The Time Just Flies By

 It is a truth universally acknowledged that a writer in receipt of a fortune, and free time, cannot fail to produce a masterpiece. Netherfield Hall is let at last and … no, wait, that’s not right.

 I firmly believed the above aphorism, just knowing that if I don’t have to work for my living, and had enough money to live on, I could write the most wonderful stories. That is, I believed it until this week.

 

Last week, I had a holiday to prepare for, I had to finish off my last week at work, I had parties to go to, I had so many things to plan, and not only did I get my blog in on time, I also managed to write a little story (not that good a story, actually).

 

This week, and for the next three weeks, I have plenty of money, and lots of free time. I ought to be writing. Yet not only is my blog late (mea culpa!) but I haven’t written a single word of fiction.

 

It started off with chores. Surely, I thought, I had time to clean the flat. After all, I can’t write ALL the time. So I gave the flat a thorough clean – more thorough than any I’ve given in my life. Even the fridge was pulled out so I could clean under it. Then I did all those chores that I’d never got round to when I was working, like hanging up those pictures. Then, with all that money, I could finally afford to buy a sofa, and mattress and all those little things. And of course, with all this time off, I could afford to go and visit a few places – like Battle Abbey, and the BBC – and the result was, I never sat down for a single second to write, and I’m scribbling this now, late, in between wrestling a mattress down four flights of stairs to the garden to be taken away, and moving the bookcases so the new sofa can get in.

 

I guess the lesson is – I shouldn’t be making excuses not to write – free time and money don’t necessarily mean free time to write.

 

On the other hand – all those little chores are done now, so hopefully I should be able to get down to it next week. Except I must go to the theatre, and the cinema, and I have to arrange my trip to Stratford to see David Tennant in Hamlet, and I need new coffee cups….

I can’t market myself – I’m English!

Marketing. I know I should do it. I know it’s the best way to get my work known. I know the chances are that I will never get discovered, make a fortune, win both the Booker and the Orange prize without it. But the very thought of it makes me cringe….

 

You see, I’m English. Very very English. And here, it’s just not the done thing.

 

Perhaps an author might sneak into a bookshop. They might sidle up to someone and whisper, half-hoping not to be heard ‘That’s my book. You might like it. It’s okay, I guess. I like it. But it’s okay if you don’t. Don’t feel you have to buy it, or anything. Sorry to disturb you’ at which point they run out of the shop, blushing fiercely, and feeling somehow dirty.

 

Marketing, especially aggressive marketing, can backfire, here. It gets our backs up. I have met so many people who refused to read Harry Potter because of what they perceived as ‘aggressive marketing’

 

The funny thing about Harry Potter is- it wasn’t marketed to start off with. It started small. The word about this great book didn’t spread via viral emails, or clever TV ads, or anything else. It was children, telling other children about this great book. And bit by bit, the whispers spread. I was working in a library at the time, and heard the whispers myself. ‘Try this book, it’s great’, kids told each other. Then The Prisoner of Azkaban came out, and, with hardly any marketing at all, it shot straight to the top of the chart.

 

After that, we had the marketing techniques. The toys, the midnight sellings, everything else that Muggles considered ‘intrusive’. But by that point, us Potterites wanted the toys and midnight sales and movies. We’d done the hard work. We’d spread the word ourselves. We’d wanted to be proved right. And we enjoyed all of it, knowing that we were there in the beginning, when the word of a good book was spread by children’s whispers.

 

So yes, us English (and Scottish, and Welsh and Irish) can do the big marketing campaign. But it makes us feel a little dirty. It’s not how we work. It’s not how things are done. We prefer the idea that we can get big just because we’re good. And J.K. Rowling, bless her, showed us that we could.

 

On the other hand, she was the lucky one. I shall have to get over my English reserve, and learn to market myself. And one day, I will. Perhaps. Maybe. I don’t know. After all, I am English!

Perfection

I hate being a writer. I don’t just mean I hate the actual physical aspect, sitting down with a pen, or a computer. I don’t mean I hate all the sideshows, agents, publishers, booksellers. I hate the actual fact of being a writer.

Sometimes, I can go days without writing a story. And as I actually earn my living in a shop, and not through this, that’s okay. I’ll stand behind the counter, and serve my customers. I’ll drink with my friend. I’ll sleep with my boyfriend, and no feeling deeper than my skin moves me; My life is calm and regular and will always be like this. Normal. Everyday.

But then it happens. I’ll be serving a customer, or stocking a shelf. My mind will drift away from my task, away from whatever my hands are doing, away from reality, and in a moment, a sudden tearing flash, it’ll come. A moment. A phrase. A sentence. A plot twist. A formation of words so perfect it’ll bring tears to my eyes.

I don’t mean I sit and sob. I’m not a 19th century aesthete, nor a Lakeland poet. I mean I’ll get the little tickle in the bridge of my nose, and a strange twist in my stomach, and tears will slip into my eyes, because for that one brief moment, I’ll have found perfection and I created it.

And then of course, I have to write it. I have to create a story to hold, a paragraph to frame, the perfect sentence. And no matter how hard I try, I cannot match the perfection of the original inspiration. I push and I beg and plead, and I cry and I scream, but I cannot do it as well as I did at that one moment. And I write and write and write and nothing I set down on paper ever matches that original vision, nothing is ever as good as that one brief semi-second of brilliance.

And I read what I wrote, and I hate it. I’m disgusted that I poured such dross onto the page. It’s not what I thought. It’s not what I sensed. What I’ve written down only captures one thousandth of what was in my mind.

But I set it down anyway. And I post it, neatly paperclipped, to somewhere. The first time I did this, I stood in front of the post box, shaking, sick to my stomach, hardly daring to post my work. This isn’t right. I’m just ordinary. I don’t fit into that world. Now, its commonplace. An every day thing. And I know the rejection slip will come back. And I will laugh, and boast I have enough rejection slips to paper my walls. I will read stories of those who tried a thousand times to get published, and were refused time and again, whose novels now earn millions. I will take heart, take stock, and try, one more time, because everyone knows its luck you need, and I will continually push onwards, and still fail, and still smile, while in my heart I’m screaming ‘I put my soul on that paper!’

For the rest of this article, please visit my MySpace page – link on the right. 

Just a few words

My name is Michelle, and I live in London, England. I am in my mid thirties (okay, late thirties and am currently between jobs.

Some of you who read fan fiction for various sci-fi and crime shows may have read my work on fanfiction.net. I like to write short stories best, as I like to take that moment – whether it be an hour, a minute or a day – where someone’s life changes, and thoroughly explore it.

I like to write ghost stories (I’m heavily influenced by M.R. James and Dickens) as they show the moment when someone’s breaks down, and shows who they really are, and because I’m a Scorpio, and I like to scare people!

I have written books – two fantasy books, and one odd book about a very dark Victorian lady, that I’m still working on. I wrote my very first book about ten years ago, when I snapped the ligaments in my ankle, and couldn’t walk for a year. I just sat down, and wrote instead, and to my surprise, a whole fantasy book came out . I’m currently re-writing it, in the hope of getting it published. When I sit down to write, I never know what the ending will be – I like to start with a perfect line, and then let my mind and pen wander where it will.

 

Some writers like to write what they see in front of them – I like to write about what I see from the corner of my eye.