In the aftermath of the Fish cull (see previous post), I've been thinking about the value of entering writing contests. Is a writer a gullible fool to fork out entry fees and should we eschew contests who charge them? Or is the very process of entering (and losing) contests a necessary part of our craft?

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This was going to be a PS on the bottom of Too quiet on the lit fic front, but that got too long, so here's a separate little mention:

I've finally got round to getting my on-stage interview at the Brisbane Writers' Festival up on my website. When I got the Festival programme, I remember, I was incredibly daunted. A panel discussing something about history, or fiction, or historical fiction, I could handle, but an hour-long live one-to-one interview? With audience? Recorded for national radio? But in the event it was great. My publishers Headline Review (who in that hemisphere fly under the Hachette Livre banner) very kindly took Kate Evans and me out to dinner the night before to get an idea of what we'd want to talk about, and at one point we agreed we'd have to stop talking about the book or we'd have said it all before the session! Obviously for radio it was edited, but the majority of the discussion got in, plus me reading a short extract from The Mathematics of Love. If it would amuse you to listen, click here to go to that page of my website.

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To listen to some of the literary gloom-mongers huffing and puffing you'd think that Faber, Cape, Canongate and their ilk hadn't issued a book between them for years, whereas if you'd peered into the bag which I toted home from Foyles last week (15% discount to members of the Society of Authors) you'd have seen that's not true. It simply isn't true that no one's writing and publishing good literary fiction any more. But it is true that "Publishers, however, are consistently and in vast quantity turning down well-written literary fiction that is ‘too quiet.’" That quote comes from the always-interesting Two Ravens Press blog, where Sharon Blackie has been talking about why some literary fiction does get published but so much fundamentally good writing never makes it over the bar into publication. And from my much more limited experience with novels I read for editorial reports, not to mention what I see on the bookshop tables, I know exactly what she means.

Now, before anyone else huffs and puffs, when she says 'too quiet', Sharon's not talking about a shortage of bomb-blasts and orgasmic shrieks, nor a metaphorical bang-bang-bang of non-stop action.

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Managed to grab a decent amount of sleep yesterday, thank goodness, but have still taken the day off today as I did feel rather shaky this morning. I also want to be as well as possible for tomorrow, which I think is probably a sensible move.

Anyway, today there's good news and mixed news ('twas ever thus ...). I was delighted to receive both my eBook contracts from Bristlecone Pine Press, one for Thorn in the Flesh and the other for Pink Champagne and Apple Juice. So I've read through and signed those and will get them back to Leslie next week.

And the great Scott Pack has nobly flicked through Maloney's Law (an act surely well beyond the Call of Duty ...) and considers it to have a certain charm, though it's not as slick or professional as other crime novels. So a rather mixed response, sigh. Ah well - as I said in the comments which you can find here (see full post for all links), we Essex Gals don't really understand the concept of slick professionalism. Unless it comes with white stilettos of course ... But I'm certainly grateful for the mention, as Lord knows I need all the help I can get - so thank you for that, Scott!...


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It’s hard to imagine those tiny arms we all used to have; that upper section without the swing…and the memory of having long legs in my youth – I think the rest of my body fell, or slid, down and stole almost a foot from my thighs! I find myself ogling ornaments in shop windows – I always wanted to be a fairy. Sharp elbows and knees were once a part of me and would’ve looked fabulous in any enchanted wood, but even little folk must grow.

What happens to fairies when they’re 40?


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My favourite writing rule is the one that says you shouldn’t use the verb “to be.”

EVER.

Got that? Go through your whole book and circle them all, then restructure the sentences in a convoluted fashion, OK? Being is just existing. It’s boring and passive. Your verbs as well as your characters should take charge of their own destiny. “Was” and “were” are particularly nefarious. You have to strike them out, otherwise you’re not A Proper Writer.



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There is a school of thought that believes it to be counter-productive to edit your work as you go along. To be able to get that first draft down on the page (or document file) warts-and-all so that the story flows in an undiverted stream would, undoubtedly, be great.


It's just that I can't do it. I didn't do it with Changeling or Changeling 2, and I don't think that I ever will be able to do it. My way is much slower, but it appears it is the way that my particular muse chooses to operate.


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Thought I’d do some limbering up for nanowrimo (catchy but irritating acronym don’t you think?) … a literary workout. Used one of my shortlisted titles (see previous post) as a prompt for a freewrite to see how much content it would generate. Managed to type 1223 words in 38 minutes. Worked out my ’stream consciousness’ peak flow at 31.57894736842 words per minute! As I can copy type at 47 wpm I was quite cheered - thinking - maybe I can cope with a target of 2000 words a day... (more)

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A day off today as I've finally succumbed to the evil demands of the cold I've been developing, sigh. Having managed a grand total of 4 hours' sleep on Sunday night and a gloriously indecent one hour last night, I probably ruddy well deserve a day off. I gave up even trying to sleep at around midnight yesterday and got up and began to do a stream of endless puzzles in the living room instead. Couldn't be arsed to turn the TV on really. My one hour's sleep finally overtook me on the sofa at around 5am. Frankly it was delicious ...


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I was up early, at The Boy's insistence. We sat on the sofa; me bleary of eye and fuzzy of head, him raring to go. "Bugsla," he kept saying. "Bugsla," more earnest every time. I eventually worked out that he was saying A Bug's Life. It took me so long I actually agreed to let him watch it. Come on, it was 6am, not a time for wholesome activities like puzzles.

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