A few times now, in a discussion about writing, I've been floored by someone saying, "Why would you read a book a second time? I never have." Sure, I know that people vary in how many books they re-read, and whether twice is enough or they're hardcore re-readivists, and in a general conversation I might have been (slightly) less surprised. But these have all been aspiring writers of one sort or another, so, Never?

I do have a bus test for how good a book is: if you left it on the bus, how much time and money would you spend trying to get it back, or get hold of another copy? Maybe it's not worth the bother at all. But assuming that the book's on your own or your local library's shelf, and you could re-read it if you chose, why would you, instead of reading something new? I suppose the obvious reason for not re-reading a book is that you've gathered everything it has to offer. If all you're after is facts, whether it's facts about Lenin, or the prevalence of the lesser spotted whitethroat in the chalk downlands of Sussex, or facts about WhoDunnit, whether the world will be saved by Alpha Male, or whether Sweet Girl is going to get her Alpha Male or Nice Single Mum find much nicer Beta Male, then a single read will supply what you desire. Or will it?

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We are thrilled to welcome best selling romantic novelist Katie Fforde to Strictly Writing. Thanks so much Katie, for taking the time out of your busy schedule to join us.


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I heard an adaptation of The Borrowers on Radio 4 the other day. It reminded me how important size can be. Writing for children, we try – whether consciously or unconsciously – to think as they do, to put ourselves into their place. In this attempt to become our past, the most obvious facts are sometimes the most easily forgotten: children are physically smaller than adults.

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I spent many hours wondering about the sense of going alone. I read extensively spoke to many people – opinion is split fairly evenly.

Don’t under any circumstances self-publish – agents, publishing houses only way to go; security, well oiled machine working for you.

Do self publish – keep control of the whole, the book, and the profits.

Would it be stupid to go alone?

Suddenly I realised this is what I do. All my life. Want something, do something.

When I wanted to travel in my youth and found all my friends were after careers, mortgages and security, I travelled alone, for twenty years. I took control of where, what and how I lived. After the first scary months, enjoying almost every minute of it and discovering new friends along the way.

When I came home and still found careers boring I went the craft route and wandered the agriculture and craft shows of the country selling my sculptures and silk clothes. Controlling my work hours and ethics and my enjoyment of work. After the first scary weeks, I enjoyed almost every minute of it and discovered a whole new world on my doorstep that I knew nothing of.

Then, after saying once too often I wished I had had the opportunity to go to University, I yelled at myself to ‘just do it’. Menopausal hiccup or whatever, I did. I was in control of my mind. After the first scary days, I enjoyed almost every minute of it and discovered science and anthropology.

So, coming up to retirement and thinking a little sourly of old age racing towards me, I started wondering about how to try and control the environment and make life a bit safer. Looking around the world of bungalows I decided that, to do what I felt was needed, I had to self-build. Control as many aspects of building as was legally possible. Scary yes and I cannot truthfully say I enjoyed any of the process – very stressful. But living in the new abode? I am enjoying almost every minute of it.

So why should I be scared of self-publishing – okay, it has been, still is, a new learning curve – but surely I could do it. Keep control of my novel, of its production and distribution. And I’m hopeful I shall enjoy almost every minute of it.

www.albertaross.co.uk
www.didyoueverkissafrog.typepad.com

A Time for Grief by Jennifer Jensen.

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Since no one can help me track back to the original source of the quotation, "Fiction is the memories we don't have", I'm going to claim it for my own, because it crops up so often that I'm getting bored with the virtual footnote I feel obliged to add. The original thought started with philosopher and novelist Richard Kearney's book On Stories. He talks about how narrative evolved as an integral part of evolving human consciousness: once you have an understanding of your self and then other selves, as individuals in time, you start trying to understand your relationship to time: what was before - and might come after - Now.

And once you realise that there are individuals who are as much selves to them selves as you are, but who had a Now which you never knew, then you start needing to get a grip on that, too, and myth emerges. Eventually it separates into history - the known bits and pieces of experience which are left for us by what really happened - and fiction: those bits and pieces spun of experience into a new shape, to explore our selves and our world by thinking about what might have happened. In reading fiction we're using the mental (neural?) pathways that evolved before the distinction between fact and fiction was made. Fiction spins the material of individual and collective memory into a new shape, but still a narrative shape. As John Gardener puts it, it's in the authentic evocation of experiences we do remember, that the writer of fiction persuades the reader to 'agree to forget' that the story s/he spins from them never actually happened. Fiction exploits pathways created for actual memory, and the narrative nature of our consciousness, to form something which feels like individual and collective memory, which has the coherence of cause and effect which narrative bestows on a collection of bits and pieces.

Recently I asked a group of writer friends, published and unpublished, whether they first came to writing as a medium for self-expression, or as a means of telling stories.

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Tomorrow we showcase our first story.

More details here.

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Taking stock... I’ve just been going through my Submissions File. I’ve submitted my novel to 13 (unlucky for some) agents. Responses so far: one no-reply, eight standard rejections, three personal rejections (one of which asked to see my next novel) and one request for a full (based only on a synopsis and covering letter) which was quickly rejected when they encountered the actual writing…

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An account of writing, wine and pizzas.

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