July 2010 Archives

I've also been reading The Poisoned House by Michael Ford, published in August by Bloomsbury. In the spirit of full disclosure, I should tell you that I know Michael and work with him. He's a brilliant writer and if I'd come across this book as a 10-year-old girl I'd have devoured it. Insights into the life of a Victorian house maid? Check. Ghost stories? Check. I'd have been tucked up in bed, reading with my torch when I should have been asleep. Yummy.

I went for a run this week and took a spontaneous new route through Wanstead Park. I came across a valley with a pond at the bottom. All I had for company was the sunshine and I felt really privileged to be here. As I left, I couldn't shake the feeling that I'd read about a valley just like this as a child. Had it been in a parable from Sunday School? But no, it didn't feel Biblical. Then it hit me. I was sure that I'd read about this valley in Jane Eyre. It wasn't until I arrived home from a day at the office that I was able to check. And there it was, a short paragraph waiting for me:

'All the valley at my right hand was full of pasture-fields, and cornfields, and wood; and a glittering stream ran zig-zag through the varied shades of green, the mellowing grain, the sombre woodland, the clear and sunny lea.'

My valley.

Isn't that amazing? A novel published in 1847, first read by me as a child, seeps back into my life because of a morning run on the outskirts of London.

How do you handle busy workloads? Does tapas feature? 

If you're looking for some light relief of your own, this link has been flying around the writing community this week. Do you write like Tolstoy, James Joyce or, er, Chuck Palahniuk? The answer changes drastically with each pasted extract, so I wouldn't take it too seriously. But it's good for a laugh, and we all need those!

Look at some of the language in those last two sentences. A no, a no and a not. Doesn't sound like much fun to me or very good for the soul. As I learned at last year's Charney Writers Retreat, courtesy of the Scattered Authors Society, these events are about much more than an individual's work. They're about nurturing the collective need to support, advise, share, gossip, eat, drink, and gossip some more. For every writer who spends a year working quietly at a solitary desk, there's one week in the summer where they can find a community of like-minded men and women just waiting to smile, chat and help. Not worth the effort? Then you're a braver writer than me.

But it's not all reassurance and hand-holding, wine and puddings. There's a busy programme of events, and this year it was invigorating. Need feedback on your WIP? Bring along an extract to the sample groups. Want advice on the festival circuit? There's a wealth of expertise if you turn up to the Tuesday evening session. My personal favourite was a morning event entitled 'We're so much more than our work'. Led by Cindy Jefferies, this talk was crucial to me. Shock, horror! Authors were allowed to discuss the good times and the bad times. Insecurities, authorial egos, inspiring poems, sensible reminders - these were all part of the debate. So many wise words in one room and lots of food for thought.

I know what you're thinking. Did you get any actual work done, Karen? I did, a bit. Emphasis on the 'bit'. But that's not really the point. Facebook, Twitter, blogs and email have all worked wonders for empowering writers and bringing them together. Seeing each other face to face, sharing laughter and sometimes tears? Now, that's a whole different ball game. Anyone can fake a jovial status update, safely hidden at home. But on a retreat, when life and commitments are pared away... You don't only connect with new friends, you reconnect with yourself. Afterwards, with identity firmly back in place, you can go back to doing what you do best. Or doing what you're pretty good at. Or are struggling with. But you return reinvigorated. There's still not a website in the world that can do that for me.

Thank you, Scattered Authors Society.

What makes a good literary agent? Picnics wouldn't normally be at the top of my list but now my priorities have most definitely changed. When my agent, Jenny Savill, organised a picnic gathering for her burgeoning list of children's authors I knew that I was with the right woman. Who doesn't want to sit beneath the trees, eating strawberries, comparing notes with other writers? On Friday we gathered in the park behind the offices of Andrew Nurnberg Associates and sat on spread blankets. Twitter, Facebook and email are all well and good, but there's nothing to beat the beaming smiles and conversation that we all shared for a sunny afternoon. Thank you so much, Jenny. This was a real treat, and one not to be forgotten. 

It only gets better. Tomorrow I travel to Charney Manor in Oxfordshire for the writers' retreat organised by the Scattered Authors Society. This will be the second time I attend this event and I am really looking forward to it. I'll know faces this time round, instead of being a nervous newbie. We have a great programme of events, and as the photo below indicates, we don't only talk about writing! French cricket and Pimms featured large last year. A summer ago I enjoyed a quiet room of my own, redrafting my manuscript prior to submitting to an agent (Hello, Jenny!), afternoon snoozes, tea and biscuits and the making of new friends. I look forward to more of the same this year.

Did any of you catch the BBC1 Imagine programme about Diana Athill? If not, I strongly recommend trying to watch it on iPlayer. Diana Athill is my editorial heroine. A down-to-earth, unassuming and eminently sensible woman, she insists that an editor should be invisible, never looking for recognition or public congratulations. I couldn't agree more. If you're looking for accolade, don't become an editor. Not because you don't deserve it, but because that's not what you should be pursuing. An editor is a facilitator, helping someone else achieve their own dream. Well, that's my humble opinion at least, and after many years of editing.

I woke on Friday, as we all did, to pavements baking and flowers blooming. Another day, another stretch of heat. I had no idea I would also be waking to the news that Beryl Bainbridge had passed away. Oh, how I have loved that woman's novels. Slim volumes of spare prose, nary a wasted word, tight exercises in simplicity that might mislead someone into believing that what she did was easy. I loved her imaginative confidence - tackling subjects as diverse and intriguing as the Titanic or the South Pole. I also regularly read her eccentric theatre reviews in The Oldie. She would report on the comfort of the seats as well as the quality of the production, not really caring whether her piece satisfied the normal journalistic demands of theatre review. Not really caring. She didn't care what the world thought, clearly didn't give a damn. I admired that.