself through this? Because, at the end of the day, I often put my heroes in a position where they have to choose whether to go for something, even if it’s terrifying, in order to advance or survive or save someone. Some role model I’d be to my characters if I didn’t do the same myself.

I suffered a slight dip on Sunday morning…well…people would keep buying me drinks the night before…but surged back after Sarah Davies (of The Greenhouse Literary Agency) delivered her keynote. Despite hearing how many millions (ok, thousands) of submissions she receives every year, I still came away feeling optimistic about my own writing and chances. Concept and craft are her focal points in a good manuscript…and give every writer something to aim for. Create a great concept, then write it well. It sounds simple, and I know it isn’t, because otherwise I’d be delivering a lecture to writers rather than sitting in the audience hanging off every word…but I’m determined to get both right.

Finally, the good folk at SCBWI British Isles weren’t going to let us get away without some good old-fashioned, blood, sweat and ink-stained fingers. Cliff McNish offered the chance to get our heroes shining and our villains sweating with a double dose of expertise. These were great sessions to end the conference and I was thrilled to have a light bulb moment when I realised I should turn one of my characters from parent to villain.

The sense of community I found at the conference was one of the most important aspects. I’d already had a sense of this from my home network in Scotland, and they helped make sure I made the best of my time at conference.

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SCBWI South East Scotland delegates. Plus photo-bomber.

And the wider community of SCBWI wrapped me in an even bigger embrace.

However, it’s the feeling of empowerment with which I left Winchester that most surprised me. To know that I haven’t been wasting my time with writing and that it can be appreciated…that’s empowering. To have learnt new skills and made important plot and character decisions…that’s empowering. To know that I’m part of a huge community of supportive and talented writers and illustrators…that’s empowering. And to know that my writing, all of our writing, might let some of the light back in…that really is empowering.

Over to you Leonard…

 

 

 

Tinker, Tweak it, or Let it Lie?

It’s the forgotten quandary in the writing process, creeping up on the writer, ready to blow a raspberry in your face just when you thought your work was ready. Ha! It laughs. Thought you were done with this manuscript didn’t you? But are you sure? Go on! It says. Have another look. Wouldn’t another word work better here? What about there? Or there?

Maybe this is your fourth or fifth draft. Sixth even. Or more. Doesn’t matter. Just when you think you are ready to send out to agents, to start the terrifying process of submissions and queries, a voice says: hold on a minute. Are you sure it’s absolutely ready?

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You’ve shared your work with your beta readers; workshopped it; had it critiqued. You’ve polished, buffed and flicked a duster over it. So what! The dust always settles and needs shifting again.

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You’ve cut, copied and pasted. You’ve examined every chapter, paragraph, line and word. You thought they were the best choices, but then the doubts creep in…maybe a tweak here…how about a quick tinker there…

The truth is, you could go on forever like this. There will always be a change you might have made; and it might have been for the better. Poets often rework their poems years later, even after they’ve been published.  But there has to come a time when you say, “That’s it. It’s done. It’s as good as I can make it just now.”

Because all this tinkering and tweaking and dusting and polishing and agonising is simply preventing you from moving on to the next project. That idea which is locked inside, straining at the leash to be let out on to the page…doesn’t it have rights too? How will it ever know the joy of running free if you keep on keeping on at the same novel?

The time has come to cut the cord and allow the completed work to flex its muscles out there. Maybe it will sink without trace; maybe it won’t .

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An agent might throw it a lifeline and reel it in.

In the meantime I think I’m going to release that new idea. I’m allowing it to unfurl its wings to see if it can fly.

The duster is shaken out and neatly folded. I’ll be using it again one day; but not right now.

Snowballs…in June

Odd, perhaps, to be thinking about snowballs in June, but then, these are odd times.

Two events this week have made me consider the snowball; one utterly depressing and the other distinctly positive.

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Post-Brexit Britain feels like a snowball – a really big one – hurtling downhill towards an unknown oblivion, gathering, as it rolls, untold calamities, complications and catastrophic outcomes. They say a rolling stone gathers no moss; well, a rolling snowball gathers more snow exponentially. Each turn adding piles more of the white stuff, gaining momentum, power and threat of danger.

The image playing in my mind is of sixty million people, caught like pieces of mountain scree in the world’s biggest snowball, bowling down the slope towards a gaping crevasse.

It’s Ice Age IV, ‘Frozen in Fear’.

And so to Saturday and snowball number two; a gentler, friendlier snowball. And in terms of writing, a rather useful one.

I attended a writing workshop in Edinburgh: ‘The Writer and the Agent’, jointly hosted by writer Janis Mackay and her agent Kathryn Ross. Janis is a wonderful author who I was lucky enough to meet at last year’s Kelpies Prize, when I had the thrill of hearing her read an excerpt of my shortlisted children’s novel. She is best known – to me at least – for her Magnus Fin series and her Timetraveller trilogy. Kathryn Ross, her agent, is from Fraser Ross, an Edinburgh-based literary agency.

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Kathryn Ross (agent) & Janis Mackay (author)

One of the exercises we were invited to do involved creating a ‘snowball’ of our novels. Disregarding the fact that I can’t draw a circle that actually resembles a circle (I went with ‘squashed ellipse’ or ‘half-melted snowball’), the exercise turned out to be incredibly useful.

Staring at the centre of the ball, we were asked to write the where and when of our story. Then, in a series of ever-larger concentric circles – or ellipses – we scribbled down the inciting incident (the thing that kicks off the action), followed by whatever it (or who) gets in the way to thwart our hero, then the decisive moment or turning point at which our hero must decide whether to act and how to do it. Finally, the outer circle of our expanding snowball contained the resolution to all this. Effectively, we had drawn a diagrammatic pitch for our work.

In using the snowball analogy, I found I suddenly had a real sense of the growing impetus within my story. I could almost visualise it rolling down that hill, gathering pace as the story developed. The exercise helped to distill my book into its core essence, leaving me with a much better idea of how to describe – i.e. pitch – it to anyone kind enough to ask.

The next exercise had us actually verbally pitching our books. I think I’ll gloss over my rather amateur effort. I’ll be better prepared next time. Promise.

As snowballs go, this one really helped me on my journey with this novel. And it didn’t leave me cold, wet and uncomfortable.

Unlike the other one. Try pitching that story to someone successfully. When it finally stops rolling, it’ll be so huge, it may never defrost.

 

Towers of Words.

Flying Scribbler eschewed flying last week and took to the waves for a trip to Arran.received_641117452708841.jpeg

In years to come, memories of this holiday will, like all memories, fade away. Traces will remain of the walks, the cheese, the whisky; even the hare which sat for a second outside our rental cottage, before leaping away into the long grass. But one memory will linger, persisting in my mind far loner than any other.

Pebbles.

I adore pebbles.

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Pebbles have so much to offer: they are things of beauty; they are tactile; they can be skimmed on the surface of a sunset-drenched sea; and they can be balanced, one-by-one, to create centre-of-gravity-defying, teetering towers.received_641117662708820.jpeg Sedimentary upon metamorphic upon igneous constructions,  growing from the beach, playing chicken with the evening breeze.

The attraction for me is in creating something so temporary out of something as permanent as the rock of the earth. These towers can’t last: even those built away from the reach of the highest tides won’t survive a storm, or the flap of an oyster catcher’s wing. Whilst those built as the waves lap at their very bases will be re-consigned to their horizontal plane in mere moments.

I wonder if by writing, I am constructing something as temporary as the pebble towers, or as permanent as the pebbles themselves?

The paper my words are printed on will, in time, degrade and decay to dust.  If I become published, even the copies of my book held in the permanent collections where all books are destined to be stored, even these will disappear given enough time. The memory of the words I write can only ever be as permanent as the memory of the last person to have read them.

Stories have a finite life. It may be a long life in the case of Homer’s Odyssey, the Norse myths or the Bible. But even these will fade from memory in the millenia to come.

And although those pebbles rolling and frolicking in the surf on Arran, will themselves be reduced by friction and attrition to tiny particles, they will endure far longer than words. They will endure until Earth’s final moment.

So in writing my stories I am creating my own, temporary, pebble towers.

The trick is to build them on solid, even ground, away from the elements, to give them the best chance of standing tall for as long as possible.

As I write, word upon word, line upon line, page upon page, I’ll keep in mind those towers on a beach in Arran, and build the best stories I can.

Location, Location, Location.

From shoes abandoned in a shoe museum in my previous post, to an entire village abandoned to time and fate this week.

The ‘ghost’ village of Pollphail near Portavadie on the Cowal peninsula (Argyll & Bute), has never been lived in. Its original purpose: to house oil rig construction workers during the North Sea Oil Boom of the 70s; the developers didn’t foresee the lack of demand for concrete platforms and before a single key was turned in a shiny new lock, the place was given over to the elements. Its current purpose: to whisper secrets; to tell untold stories of lives never lived; to inspire artists (Agents of Change graffiti artists were given access in 2009); to create the emryo of a story yet-to-be; to hold out in its decayed glory until the money men inevitably move in to cleanse, anaesthetise and expunge.

To stand amidst the crumbling concrete, broken glass and rusting metal, is to hear the voices of the hundreds of human residents who never were. But also to witness the march of more successful, if non-paying, tenants: bats and sheep both call this place home, as do countless types of flora.

This writer wasn’t necesarily searching for a setting for an unwritten story ….but he might just have found one. See what you think as you step through the wire fence with me. Oh, and watch those open drains as you go.img_20160330_172658656_hdr.jpgimg_20160330_173552524_hdr.jpgimg_20160330_173421707.jpgimg_20160330_173304064.jpgimg_20160330_173238113_hdr.jpgimg_20160330_173154768_hdr.jpgimg_20160330_173004086_hdr.jpgimg_20160330_172938743_hdr.jpgimg_20160330_172859991_hdr.jpgimg_20160330_172817725_hdr.jpgimg_20160330_172805725_hdr.jpgimg_20160330_172652937_hdr.jpgimg_20160330_172735358_hdr.jpg

Escape from Inferno…in a barrel.

I’m taking a week long writing break just now. I’m away from my laptop and flying instead. This is time I’ve come to use for thinking…of ideas for new characters, stories, plots; thinking, too, about a possible rewrite for my completed MS: having been given some pointers as to how I can go about this, I am now in full thinking mode! Taking an enforced break from writing is perfect timing for that.

This week the flying brings me to Toronto. Unusually, I have two nights here, so took the opportunity to go to Niagara.

Like many literary characters, this is a place with two faces. It is a place which tells two very different stories. And it’s a place where some folk choose to tell their own stories, or create a story to be told.

Of course, the falls are spectacular. Even (maybe especially) on an overcast day, they are awe-inspiring. The volume and speed of the water was most impressive. That, and the wonderful wolf-eye blue of the falling water.

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But my canny ability to frame a picture hides the true horror of Niagara Falls, the town.

On the one hand, the force of nature tells its tale of erosion over time. It bears witness to the powerful strength of water, the weaknesses of solid rock.
It offers the chance to stand and think about life, death, the passing of time.

And then you turn to witness a different tale told. A tale of the erosion of sensibilities. A tale of the powerful strength of commerce, and of the weakness of humanity in the face of it.

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Dante no doubt had Niagara Falls in mind for his Inferno.

Niagara Falls has fallen. It has fallen to the same place as British seaside towns. But where these places, faded memories of Victorian grandeur, now wear their irony all over their piers, Niagara Falls appears quite sincere in its brash disregard for the grandeur of the natural wonder just round the corner.
The story told by the town is a melancholy one. Lost opportunities; lost dreams of low-wage fast food servers; lost expectations of eager travellers.

And so to those folk who created stories of their own. The inspired, intrepid, insane collection of people who dared to duel with nature. Some lost the encounter; others fared better.

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Quite why these marvellous people thought riding the falls in a barrel was a good idea is beyond me. No doubt they wanted to create a sensation. To make a story. To write history.
Or perhaps they had a vision of what Niagara Falls would become and couldn’t cope with the sheer horror.

Stories of nature; stories of humanity. They are as varied as they are beautiful. As different as they are monstrous.

All of them fuel to a writer’s fire.

Bridging the Gaps

I’m in the mood for a gratuitous metaphor….

We walked to South Queensferry the other day which, for us here in North Queensferry, invloves crossing the Forth Road Bridge. It’s a familiar route: driven over (often), cycled over (rarely), and run over fairly regularly. Walking it though, offers a different perspective. There’s time to watch the waves, birds and boats do their things. Time too, to stop and survey the progress being made with the new Forth bridge: The Queensferry Crossing.

The view across from the current bridge offers a zoomed-in peek at the process; it’s like every playmobil fan’s biggest fantasy. At night, these towers, with their arm-like roads growing sideways, take on the appearance of oil rigs or Thunderbirds-style International Rescue HQ’s.

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From further off, down in South Queensferry itself, a wide-screen view is available. The entire scene of construction becomes visible. Finally, you can see how this is going to work. This is how to build a bridge. Or, at least, how to build this particular bridge.

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Taking in the sight of these three looming towers, with their harp-string tendons fanning gracefully down to the road sections, is awe-inspiring. Then it occured to me that the method chosen to build this bridge is rather like that I chose to write my current story. The Queensferry Crossing isn’t being constructed from one side to the other; nor have they started at either end to join somewhere in the middle…always a risky endeavor as they speculated widely with the building of the Channel Tunnel. I think the general view back then was, “what if the French aren’t in the right place when we get to them?” Like they’d been digging towards Denmark by mistake, or something.

With this build, they began at multiple points. The towers rose slowly from the water. Simultaneously, the road began to reach out to meet them from either side of the firth.

Likewise, with my curent work-in-progress, I had my starting point. I also knew exactly where I wanted the story to end. More vitally, I also knew the main turning points my main character was going to go through along the way. If you like, I had the main pillars of my story. They were fairly solid in my mind – I even had some sketched out ready. My work has been to join them up coherently, and, I hope, entertainingly (this is middle grade comedy adventure!), so that each section joins up with the next.

Now, I’m happy to report that I am way ahead of the bridge construction. My road sections are all bolted together, I think in alignement. I’m sure once the bridge is whole, there will be weeks, if not months, of safety checks. Rivets will be checked for their integrity. Nuts will be triple stress-tested. Those beautiful radiating supports will be analysed. In much the same way, I’ll be drafting and re-drafting. My crit group will be critiquing. My beta readers will be reading to help me make it better. I’ll be stress-testing and  probably just stressing.

Finally, as the bridge is given a pre-opening sweep, I will be polishing the final draft until it shines.

The Queensferry Crossing is due to open later in the year. I might as well give myself the same deadline.

Bridge building and book writing: they’ve more in common than you might think.