March 2010 Archives

Relax and ... breath. Phew, what a day! The isolated life of a writer turned out not to be so very isolated yesterday. In the morning I caught a train to Solihull from Marylebone station. This is possibly one of my favourite stations in London - charmingly wee and one of the locations where The Beatles filmed Hard Day's Night. I love The Beatles. I loved The Beatles when I was a child too small to even really understand what a 'pop group' was. Round of Yellow Submarine, anyone?

I was going to the Solihull Children's Book Award where I'd been shortlisted from readers' votes alongside Frank Cottrell Boyce and Andrew Norriss. I was there to represent Sisters of the Sword and I'd been asked to prepare a ten-minute speech. I hadn't quite realised how many children I'd be addressing from a spotlit stage behind a podium. Here they all are, settling into their seats. Nervous? You betcha! But then a lovely, beaming Lord Mayor walked in with one of those brass things around his neck and I thought, 'Ah, how bad can this gig be if the town has such a sweet mayor?' His lovely, beaming wife was by his side. I decided to relax.

All three writers talked. Frank was brilliantly entertaining and funny and even had exploding props. Andrew told the fascinating story behind his novel, Ctrl Z. Then it was my turn. Hands shaking, voice trembling, smile shaky but in place I got through. Suddenly it was all over and I found myself sat at a desk, signing copies of Sisters of the Sword as these utterly charming kids queued up to meet me. That part was really, really nice. I met some lovely people. Aren't readers great?

Then I was on the train back down to London (reading a post-Bologna email from my agent) and straight to the launch party for Jon Mayhew's Mortlock. Below is a photo of him with a stuffed crow and his beautiful daughter. Actors performed spooky extracts from the book, Jon gave a speech, we all got to meet his lovely family and camera bulbs flashed and flashed. Off for dinner with Julia Churchill of Greenhouse Literary Agency and then a final train home and collapsing into bed.

My day was crammed full with children's books, readers and writers. It was wonderfully exhausting. Today? I sit in a house on my own and I write. Quite a contrast.

As I lay in bed snoozing Ian asked, 'You do know it's 8 o'clock, don't you?' Yes, the changing clocks had made a fool out of me. I leapt up, cursing, and half an hour later was marching to meet my friends for a trip to Oxford. Grabbing a latte, I scrambled into the back of the car and we set off.



Don't be fooled by the chandeliers beneath the tent awnings. Book festivals have a lot in common with grungy music festivals. They both have portaloos and very expensive food: a fiver for two packets of crisps and two cans of soft drink. Thank goodness someone had the foresight to bring a flask of hot coffee. (Hello, Celine!)

Here's the stand of children's books. There was a lot of Pullman, Mal Peet and Meg Rosoff who were all appearing at the festival. Geraldine Mccaughrean, a few others with any vague connection to Oxford. The selection wasn't wide, but enough to excite these boys.

At 12pm I peeled away from my friends to go and listen to Meg Rosoff and Mal Peet talk about YA fiction in the JCR of Christ Church. They were introduced by Nicolette Jones who kindly stood to talk. Mal and Meg stayed sitting for the next hour, which meant I had an excellent view of Mal's left shoulder and the top of Meg's hair. It was a good job I'd seen them both speak before, so this time I could sit back and listen. They read from each other's work and chatted. Mal spoke about the 'subdued fireworks' and 'triumphant melancholy' of Meg's writing. Meg told us how the title of her novel 'What I Was' had to be changed from 'The Dark Ages' two weeks before the book went to press. During questions someone told Meg 'I think you're a good writer' but that she couldn't remember the name of the novel she was asking a question about. The same member of the audience described Hunger Games as 'quite enjoyable'. I sat at the back of the room, hugging myself and laughing quietly. Suzanne Collins, your most brilliant novel has the seal of approval from a parent in Oxford.

A heads up for us all: Meg's been reading a book from the States called 'Plain Kate'. She says the title is terrible but the book is brilliant. Let's watch out for it!

A snatched lunch and then we were off to see Hilary Mantel in the Sheldonian Theatre talking about her novel, 'Wolf Hall'. You may have heard of it. Hilary was a popular winner of the Booker Prize with this fat historical novel and it's one of those books that everyone has raved about. I am 50 pages into it and have never read anything else by Hilary Mantel. After listening to her being interviewed by PD James, I now want to read everything she's ever written. Hilary was truly charming. Her sparky intelligence combined with humility and honesty meant that we were hanging on her every word. She's a great public speaker. As a young woman she studied law and wanted to become a barrister, but ill health put paid to that plan. She became a writer, instead. Or as she put it, 'I became my own boss'. I like this take on writing.

She first had the idea for a novel about Thomas Cromwell in her twenties, but says that she had to wait until middle age to write it. On a practical level, because the launch of her writing career demanded something other than a historical novel. But on a creative level, she says she couldn't have written this book before her middle age. So often I hear about the way that writers don't really hit their stride until they grow older.

An hour flew by. As PD James commented at the end of our time with Hilary: 'We've heard from a great novelist talking about her craft. We'll never forget this afternoon.'

Hilary signed my dog-eared copy of Wolf Hall:




And that was our day in Oxford.

This is why I love working in publishing. A brown jiffy bag was delivered to my address today. I hadn't done any Internet shopping (recently), barely knew anyone living in Wales (the postcode) and couldn't wait to get home once I'd been told about its arrival. A mystery parcel. Tearing the package open, I found this:

A present from my friend, Sorrel. We'd chatted about the book a week or so ago and she'd spontaneously decided to gift me a copy. Isn't it gorgeous? Look at that jacket! Beautiful, bold yet understated design. This is a 'tasting guide' to the perfumes of the world, written by Luca Turin and Tania Sanchez and published by Profile Books. Not only is it a fantastic opportunity to gen up on the perfume bottle that sits on YOUR dressing table, but it is brilliantly entertaining and full of opinion. Poison was the perfume that defined my youth - the overpowering scent of the Eighties. People learned to hate it, and you might think it would be derided in a book such as this. You'd think wrong. It receives five stars and a glorious description: 'Reviewing Poison is a bit like road-testing an Abrams M1 tank in the evening rush hour ... Every perfume collector has to have this, but please never, ever wear it to dinner.' There are other surprises. 'Believe' by Britney Spears receives three stars and is described as 'a well-put-together tart-and-sweet sherbet accord, which holds itself together better than Ms. Spears.' This is no tome of gratuitous snobbery, which makes me love it even more.

But, really. It's the essays on classic perfumes that are the most fascinating to read. We all know that Chanel No. 5 is a classic. Did you know that Chanel have bought their own jasmine and rose fields for this perfume? Beautiful writing describes this immortal perfume I first remember wearing when I 'borrowed' the bottle my mum never used: 'a masterpiece of modernist sculpture from 1921, one you can wear. And some people think perfume is not art.'

A gorgeous volume, with a spine that creaks satisfyingly as the book is opened. Thick, creamy pages. An embossed cover and burnt orange endpapers. I'm no luddite - I embrace the age of iPhone apps and ebooks. (Well, not quite ebooks yet.) They satisfy their own part of a reader's world. But nothing can ever replace the delight of a heavy hardback book making your wrist ache. And the personality of 'Perfumes - The Guide'! No editor advised the authors to rein in their opinions for fear of offending the world of influential perfumers. Two intelligent, educated writers brought us a  unique view of a world most of us glimpse only at department store counters. We no longer need to fear those women in white coats and glossy lipstick smiles who steer us towards that bottle of something pungent that we're not sure we really want. We can read this book and choose scents that may stay with us for our lives.

It's a book about smell. Ever lifted a new book to your face, closed your eyes to sniff the crisp pages? Thought so. It's all part of the same mix. It's using our senses. It's why books will never die.

 

Oh my, I'm in shock. I've just had the most PHENOMENAL day's writing. I wish I could say that I have no idea where this came from (ah, the deep mystery of the craft) but I have an inkling there's one person to thank. Not the most obvious person. He doesn't write a blog, edit manuscripts, run a consultancy service or make me cups of tea. He does, however, wear dresses and run marathons. Eddie, if you're reading - thank you.

Last night I sat down to watch the documentary Ian had recorded for me about Eddie Izzard running 43 marathons in 51 days in aid of Sports Relief. I took up running three years ago but the most I've ever achieved is a half-marathon. I was really curious to see how the heck Izzard pulled this off with only two weeks prior training. I am now at liberty to tell you how: through sheer bloody-mindedness. The mental strength that went into that feat is still utterly beyond my ken. I spent the entire programme shaking my head in awed disbelief, turning round to Ian and asking, 'How does someone DO that?' I know what I'm like - a soppy cow. I knew I'd probably start crying at some point. I wasn't prepared for the moment when I started bawling my eyes out. It was really one of the most inspiring things I've ever seen. One of his trainers said something that rang a loud bell with me: 'In order to succeed, you need tenacity and a big stubborn streak.' I went to bed stubbornly thinking, If Eddie Izzard can run 43 marathons I can ruddy well finish a manuscript.

Inspiring Indeed. And it hasn't stopped there...

I arrived at the Royal Festival Hall this morning, ready for a full day's writing. I didn't realise how much more inspiration was going to be all around me. These are some of the things I've seen today:

• A group of taxi drivers with wipe-clean maps spread, testing each other on The Knowledge. You know, when they memorise every single street in London? I can't even remember what I did last night.

• A woman reading sheet music, sat on her own, waving an invisible baton in the air.

• Teenage girls revising together, talking in low considerate voices.

• A drama group rehearsing.

I'm telling you, if you want a kick up the derriere for your own writing, get yourself down to the Royal Festival Hall! You'd think it would be hard to concentrate with all this stimulation, but not at all.

As I said at the start of this blog post, the writing has gone superbly. I've been nursing self-doubt for about a month now. You know when you decide that you've been creating nothing but a big fat waste of trees? But today I've worked really hard and had a breakthrough. I wrote a chapter that was working great, until I arrived at the end and realised that I'd just made my main character totally unlikeable. Um... Easy! I made her sister do all those foul things and suddenly everything fell into place. Big time. Like a big thing falling into a big place, a round peg going into a round hole, a... Oh dear, stop that now, Karen. Let's just say, it works.

Now, what is that you're whispering in my ear? Pride comes before a fall? You're quite right. There's another big plot thread that I still need to tease out. That one's got to work, too. But for now I am happy to blog about a good day's work and mosey off to the cinema for some well-earned R&R.

When I first saw Eddie Izzard on my telly all those years ago, with his red-painted lips, would I ever have thought he'd be one of the hidden contributers to my current WIP? It's a funny old thing, life. It throws up the most unexpected plot twists.

I leave you with one of my usual random photos, this time of snowdrops in Derbyshire. Is that the sound of plants growing? Spring is finally here - hurrah!




 







 

One blog not enough for you? Do stop by An Awfully Big Blog Adventure, where I blog today about all the people who've contributed to my WIP - even if they don't know they've helped.

I woke up early this Sunday morning, glad to see the sun streaming into our part of the world, happy in the knowledge that a full day's writing awaited me. I was determined to work hard and work good.

'I'm going to kick some ass today,' I announced.
'Kiss my ass? Is that what you said?' teased my boyfriend.
'No, kick some ass. I'm going to get loads done.'
'Yes, kiss my ass. That's what you do.'
'Oh no, I don't. I kick your ass even when you don't know I'm kicking your ass.'
'Yes, you're an ass kisser, alright.'
And so the teasing rolled relentlessly on until I let myself out of the front door. Ah, domestic bliss.

But I have! I've kicked ass. I arrived at the Royal Festival Hall nice and early, after bumping into these Pearly Kings and Queen on the way in. I wasted the best part of 40 minutes surfing the net, gave myself a stern talking to and knuckled down. I have chopped and changed, cut and pasted, hammered away at the keyboard, scribbled pink notes in my lovely notebook, reread comments on the manuscript, treated myself to two skinny lattes and had a bit of a Kapow! moment as I suddenly realised what I needed to do.

'Backstory,' people kept saying. 'We need more backstory.' This one left me a bit flummoxed. Wasn't it there already? Didn't we know everything we needed to know? What was the point in going over stuff that had already happened? Ah. There's the rub. Perhaps we don't know everything we think we know. Perhaps everything that's happened isn't already in the story. A comment leapt out at me from the feedback I'd had on my main character: 'we don't know what she was like before.' No, we don't, do we? I thought. All that potential. All that unchartered territory. All that material waiting to be invented. Having planed and chiselled the existing story for so many months, here was an opportunity for me to invent something completely new and unexpected for my main character. Fresh material. And bam! There it was. My backstory. All it took was a leading question and an imagination craving something new to do.

The moral of the story is: don't take your story for granted. Even when you think you know everything about the novel you're writing, you might not. And listen. When other people are saying things, it's usually for a good reason.

I leave you with a photo taken on World Book Day at the Oxford Natural History Museum. That's a stuffed leopard watching the storyteller with all those children. A Kick Ass Stuffed Leopard.