Entries Tagged 'Year of the Novel' ↓

Post #6 from our Year of the Novel Blogger Caro! This time she addresses some of the challenges that face the aspiring novelist, included the dreaded writers block…

Everyone talks about writer’s block but I’ve got to confess that until now, I thought it was a little bit made up.

Ok, don’t start penning hate-mail yet – “made up” is probably not the right term. I’m not lumping writer’s block in with fairies, unicorns and pale-yet-glittery teen vampires. Nor am I suggesting it should be filed under the dog-ate-my-homework genre of convenient make-believe. I’ve always known writers face challenges. But I was trained as a journalist working under the threat of tight deadlines and, in my experience, when it really matters the words miraculously find their way onto the screen. Until now, I’ve believed the words are there all the time – it’s a case of how much you want or need to find them.

But lately that’s just not true. The last fortnight I’ve legitimately tried to write, only to repeatedly find my literary cupboards bare.

Part of the problem is that most writers don’t have the luxury of calling themselves writers alone. We’re also accountants, teachers or plumbers and mothers, fathers, or children. We’re wives or lovers or co-workers or confidants – social golfers, knitters or voracious readers. We’re occasional bakers, procrastination cleaners and bill-payers – and between all that we like to drink tea and take baths and indulge in the occasional nap. When the writing’s good, it’s not so hard to set aside time to spend with our characters and stories. But when writer’s block rears its faceless head, there are a million good excuses not to write a word.

So that’s what I’ve been thinking about this week: Excuses, and how to eliminate them. Radiolab (a great science/philosophy/story-telling podcast you can access here: www.radiolab.org) does a great episode called Help! about overcoming your worst enemy – yourself. Some of the guests have gone extreme lengths to overcome traits or weaknesses, notably Oliver Sacks, who imposed a ten-day deadline on himself for completion of his first book. In order to ensure he met the deadline, he did something crazy – he decided if he didn’t, he would kill himself.

Apparently it worked. He finished the book and got it published – but the cost of the threat was terrible. It was stressful, unhealthy and totally unsustainable. He never threatened himself like that again.

I’ve got no intention of doing anything so radical – but I need to find a way of eliminating excuses. So, over the last few days, I’ve done just that – I’ve cleaned the house, stocked the fridge and folded every last piece of washing. This weekend, I’m going to disconnect the internet, disown my friends and commence self-imposed house arrest. I’ll pour a nice cup of tea, sit at my clean desk and crack open the celebratory scotch fingers. Then, I’m going to write. And what’s more, I’m going to do my darndest to enjoy it.

Caro returns to writing after the holidays, and talks about getting started on her manuscript after a short break…

Happy New Year and welcome to 2012!  I hope you all had a lovely festive season – I personally decided to celebrate by gorging myself on (delicious) stodgy foods and slipping into a two-week turkey coma. I’ve taken quite a lot of naps, watched a lot of DVDs and knitted half a stuffed English Bulldog. What I didn’t do over this work-free period, however, was write. At all.   Not one word.  All that free time and I don’t have so much as a terrible idea I’ve jotted on the back of a receipt to show for myself.

In the spirit of post-Christmas generosity, I can forgive myself that. Sometime we just need a break and often we need to be kind to ourselves – so I’m cutting myself a break and letting that time go.  But what’s proving harder to get over is the fact that while I’m gearing up again in other areas of my life, the writing situation is still a bit disgraceful.

It feels like I’ve ignored my novel and now it is cross with me.

It’s almost like losing touch with an old friend. To start with, you can’t quite remember whose turn it is to write or call… but over time you develop a terrible feeling it was you who dropped the ball. You really were planning on calling them one Sunday, but stuff got in the way and before you know it days, weeks, months slipped by and – oh dear – now you realise you forgot their birthday. Sure, you could certainly call them up now (and they’d probably be happy to hear you), but you just keep thinking about how calling them means acknowledging the awkward length of time since last contact.  So it’s easier to leave it. And the longer you leave it, the harder it gets to pick up the phone.  It’s not fear of your friend’s reaction that stops you – it’s your own guilt.

That’s how I feel every time I go to revisit my novel – and even though I know it’s silly, it’s proving a difficult obstacle to overcome. If you have any tips for reconnecting with your writing and characters I’d love to hear them – but in the meantime, I’m going to try telling myself that maybe if we could measure the value of rest and recuperation the way we measure productivity, we wouldn’t feel so bad about letting go and taking time for ourselves once in a while.

Caro talks us through the fiery challenge of sharing work with others
As kids, we get taught to share. We’re supposed to be generous and open and inclusive, and the world is probably a much happier place as a result.

But for a writer, the idea of “sharing” is one fraught with a little hope, and a lot of terror and insecurity. A recent Year of the Novel task was to write the opening lines of our novel, then share them with our tutor for feedback. Our tutor is award-winning sci-fi writer Alison Goodman, who eats the New York Times Bestseller list for breakfast, so the task was an understandingly daunting one. It brought up a lot of discussion on draft-sharing: Who should you show your work to? And when? Do you get a first draft down on your own terms before you trust anyone else with it, or is feedback along the way helpful in shaping what’s to come?

Because I write magical realism, at least half of the things I write sound commit-me-now crazy when I say them aloud. Even on paper after a couple of edits, I’m not always sure I’m pulling my more outlandish ideas off. So, as a general rule, I’m careful about who I say things like “I’m just working on a love story between an aquarium attendant and a profane talking dugong” or “my latest effort is the story of a prostitute who keeps ice-cream containers of loneliness in the linen cupboard” to. For me, part of the reason I write is to express things I can’t or don’t want to say so I’m generally fairly cagey about verbalising these things, and try to avoid sharing things before they’re ready.

It’s a lesson I learned the hard way, the day I watched a perfectly good idea die.

Let me set the scene for you. It’s Sunday morning, I’m drinking a cup of tea with my loved one, and on an unlikely whim I decide to tell him about the vaguest wisp of an idea I had for a story. It’s met with a serious of well-meaning questions, trying to make sense of the premise. I can’t answer them. The conversation gets tense.

Him: I’m just struggling to see how it all fits together.
Me: Don’t worry about it.
Him: I just want to understand –
Me: It’s only an idea.
(Silence. At this point the sky clouds over, my tea curdles and I begin avoiding eye contact)
Him: Are you mad at me?
Me: No.
(Awkward silence)
Him: Your mouth said no, but the rest of you still seems mad.
Me: It’s fine.
Him: Well… I’d like you read it when you’re done?
Me: Well you can’t.
Him: Why?
(I mumble mumble mumble.)
Him: What was that?
Me: Because you killed it, ok? You ruined it. It’s been trampled all over and now it’s dead, DEAD. It’s OVER. ARE YOU HAPPY NOW??
—– END SCENE —-

I admit I’ve been called melodramatic before, and I know this scene paints me an over-sensitive brat who takes criticism badly, but it actually wasn’t about me being precious. As an ex-journo, I’m used to showing people my work. I’m also very used to people hating it, and used to those haters being quite vocal and personal in their hatred. I cope as well as the next nerd with criticism, and I know how to stand by what I’ve written.

But this little idea didn’t stand up to the well-intentioned and curious questions of someone who wants the best for me. Why, I wonder?

Had I shared the idea a little later – after I’d turned it over in my mind and gotten to know it a little better – it would have survived the Sunday morning conversation. In fact, answering those questions would have made it stronger. But new ideas are like mangos and eyeballs and baby hedgehogs – they’re soft and delicate, and the smallest thing can crush them. It’s something I think about every time I go to hand over a new piece of work and is as good an excuse as any not to share at all. I thought about it when I sent the a short draft to Alison.

But, when the ideas are ready and you can bring to hand over the pieces of paper, sharing along the way can let you see your story through someone else’s eyes. It can raise possibilities you’d never imagined possible and help you correct terrible errors before they are too heavily integrated into your story. And most importantly, if the other person actually likes it, that validation and the enthusiasm it re-ignites for the idea is the single best writing-fuel I’ve ever come across.

Caro talks us through the invitation to your reader – the opening lines…
Like a desperate young man who knows he’s only got one shot at the attractive blonde at the bar, a good writer knows how much an opening line matters. This week’s Year of the Novel homework is to write our opening lines and it’s a task that I’ve been spectacularly proactive in avoiding.
I’ve cleaned almost every inch of my house, alphabetised my DVDs, watched more episodes of dodgy late-night reality television than I care to admit and whipped up a delicious array of banana breads, potato bakes and hand-cut pasta. My house looks very nice, and smells a bit like a cafe, but the frenzy of activity hasn’t resulted in any actual words.
I’ve also scoured my own collection for inspiration from other writers. Sitting by my bookshelf and delighting in the first lines of my favourites, I fell in love with J.D. Salinger’s Holden Caulfield all over again, and remembered the shame and excitement of Humbert’s meeting with Lolita: “Light of my life fire of my loins. My sin, my soul.” Hemingway, Hunter S. Thompson, Daphne du Maurier, Orwell, Jane Austin, Vonnegut and so many others all wrote masterful first lines. They set up scenes I know as well as my own memories and introduced me to characters I would instantly love, or hate, or pity – but the great writers also introduced themselves to me and set up their unique voice, style and tone.
All this in a few sentences. Sometimes less.
The more opening lines I read, the harder the task seemed. I’ve done plenty of writing for this project already, but the sense of expectation that hangs over those first lines really did me in.
Kim Wilkins has advised us to use the opening lines to “invite” the reader into the novel, but as someone who once wore an elaborate cactus costume to a Mexican party that turned out not to be fancy dress, I know how careful people need to be with the clarity of invites. Part of the reason I’m having so much trouble “inviting” people into my story, is that I’m still trying work out the kind of event it’s going to be. Out of respect for my readers, I don’t want to ask them over for a light-hearted fiesta if they’re going to be stuck in the corner all evening talking to Aunt Irma while I quietly kill off all the good characters.
I was moaning to a friend about this very problem when they said something very simple, and very wise: “So what? It can change.” It can change. It’s a liberating idea – and I think it’s going to be my new motto to write by. My words are not a contract and they’re not etched in stone. They can be re-worked, revised, deleted altogether. I’m going to stop being neurotic and do what I should have done a week ago – write. Wish me luck!

Post #3 from our Year of the Novel Blogger Caro!

This guy has been stalking me.  His name is Nick and he is tall and thin with a creepy hook nose and deep, nice-sad eyes. He’s restless, always tapping his skinny fingers on cereal packets and waiting room armrests and the edge of his pocket; his mind wanders. He ambushed me in the supermarket the other week, and appeared in my car on the way to work. He’s started to show up while I’m in the shower.

But before you call the cops [Mum, if you’re reading this I mean it – put down the phone], it’s ok.  He’s not dangerous. He’s imaginary – a character I’ve created for the novel I’m writing – and when he arrives, I’m always glad to see him.

I’ve been thinking about character a lot this week, wondering what it is about us as writers that invites particular characters that show up in our lives. It might be our job to create the scene and the plot and the undercurrents of tension, but why do I get the feeling our characters choose us?

See the annoying thing about Nick is that he’s not exactly perfect character material.  For a start, he’s a man. A what?  A male protagonist? Everyone says when I tell them I’m writing about a man who cannot forget anything.  Then they suck the air through their teeth and shake their heads.  That’s going to be very difficult.

It’s seems strange to me that there’s a perception it’s impossible to write protagonists of the opposite gender. To be honest, I’m more concerned about being ill equipped to write the story of a pathological remember. How does someone with a memory like a sieve write a convincing character haunted by every single one of his own, unforgettable experiences? My fellow YONers have been very supportive on the gender front, though – one advised me never to trust people who suck air in through their teeth, and another reminded me how upset Nick would be if I chopped off one if his vital appendages. So Nick is in no danger of becoming Nicola.

But I’m having other problems with the guy.  He’s awkward, and he never talks about how he’s feeling. He never sleeps, so he harasses me at all hours of the night. He’s not as funny as I hoped he would be and his dialogue could be snappier. Plus, whenever he gets upset, his instinct is to retreat into a dark corner – hardly the making of dramatic, plot-furthering action.

But he’s mine, and he’s stuck in my head so I guess we’ll have to make the best of it. 

And anyway, I’ll get him back.  When he sees the terrible things I’ve got in store for him – he’s going to wish he chose some other writer to harass over their tea and bikkies.

Blog #2 from Caroline Graham, our Year of the Novel Blogger

There is plenty of advice around about how to start a novel. Some people will tell you to begin with a one-sentence summary. Kim Wilkins advised us to start with a commitment and a space to write in. Others suggest starting with characters or plot, brainstorming or flash fiction or an arresting premise.

But they’re wrong.

Apparently, a novel begins with panic.

It sets in the moment you open the blank word document you’ve unimaginatively called “novel” (because none of the titles you’ve come up with so far are quite good enough) and stare at the flashing cursor on that awful expanse of white digi-page.  Stare. Flash. Stare. Flash. Words (mostly high-pitched self-doubty words) whirl round your head at superspeed, but none of them make it onto the page.

It doesn’t matter what font you’re using (trust me, I’ve tried them all), or what size you’re writing in. After the panic, there are only five words that come out: I’VE MADE A TERRIBLE MISTAKE.

See, I told people I was going to write a novel. I announced the beginning of this hypothetical book to my friends and family. I mentioned it casually to my co-workers at lunch. And then, as if that wasn’t crazy enough, I signed on with the QWC to take the Year of the Novel course and tell a bunch of strangers about my novel writing experience.

Sooner or later, Caroline, my inner voice (itself shrill with panic) warns me, sooner or later people are going to expect you to actually write a novel. They’re going to ask awful questions like WHAT’S IT ABOUT? and WHO ARE THE CHARACTERS? and HOW MUCH HAVE YOU WRITTEN??

Fuelled by self-doubt and the occasional bout of maniacal laughter, the panic become so paralysing that eventually there isn’t a word in the world good enough for the first line of the first page of my first novel.  I stare at the screen for hours before closing the laptop and putting it away.

But later that night, something magical happens.  I’m holding a pen and a telephone bill and an idea slips out onto the envelope.  And then another. Before long, I’m sitting with a notebook and black ink, creating webs of ideas and characters and places. It’s wonderful.  Almost easy.

Neat type on crisp white background seems so final. So ordered – the kind of medium for clear plot and fully-formed characters.  But my ideas aren’t like that yet. Ink is messy. The crosses and underlines and additions are as beautiful and useful as the gems of phrases I’m starting to tuck away for later. Ink is non-linear. It’s malleable. As haphazard and delicate as my early ideas. It’s forgiving.

As ink bleeds onto paper, I remember why we write. It’s not because we told other people we would – my family will still love me if I never write another word, and my colleagues will forget my pledge as they bury themselves in their own lives and work. You, my blog-reading friends, would no doubt move on quickly.

We write because there are stories that need to be told, and because we want to remember or be remembered. Because we’re moved by the world we live, or because we want to change it.  Because without writing we don’t know how to order all the sadness and beauty and magic and madness we see around us. Because we want to. And because somewhere inside, something told us we have to.

Back in October, Caroline Graham was chosen from 120 entrants to be QWC’s Year of the Novel Online Blogger, winning the chance to write a novel in a year with the wonderful Alison Goodman and the AWM Online Learning Centre.

Caroline’s been settling in and hard at work. Her posts will appear both here and on the QWC blog once the new site is up and running (launching soon).

Follow Caroline through the ups and downs of writing, share her experiences, and post your comments! Without any further ado… here’s Caroline!

How do you do?

Hi.  How do you do? 

Unfortunately, as this is a blog, I cannot engage many of the social niceties of human introductions.  I can’t shake your hand, or invite you in for a nice cup of tea. Or tell you how much I like that lovely sweater you’re wearing.

But allow me, at least, to introduce myself.

My name’s Caroline Graham but my friends and family call me Caro.  The good people at QWC have allowed me to enrol in Kim Wilkins’ Year of the Novel course and blog about my experiences.  I’m not sure what it was about my application that impressed them but I do boast the following nerd-cred:

•    More cardigans than the average nanna
•    A compulsive cross-wording habit
•    Prior experience vandalising in the name of good grammar
•    Enough books at home to make me worry one day I’ll be found under a pile of Robert Frost, my toes eaten off by my cat.

My background is actually in journalism and I’m currently teaching at Bond University but I’ve always loved creative writing.  I’ve just finished writing a collection of short stories and it seemed like the next step would be writing a novel – I was just a little scared to take it on my own.

But now, with a whole online community of other writers going through the same doubts, fears and triumphs, I’m going to give it a shot.  I can’t tell you too much about the project itself because the ideas are still a little new and tender, but it will be a magical realist work about a man who suffers from forgetlessness. A sort of inverse amnesia, at first his incredible memory had seemed like a blessing. However, he finds himself gradually crushed by the weight of every sad, lonely and terrible thing he has ever seen and heard until, unable to sleep, eat or drown out the memories that tumble around his head, he embarks on a journey he hopes will finally help him forget.

I’ll try to be as honest as possible about my writing process, even if it means revealing embarrassing errors and panic attacks and shameful word counts. And if that makes you feel better about your blunders, great.  And if you share your own experiences in the comments – even better. Hemingway said that “writing, at its best, is a lonely experience” but it doesn’t have to be. Sometimes, knowing someone else out there is as crazy as you are, is just about enough.

So yes. Nice to meet you.  I’m looking forward to being crazy together.

Oh, and I was serious about your sweater. It looks delightful on you.