Category Archives: Sophie is writing

Lili Badger hits the town

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On Tuesday night, I got to take Lili Badger for her first public outing. It’s not that no-one’s met her yet: she’s been introduced to my Dad, my Grampa, a few select friends. And of course my agent, who in turn has introduced her to some lucky YA editors. But it’s the first time I was introducing her directly to a literary audience of (mainly) strangers, with a reading at Speakeasy at Drink Shop Do.

As someone who trained as an actor and taught for ten years you’d have thought that eight minutes of reading aloud wouldn’t phase me. But I was surprisingly nervous. Choosing an extract to read was the first challenge: the opening chapters seemed to have too much exposition, some of the later ones too little. I was also keen to avoid having to recreate some of the dialogue as whilst it sounds suitably street when spoken by the voices in my head I doubted I’d be able to make it convincing enough when I opened my mouth. Even at drama school accents were never my strong point. In the end I chose an extract which almost stands alone as an event in the story. It was actually one of the first scenes I visualised when I was planning the novel, and made it into the final cut more to enrich the fabric of the world I was creating than to drive the plot forward. It’s a bit dark though, and I spent the tube journey to King’s Cross panicking that it was going to set completely the wrong tone.

My mind was put at rest by one of the lovely friends who’d come to support me – she also handily was one of my initial readers and I definitely trust her judgement above my own on such matters. Once that was sorted, beer in hand and catching up with mates, I was finally able to chill a little. Until of course the comperes announced the beginning of the readings and my heart was once more in my throat.

Nicci Cloke and Ian Ellard were actually completely wonderful, putting me at ease and warming up an already very friendly audience. Listening to Tom Easton’s seriously chuckle-worthy extracts from Boys Don’t Knit chilled me out still further, though as the room was collapsing in hysterics I was wondering how they were going to react to my very different and somewhat depressing choice. I really needn’t have worried though.

Stood at the bar, microphone in one hand and iPad in the other, suddenly it felt like I was absolutely supposed to be there. A hush came over the room, and for perhaps the first time I really felt like an author. Not just someone who writes, which obviously is a role I step into most days, but someone whose words get listened to. I had really enjoyed revisiting the novel I wrote this time last year in preparation for the evening, and stepping into Lili’s shoes to release her into the world as I told a part of her story was a real thrill.

I have to admit Tom Pollock’s super dramatic reading from The City’s Son passed in a bit of a blur – I was buzzing, and grinning from ear to ear.

There was still one more challenge to come, one which I’d been dreading even more than the reading itself: creating a piece of flash fiction on the spot to be read at the end of the evening. Again my worries were completely unfounded. We worked collaboratively during the interval, me and the two Toms led by Ian, writing a story on the theme of ‘a dustbin knocked over in the backstreets of Whitechapel’. With perhaps a little scientology thrown in. Armed with a celebratory glass of cava the writing itself was a blast: as authors our styles are very different, but the story we produced with those styles meshed irreverently together was, even if I do say so myself, a work of genius. I’d forgotten how much fun it is to write collaboratively. I always used to love improvisation as an actor, and it’s basically the same thing just with added speedy handwriting.

I was able to relax into the second half a bit more. I was captivated by Tanya Byrne’s reading from Heart-Shaped Bruise, loved the unexpected tenderness of Non Pratt’s Trouble, and soaked up the spookiness of James Dawson’s Say Her Name. Once the author readings were over, Nicci and Ian took it in turns to share the stories we’d concocted earlier. And ours of course won – who could resist Tiny Tom Cruise being humiliated by a Thetan? You can read both stories here: I very much recommend you do.

All in all it was a fantastic evening. I left feeling a little bit more like an author, and Lili Badger left feeling a little more real. It was a privilege to begin to get her story out there, even if only a part of it. I cannot wait until I get the chance to unleash the rest of it on the world.

Looking through the eyes of a child

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Whenever I tell anyone I’m using motherhood as an excuse to start writing novels they look at me like I’m bonkers. But you’d be surprised how conducive a new person is to writing about the world.

Firstly, they go an awfully long way to giving you the discipline that’s needed to be a proper writer. It’s remarkably motivating to have a small creature attached to you who could go off at any moment. I know I can rely on about an hour and a half of quiet time, so that’s now how long it takes me to write my 1500 words.

Secondly, and this is actually entirely an addendum of the above, they remind you what’s important. I am at home with my son because I’ve managed to convince myself and those who are close to me that I’m a writer. So if I stop writing… Well, I’d just have to go and get a proper job, and I doubt I’d be able to bring my son along.

The third reason is the one that brings me to this week’s prompt:

‘Seek the wisdom of the ages but look at the world through the eyes of a child’ Ron Wild

I’ve studied writing for forever. I could tell you exactly what you need to do to produce something worthwhile. And yet there are still moments when I am trying to write and I have no idea what I’m doing.

I could think about the accepted wisdom, about the writers whose work I admire. I could think about the theory, about the tricks I know would manipulate my reader. But actually what works better than anything else is to think about my child.

My child, who has no idea of what a cliche is or why you might want to avoid one. My child, who can help me see anew the world which has made me weary over the years. My child, who inspires a fresh approach to the most mundane of experiences.

I spent years as a grown-up trying to conjure the time and the confidence that I needed to write, but it is only since I’ve been a mother that I’ve been able to make that a reality.

The wisdom of the ages has its place in what I do for sure, but it is my son who is my biggest inspiration.

mumturnedmom

The magic of storytelling: part two

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So as well as thinking about how magical storytelling is for the reader as I watch Arthur discover how much he loves stories, it’s also been on my mind how incredibly magical it is for the writer.

Stories have always been a hugely important part of my life. From those early days devouring them as they were read to me and soon after, as a reader, staying up long into the night, hiding under the duvet with a torch and a pile of Enid Blyton. Later as a teacher I watched astounded as a class of challenging teenagers was silenced by the simple pleasure of listening to someone read aloud; I relished in the power of stories as entertainment and as vehicles for so much more. And now as a writer I feel enormously privileged to be consumed by stories and (almost) be able to call it work.

The magic of stories and of storytelling is something I explored thematically in Lili Badger. The folk tales Lili was told by her grandmother as a child return with renewed vigour in her teenage years, their metaphors seeping into her burgeoning understanding of what’s happening around her, helping her make sense of an otherwise opaque and unfriendly world.

What I didn’t realise then, though, what’s only really beginning to dawn on me now as I move deeper into my second novel, is that as a writer I’m not really here to tell stories. I mean, that’s part of it of course. Relaying a story in a form and a style that captures peoples’ imagination and makes them want to read on. But ultimately I’m beginning to see myself a bit more as a vehicle for a story that wants to be told.

When it comes to writing anything I’m definitely a planner. I’m not very good at just sitting down with a blank piece of paper and waiting for inspiration to strike, though I know that’s the way lots of novelists work. Before I started writing this novel, as with the first, I’d basically mapped out each chapter with a little summary to work from – something to inspire me, and something to keep me on track through the brain melt of motherhood. That bit of the process really isn’t very magical – it can feel like a bit of a slog just mapping everything out, and what seemed like great ideas in theory start to feel insubstantial and incoherent. But once I’ve worked through that, once the overall story arc is there and it’s time to actually get on with the writing – that’s where the real magic comes in.

Moving from those little summaries to the actual written chapters has been an amazing process this time round. I don’t know if with the first novel I was just too tired or too excited to notice it, but as I write the second I’m struck by it almost every day.

How I think I know what’s going to happen, and then as the words flow from my mind to the page events subtly change. How I think I know a character, and then they do or say something that surprises me but ultimately fits much better overall.

There have been some very specific incidences of this recently. Like my main character opening a drawer to get something out, but finding something else entirely different. She’d forgotten it was there, and I had no idea at all. But actually it explained a lot, and suddenly made the plot a lot less clunky.

Then yesterday lunch time I was sat describing a scene I was about to write to my husband, explaining how in control Grace was and how she absolutely definitely wasn’t going to cry. And then I sat down to write, and as the scene unfolded she felt tears pricking behind her eyes and ended up sobbing. Again it actually made a lot more sense than what I’d thought was going to happen – and I suspect the writing rang truer for me being taken aback by it as much as she was.

It’s taken me a while to write this post as I wasn’t quite sure how to put it without seeming entirely bonkers. Even reading it back now it all seems a bit improbable. Those ideas are coming from somewhere, and I guess that somewhere must be hiding in my subconscious. But it’s strange and exhilarating how they won’t reveal themselves to me when I think but only when I write. It makes the mantra I began this project with even more important, and it makes me really very excited about the story I might discover over the weeks to come.

A writer’s apology

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I’m pleased to be able to report that the novel is going pretty well. After three weeks of writing I’m six chapters and nearly 20,000 words in, and my loosely sketched out ideas are beginning to pad out rather nicely.

There is however one thing that’s been bothering me a little, playing on my mind as the plot unfolds. And that’s the impact it’s all going to have on my main character. I’ve spent the first few chapters getting to know her a bit better. She’s a bit annoying (more than I’d anticipated actually, but then I’ve probably got my own foibles to blame for that), but she definitely means well, and she’s not unkind.  She’s in a good place right now – better than she’s been for years. But that’s all about to change now she’s met him.

It’s still early days, but I can sense her anticipation building. She’s totally seduced by him already even if she hasn’t quite admitted it to herself yet. He has her just where he wants her – and his manipulation of her every emotion has only just begun.

I know where this all ends of course. The general gist of it if not quite all the detail. And she totally doesn’t deserve what’s coming. She has no idea, and won’t have until she’s been sucked in way too deep. I mean, I could warn her – but like the director having a sneaky aside with the blonde girl as she heads off alone into the horror movie forest it really wouldn’t do much for the story.

So I’m just going to have to hold my nerve and suppress my protective instincts, continuing to weave the web of words that will trap her in the end. Things are going to get better for a while anyway, so I can comfort myself with the romance of it all. But I know what’s coming, where his true intentions lie. And for that, Grace, I am sorry.

Researching realism

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I almost didn’t start writing novel number two last week because I was worried I hadn’t done enough research. Then I decided that sounded like a really good route to extended procrastination so jumped in regardless with the intention of filling in any gaps as they opened up. Now that I’m delving deeper into the world of the novel, I’m actually suspecting that there might be much less research that needs doing than I originally thought. At least I hope so…

There are some areas that I’m definitely still planning on reading around to avoid any glaring errors. Sleep science and dream theory for example: I imagine I’ll be taking a bit of artistic license with both, but I’d like to have a bit of a better grounding in the realities before I start to play. Then there’s the different aspects of mental health that affect my two main characters. That’s something I don’t want to mess up, and despite having a degree of personal experience to work with I’d like to make sure I don’t misrepresent this sensitive and important issue.

The area though that I’ve decided I can probably chill out about is my protagonist’s career. She works in the media, and I was getting all hung up on wanting that part of her world to be ‘right’. I think mainly so that if any of my media-type friends ever read it I wouldn’t end up feeling embarrassed about my lack of insider knowledge. But the more I thought about it the more I realised that what is considered ‘right’ might vary quite a lot from one perspective to another. And anyway, perhaps I was chasing something that wasn’t that important after all.

Ultimately, in the pursuit of verisimilitude, surely what we’re looking for as novelists is something that rings true rather than something that necessarily is true? Whilst obviously I don’t want to paint a picture that’s a million miles from reality, it’s more important that the majority of my non-media-type readers believe it to be true than any experts know it to be true. And with that in mind my relatively well informed layperson’s perspective might just be a better place to come from than one that will cut down my imagination every time it meanders too far from the real world.

I realise this is in danger of sounding like a protracted excuse to do less research. Be that as it may I’ve decided that trusting myself is going to be okay – and might just make the reality I’m creating that little bit more convincing.

My characters and me

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Creating characters is a curious business. I don’t really mean the early stage when I’m thinking about how they’ll work within the plot, the broad brushstrokes that give me enough to get started. But the stage I’m at now – the stage of writing rather than planning – when they begin to come to life as the story unfolds and more often than not teach me things about myself.

I think there’s a part of me in every character I create. Some more than others – and I definitely find myself borrowing plenty from people I know or have known too. But it’s a bit disconcerting when I find a character doing something, or saying something, and have the sneaking realisation that it’s a part of me that’s manifesting itself. Especially when it’s not a particularly nice or healthy characteristic. 

Having said that, my life’s changed so much over the fifteen years or so that I’d consider myself to have been an adult that there’s plenty of material. And plenty of things that can creep out onto the page that I’d never let free in the real world any more. On one level it’s actually quite cathartic – facing up to those demons that I’ve moved on from without necessarily fully acknowledging, watching where they’re taking a character who makes different choices to me and grows in different ways.

This novel is going to take me to some pretty dark places, and I’m looking forward to that and dreading it in equal measure. I’ll keep you posted as to how much more I find out about myself along the way… 

Just write

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These are words I will be saying to myself repeatedly over the coming weeks. They’re especially important in the beginning, when the characters are just beginning to take shape, the details of the plot just beginning to emerge and fill in the many gaps left by my outline plan. They were especially useful today when I finally had time to sit down at the computer after a morning at the soft play catching up with friends and an almost sleepless night comforting Arthur after his latest jabs.

I was all ready with a multitude of excuses – better, reasons – why I wasn’t going to get any writing done today. But then as Arthur was beginning to doze off and I found myself pleasantly surprised as I read over the beginning of the chapter from yesterday I could hear the words “just write” echoing in my head. So I did, and a couple of hours later swelled with satisfaction as Scrivener pinged to let me know I’d met my daily target.

“Just write” is basically the essence of the reams of advice contained in the books about writing that I read as I was preparing to take the plunge. But the advice that resonated most with me came from Maggie O’Farrell in an article she wrote for the Guardian. When I’d told friends and family that I planned to write a novel whilst I was at home looking after my firstborn they were supportive in theory, but told me that it was very unlikely that it would actually happen. I almost believed them, and then I came across that article. And it just made sense. Especially the sling and the chocolate.

I’m lucky that Arthur likes his naps – compensation maybe for him being a bit of a night owl. So when we have nothing else planned I can usually get a stint in front of the computer both morning and afternoon. I soon worked out how to feed him in the sling too which buys precious extra time. The minute he starts to get sleepy I have my square of chocolate, put him in the sling, and off we go. I know he’s safe so my mind can stay focused, and he always sleeps way better in the sling than if I try and put him down.

I know we won’t be able to go on like this forever – I’m sure at some point this year he’ll start to grow out of his naps and I’ll be looking for tips on how to write whilst caring for a toddler. But hopefully it’ll keep working for long enough for me to get this next book finished. And however tired or scatty I’m feeling I’ll be repeating my mantra: just write.

The power of Scrivener

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So I’d put novel number two on hold back at the end of November when it fast became apparent that I wasn’t going to be able to focus on immersing myself in a twisted psychological thriller whilst at the same time preparing for Arthur’s first Christmas and birthday celebrations. This morning, with him tucked up in the sling and drifting off to sleep, I logged in to Scrivener with some trepidation.

I knew I had it all mapped out – character profiles, chapter by chapter summaries, a growing bank of research – but as for actually writing… I was filled with the fear of the blank page and fairly sure I’d forgotten how to do it.

But then I set my end date. And from that generated targets. And suddenly it didn’t seem such an insanely daunting task. And the lure of the green progress bar became too much to resist. And with the click of a button I’d revealed my intentions to the twitter community. And before I knew it I was writing.

It wasn’t easy, I’m not convinced it’s all that great, but I’ve made a start. And I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have done it without that handy little app.

http://www.literatureandlatte.com/scrivener.php