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Sweaty writing

Over on Aliette de Bodard's blog, Nancy Fulda's posted a nice article comparing writing to sculpture. She takes as her starting point Michelangelo's famous line: “I saw the angel in the marble and carved until I set him free.” She goes on to talk about how, through writing and editing, it's the writer's job to carve away all the unnecessary clutter, revealing the story hidden within.

Nancy's right on the button. But there's a spookier aspect to this whole sculpture analogy: the unsettling sensation that the story has been there all along - that I'm not actually writing the thing at all, just unearthing it, like a fossil.

I had a art tutor who was always talking about the physical nature of sculpture. He liked to work on a large scale, outdoors, stripped to the waist, sculpting "with my whole body." It's hard to equate such physicality with writing, although legend has it both Hugo and Hemingway used to write naked. Me, I stay clothed and comfortable, expending only the energy it takes to make my fingers to hit the laptop keys. So why do I come out of a writing session feeling utterly - and satisfyingly - exhausted.

There's only one explanation. The act of writing transports you to another dimension. Literally. Somehwere there's this beach where all the good stories are buried. It may look like I'm sprawled on the couch idling tapping my keyboard - in fact I've abandoned my body altogether. I'm stripped to the waist, digging at the dirt, trying to winkle out the story-fossils before the tide comes in. Occasionally I manage it. Usually it's a close thing. Often I drown.

When the fossils are free though, like angels, they fly.

Don't trust the blurb

Funny how the blurb doesn't always match the book, isn't it. A couple of posts back I mentioned my recent novel Close Enemies, which is all about diplomatic action in the fictional African country of Rezengiland. Except it isn't. Well it is, but ...

Okay, when I wrote the book, the place really was called Rezengiland. But late on in the editing process it got changed to the Republic of Limpopo. Trouble is, by then the blurbs had all been written. So if you look it up on the web (yes, even on my own website) you'll find the old name stands. It's even on the back of the paperback edition, despite what's written inside. Publishing is all about dots, you see, and sometimes they don't all join up.

Something similiar happened with my earlier novel Stone and Sun. I had a character called Tom Steppe, but changed his changed at the eleventh hour to Tom Coyote. Unfortunately, all the advance blurbs had gone out to the book press and retailers, so for a while both names were flying around.

It just goes to show you can't trust anything you read in the media - or even necessarily on the back of a book. Your best bet is to buy the damn book and read it for yourself!

Ghostly puppeteer

Quick status report on the current novel-in-progress. I'm currently at a smidge over 33,000 words, which means I'm running a little behind schedule again.

The thing is, even though I'm working from a detailed outline (this is a ghost-writing project, so I'm putting the flesh on the bones of a plot created by others) I occasionally hit the occasional plotting problem. For example, this morning I happily started work on chapter thirteen. Two thousand words later I'd just about dealt with the action described in the first sentence.

This magical alchemy - converting a single sentence of outline into an entire chapter - is part of the endlessly rewarding and utterly frustrating business of writing to a tight synopsis. Just when you think the whole thing's mapped out, you realise your main character has no motivation for what he's about to do, the secondary character who popped up at the end of the last chapter really does need fleshing out if he's to be anything more than a cipher, and the spooky environment they both find themselves landed in deserves a little descriptive TLC.

That's why this kind of work is more rewarding than most people think. Ghost I may be, but I really am in control. If I don't do my job properly, the story I'm telling will have no more life than Pinocchio after his strings have been cut. So you could call me The Ghostly Puppeteer. Hmm. That's not a bad title for a story ...

I'll name that suit in one

Hop over to the Guardian Books Blog for Imogen Russell Williams's thoughts on character names in SF and fantasy fiction. Seems like Imogen agrees with my thoughts here ie if you're going to invent names, don't get silly. And avoid apostrophes at all costs.

Particularly refreshing then to pick up Joe Haldeman's The Forever War (one of those SF classics I never got round to reading, but which has been thoughtfully reprinted in the UK by those nice people at Gollancz). As well as enjoying Joe's clear, descriptive prose, I was delighted to discover that the name he'd decided on for the motion-amplifying fighting suits worn by his future army was ... fighting suits. Nice.

A writer's playlist

I write in silence. Is that odd? I don't know. A lot of writers like noise, specifically music. Joe Hill has even published a playlist for his latest book Horns. It's a great list, actually, but it bemuses me how Joe manages to put his own words down while Mick Jagger's advising him to have sympathy for the devil.

Not that music's not an inspiration. According to Walter Pater: "All art constantly aspires towards the condition of music." So no wonder music feeds the written word. It's just that, for me, the listening has to be separate to the writing. Maybe I just have trouble multitasking.

Like Joe and many others, I do have a list of songs that have inspired me in my various projects. It's just never occured to me to keep notes on them. But I do recall playing an old Enya track over and over while puzzling over the plotting of Dragoncharm. I think it was called The Celts, and every time I heard it I saw wings. On another occasion I got obsessed with Blondie's Atomic, which was the perfect accompaniment to a scene in Stone and Sun in which Tom Coyote races a pyroclastic flow down the side of the erupting Mount St Helens. Right now, I'm listening to the London Philharmonic's recording of Holst's Planets Suite, but I'm not going to tell you why.

Setting the story aside

This afternoon I finished writing a 7,500 word short story. And now I've got to set it aside. Tempting though it is to wrap up the manuscript and fire it off to my agent, I know that would be a mistake.

Most of the story's still just in first draft, you see. So, happy as I am with it now, I can guarantee several things. First, it'll be about 500 words too long. Second, it'll have at least one continuity error. Third, there'll be half a dozen places where I missed the chance to thread themes all the way through the narrative instead of just dropping them in when they occured to me. Fourth, for every metaphor that works there'll be another that either falls flat or come over as way too laboured. And so on. All these things will become apparent next time I read the story, but here's the catch: only if I wait. If I re-read it now, I wouldn't see any problems at all.

I don't know what causes this temporary blindness. Maybe it's a side-effect of that punch-drunk feeling you get when the tale you're telling is finally told. Maybe it's just about letting the wine mature before you uncork the bottle. Whatever the reason, this much I know: the best thing I can do now is set the story aside for at least a week, preferably two, before I read it again. By that time, my vision will have cleared enough for me to see all its faults - in Technicolour. With luck, I won't groan and dump it in the trash. With luck, I'll give it the loving nip and tuck it undoubtedly needs, enabling it to become the story I really originally set out to write.

And for those of you who are interested, yes, this is another story in my ongoing series about a private investigator who's good with dimensions. The working title is Missing, which is a terrible title and certainly won't be the one I try to sell it under. The story's a little different to the others in the series, but I'm not going to tell you why. All I will say is that it involves a trip to the zoo. If you want to know more, I'm afraid you'll just have to be patient.

Like me, for now at least, you'll have to set the story aside.

Writing, sensuality and the iPad

Okay, Apple's new iPad is a slick and sexy piece of hardware. What commuter wouldn't want to look all Minority Report swishing their fingers across the front page of The New York Times, watching those lovely high resolution graphics respond in an instant? And perhaps it really will open the floodgates for the ebook revolution that always seems to be just round the corner. But, when all's said and done, it's a device built for consuming. What I want to know is, can I use it to write a novel?

I just have doubts about that virtual keyboard, you see. Could I really type for any length of time on it? Yes, I know you can get a bolt-on keyboard but then I might as well use a laptop. I guess the only way to be sure is to try one out.

The more I think about it, the more I appreciate how important the physicality of writing is. When I was a kid I had an ancient mechanical typewriter with a vicious carriage return. I wrote my first novel longhand with a ballpoint pen, then typed it up on an electronic typewriter with a 6-line LCD display and the ability to carry an entire chapter in its memory at once! Nowadays I write and edit on a laptop. In one sense, it doesn't matter what medium you use. But in another, it's absolutely critical.

It's kinesthetics, I think. Something about the way all your senses join up. The act of writing is intimately connected to the medium you use to perform it. Writing longhand is different to composing on a keyboard. I've never dictated stories into a microphone, but I'm guessing that's different again. But here's the thing: they're all still physical. Sensual, actually. Maybe one day we'll have computers that read your thoughts, so that writers can sit in darkened rooms with their eyes closed, just spinning yarns. Maybe that's the ideal. Maybe the medium gets in the way. But I don't think so.

Kinesthetics tells us that some people learn language through touch and mannipulation. They spell better when they're moving plastic letters around on a table than when they try to wield a pen. Synesthia tells us that, for some people, sensory inputs can get crossed - they hear smells, taste numbers, see sounds. I was once taught sculpture by a tutor who used to strip off his shirt and use his whole upper body to work the clay. At first, stuff like that makes you titter. Then you get it. The act of creation is as sensual and physical as an athletic workout - and as exhausting.

So I'm curious about the iPad. At least those virtual keys won't wear out. And my clumsy fingers won't wear the print off. Now which key's the question mark again ...£$^&* ... ah, there it is???????????? aah, damn key's got stuckkkkkkk

Catching lightning

When I started this blog, I told myself I'd keep it positive. No whining. And I intend to keep it that way, but I've realised there's something insidiously negative - not to mention unrealistic - about being too positive. This post is an attempt to redress that balance.

If the writing business is famous for one thing it's the rejection letter. Now, I know this blog is read by a number of people who are aspiring writers, so I hope it provides some comfort to know that rejection really is just part of the business. I've known that for a long time, and continue to have work rejected on a regular basis. By my wife, who tells me this manuscript is lacking a certain sparkle, by my agent, who tells me this manuscript isn't commercial enough for the current market, by editors who tell me that there's no place for this manuscript in their list at the moment. I don't like it any more than you do. In the past I've even been guilty of taking it personally. But it's just the way the kitchen operates, and you know what they say if you can't stand the heat ...

Whenever this subject comes up I think about myfirst days at art college. There we were, fresh out of school, terribly precious with our pencils and convinced that every drawing we did had to be a fine and finished thing. To drum that out of us, the tutors spent the first few lessons mercilessly ripping us to pieces, tearing up work, throwing drawings on the floor and getting us to walk on them. Cruel? Maybe. But the only way to free us of the illusion that the act of the creation is all about the finished thing. Because it's not. It's about the process. Accepting artistic - and commercial - criticism is all part of the game. Accepting editorial advice is something we should all do gratefully, and gracefully.

Does that mean I'm not pissed off when what I thought was a pretty fine piece of work gets roundly trashed by everyone I show it to? Of course not. But it does mean that, after I've thrown things around the room and consumed a bottle or two of Cabernet Shiraz, I either set to work improving it or move on. Because there always is a next thing to move on to - you just have to seek it out.

So my message to all you struggling writers is simply this: the struggle isn't ever going to go away. I've had moderate success over some years, with eight published novels and two more under contract, plus a handful of short stories some of which have enjoyed some critical success. But I've also got trunk novels that have never seen the light of day, a heap of equally unloved short stories and any number of pitches for books that may or may not find a home. More rejections than you can shake a stick at, in other words, the most recent of which came thudding into my inbox just last week.

Is this a negative post, then? Not at all. It's a call to arms. Because the next project beckons. It always does. I'm waiting for some feedback on my latest pitch and who knows, maybe this will be the one that catches the lightning in the bottle. But right now, I've a new short story to finish. And as for you ... haven't you got something to be getting on with too? It won't write itself, you know.

Writing, or how to make balloon animals

A productive week so far: 8,000 words laid down for the new novel I talked about in this post. I'm working from a pretty tight outline, but even so it's a buzz to be writing the real words. However good it may be, an outline's like a limp balloon. It's not something you'd ever want to take to a party. Writing the real words is the equivalent of pumping the thing up. Then maybe pumping up another one and tying the two together. And then maybe attaching some more. Before you know it, you've made a giraffe. With luck, it's not just full of hot air ...

Think I'll stop now before I flog that particular analogy to death.

The 8,001st word is Abalone.

The weight of the word

I make the occasional visit to local primary schools to talk about creative writing and my experiences in the publishing industry. Halfway through telling the children about my first novel Dragoncharm, I bring out the original typescript and drop it on the table. At 798 pages it makes quite a bang (and raises plenty of nervous giggles). It's a good icebreaker.

When I reveal that the first draft handwritten manuscript was even bigger, they gasp. Of course, my humble offering is nothing compared to some. Check out Neal Stephenson's picture of his Baroque Cycle manuscript here. If you dropped that bad boy it would fall through the floor!

Apart from creating a bit of theatre, dropping the pages sets me up to make a particular observation – namely that seeing your work in print after slaving over a manuscript can be a bit weird. You pick up the book and think, 'This isn't what I wrote – what I wrote weighs the same as a small child and can be reduced to chaos by high winds.'

Of course, when you write – as I do these days – mostly on a laptop, it flips to the opposite extreme. 'What I wrote' is now a scrollable string of virtual words I can carry around on a USB stick so small I have to be sure not wear the trousers with the hole in the pocket. Yes, I print it out (it always reads differently on the page) but the principle holds true: compared to the original, the paperback version feels like something from another planet.

When your work's published online it's a little different. In some ways the text looks much the same as it does on your laptop. On the other hand, I still don't feel too comfortable reading on screen, so I'll most likely print it out anyway!

So when I'm asked, 'Do you read your own work?' the answer is, 'Yes, I do.' Because, however familiar it may be (and however sick of it I may be!), it always looks different in its final form. So reading it gives me a chance to (a) get an idea of my audience will perceive it and (b) read it with a fresh eye. Trust me, that's often no more fresh than a month-old kipper, but it's as close as I'm going to get. The only alternative is to bury the thing for years and only disinter it when it's started to turn green and move about of its own accord.

I do that too.

Rip it up

Deleting stuff on a word processor is highly unsatisfactory experience. You push a key and it's gone. Where's the passion? Where's the anger? How can electronic deletion deliver the same catharsis as, say, grabbing the ten pages of manuscript you just spent a whole morning sweating over (and which you just reread only to conclude they stink), ripping them to shreds and hurling them into the wastebin? So here's my challenge to programmers: write me some software where, when I hit delete, the whole page disintegrates, or melts, or explodes into flaming shards of atomic chaff. With suitable sound effects, of course.

Make sure there's an undo though. Just in case.

W = 100c – T ...

... where W is word count, T is temperature and c is a constant the value of which I haven't quite worked out yet. My basis for this theory? The fact that yesterday evening, still sweltering in the UK heatwave, I laboured for two hours over maybe five hundred words of manuscript that at best were distinctly average. This morning, I got up bright and early (well, early) and in one hour rewrote most of what I wrote last night and added another five hundred words for good measure. I reckon the temperature difference between the two sessions was a good twelve degrees. QED. I shall now submit my findings to the Nobel Foundation in the hope of receiving the recognition I deserve.

Four chapters and counting

As techniques go it's a simple one. A no-brainer, you might say. Which makes it perfect for a disorganised clod like me. I'm talking about word count.

I'm on a fairly tight schedule to deliver an 80,000-word manuscript by the beginning of September. The outline's clearly defined and, since this is a sequel, I'm dealing mostly with continuing characters. So it's tempting to ease back. What's the rush? It'll get done. Maybe I'll take Douglas Adams's advice and, instead of writing, have another bath.

To bring myself in line, I've pasted a series of milestones at the bottom of the manuscript to remind me how many chapters I need to have written by the end of each week. The cut-off point each week is Sunday evening. Yesterday's official milestone was chapter four, which I hit mid-afternoon after finding all kinds of excuses not to work on the book on Saturday (well, Andy Murray was playing, wasn't he?). So I woke up today knowing I was right on schedule.

I told you it was simple. Doesn't make it easy though. It all comes down to the best bit of writing advice I've come across (sorry – I can't attribute this as I've lost the reference):

"The art of writing is the art of applying the seat of the pants to the seat of the chair."

Or, in my case, the sofa. Well, you don't want to make it too hard on yourself, do you?

Mars is heaven

I've travelled many times to Mars, courtesy of Bradbury and Dick and Baxter et al, but never to Barsoom. It's a shameful gap in my reading and one I'm now plugging by reading Edgar Rice Burroughs's A Princess of Mars.

I'm about halfway through and it takes me right back to when I was a kid and lapping up Burroughs's Pellucidar novels. It's energetic stuff, and the hero John Carter, in this case is always ready to let fly with his fists - or whatever weapon comes to hand for the sake of saving the beautiful princess-in-peril. Mars - AKA Barsoom - is an unlikely version of the real thing, a planet carpeted in moss and peopled by four-armed green men and more recognisable red ones, as well as all manner of beasties that are neither wee nor timorous.

But the thing that strikes me most as I enjoy the book is the very real sense of being transported to another world. That may seem an obvious thing to say, but think about it a minute. From a 21st century perspective this book is clearly ridiculous. The science is nonsense, the scenarios contrived and the characters mere stereotypes. But ...

As a writer of speculative fiction, I'm constantly trying to devise new ways to, well, speculate. And that can be a tough job when we're all already living in the future. And when all the old fantasy tropes are so darned familiar. Why do you think we now have terms like "slipstream" and "genre-bending" and (still good for a few years) "post-modern"? But reading Burroughs again has reminded me of something it's easy to forget: the simple urge of a reader to escape. Where? Anywhere really. Let's just have some fun here.

And fun is what I'm having, reading A Princess of Mars. I'm not here to critique it, or place it in its historical context, simply to express a reader's pleasure in spending a few hours in an entertaining fantasy that is, above all other things, comfortable. Next week I might be reading something that bends my brain and challenges my philosophies, and that's fine too, but that'll have to wait, because the beautiful Dejah Thoris has got herself in trouble and needs rescuing again. And there's only one man for the job.

Adverbs are the devil's work ...

.. so use them only in case of emergency.

Where does the magic live?

Sooner or later I'll take my well-worn copy of John Crowley's Little, Big off my bookshelf and reread it for what will be the fourth or fifth time. Once again I'll try to work out where he's hidden the magic. And once again, I suspect, I'll fail.

I've always been a proponent of the idea that magic in fiction needs rigorous rules so as to be realistic, but Mr Crowley's more subtle than that. This is a book subtitled The Faeries' Parliament, and yet I don't recall the word 'faerie' ever actually appearing in the text. Everything that could remotely be described as magical occurs so far offstage you could be forgiven for thinking it was happening in another production altogether. And yet ... Little, Big is more soaked in magic than any other book I know.

It seems to me that writing about magic - and here I don't mean whizz-bang spells and bone-crunching shapeshifters, I mean that fundamental sense of the strange - isn't about the words you use at all. It's about the spaces you put between them. In the same way that the faerie folk inhabit those secret glades and walk those paths less trod, so the real magic lurks not in what's spoken, but in what's left unsaid.

It's a clever trick - a kind of literary sleight-of-hand - and John Crowley does it better than most. It's the easest thing in the world to suggest to the reader there's a pixie sitting on his shoulder. Convincing him utterly of the fact without even mentioning it ... that's something else.