I've had a good run.

And thus my journey comes to an end. I set off with only hope and a dream, but I struggled on. Alas, my efforts were in vain, and my gallant quest here now ends.

I have a cold.

Realism vs Idealism

Fireworks at Beverley Westwood Display, November 5th 2010

I've wanted to write something about this for a while, but not really known how to shape it. I worry sometimes that this blog strays too whimsically into the dusty realms of my mind, but then I guess that's what a blog is for. This is a writing blog and writing, as we well know, is not just about putting pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard...). Writing is about perception, about the way you see the world, and observing the little things that make depictions of characters more believable and give them depth. It's about thinking. It's about daydreaming, and capturing the little fluttering imaginings that wander through the mind, either about real life and real people, or about imagined worlds and characters. 

For a long time, when I first thought I might try my hand at a novel, I had this idea that the point of writing was to present idealism. Reading is escapism, as is watching a film. We don't sit down with a book so we can read about people screwing up their lives and getting bored at school, college, work or whatever. We sit down to read about characters that 'carry us away'. This is possibly because of my poetry-rooted start in writing life - my first attempts at prose writing were overly descriptive and long-winded with little dialogue, only characters' inner monologues. 

Over the years, however, my opinions have changed, as has my writing style. I think it may have been Film Studies that showed me the importance of dialogue, and now I'm a nerd for it. But, more importantly, I no longer shun realism. I think there's no "Versus" about it. Idealism isn't necessarily unreachable abstract concepts that we daydream about, idealism is the truth, depth and beauty we see in the world around us. It's about seeing something pure and thinking, I want more of that. 

Of course, often this goes wrong when people reach for things that aren't pure at all, but shroud themselves in false beauty or false happiness. 

Realism is about recognising the truth of how the world really is, observing the things that we experience. Idealism is taking that and saying, "What is pure about this?"

One of the things I've been editing recently is the scene where Ryan first meets Toby. I think I ought to put up an at-a-glance Character Reference box or something, because I talk about them so much and it's tedious having to explain who's who all the time. Ryan and Lauren are best friends. Toby is Lauren's eldest, 26 year-old brother. I've been writing some dialogue between the two of them where they are both trying to get to know each other. Toby, to some extent, is checking out this lad that spends so much time with his little sister, and Ryan is trying to impress him. Well, no. Knowing Ryan, that's too strong. He's trying not to screw up and make Toby think he's an idiot. 

It's an intense scene, and what I'm trying to get across is that gritty awkwardness of first meeting someone when it's important to you not to screw up. Maybe my experiences show me up as a socially awkward freak, but I think I'm not alone.

I think back to September 2008, so two years ago, when I met Ryan Hunter*. Inevitably, we idealise meeting the people we admire, and I honestly didn't know what to expect. He approached, and I became ridiculously British. Here I am in front of a 22 year-old Rock star from New York, and I offer my hand to shake. Do you know what, I don't care, because I can say that I have shaken the hand of a genius. I remember that as I shook his hand, his sleeve had fallen down over it. Strange the little things you notice. Anyway, I blurted some generic rubbish about how it was a great show, and that I loved his music, and he seemed genuinely grateful. I was with my sister, and she is a far better conversationalist than I, perhaps because she has had a far more interesting life than I have. The two of them were talking about New York and Vermont, and it was about then that I convinced myself that he was going to be my brother in law because they were going to get married. I still maintain that he was taken with her. Heather is a very pretty lady. 

His eyes were darting all about the place (when they weren't on Heather), and it looked like his mind was going a million miles a minute. Ryan Hunter is someone I love to listen to when he speaks, whether it was then, in the flesh, on interviews, videos he posts or on his blog, he seems to have a lot of profound insights, and this is where his intense, subtle and emotive writing comes from - his observation and reflection on the world. 

My point, I think, somewhere in all of that, was that real experiences made me realise the subtleties of observation. Presenting realism isn't about writing about ordinary events in an ordinary way. Realism is about reflecting on the small things we observe about human nature and social customs and drawing meaning about the way we relate to each other. 

* Disclaimer: Ok, so I'm gonna get this in here before anyone can throw accusations. Yes, my main character is called Ryan and has dreadlocks. Yes, one of  my favourite songwriters is called Ryan and has dreadlocks. That, my friends, is where the similarities end. This is the absolute truth. This character had been with me for at least three years before I even knew who Ryan Hunter was. When I first saw him onstage and he said that his name was Ryan I full on freaked out. In actuality, the name was taken from someone on a forum I was friends with absolutely years ago. 

Poetry and Cynicism

Editor's note: I couldn't sleep last night, and wrote this. It sprung from the fact that I had mentioned I don't like to show my poetry, and figured I probably owed an explanation. It was originally all in caps, because my phone editor is weird like that, but I guess people don't like being shouted at. So. This is what my brain looks like at one in the morning.

It's midnight, and my eyes won’t shut.  I somehow ended up at a Tupperware party at the church, where I had glorious cake and a cup of tea. I then came home, had a Lemsip and tried to go to bed at half ten. Its freezing, the rain is hammering against the window, so I plugged myself into Envy on the Coast. A further mistake. You’d think I’d never met me before.

Because listening to Ryan Hunter’s lyrics makes me want to write poetry, and then I remember how long it has been. So I lie here, staring at the ceiling, remembering all the things I don’t want to write about.

There was a time where all I would write was poetry. Most of it was shocking, as in, shockingly bad. I won a young writers competition locally and got published in an anthology, but people are a lot more forgiving when you’re young. Because supposedly all you have to write about is your dog, or the bullies at school. I remember a classic moment that made me hate sharing poetry and spawned my cynicism of adult understanding; I wrote a poem about my old Graphics teacher, who had been imprisoned a year or two earlier for the manslaughter of his wife. He had always been someone who had encouraged me and made me feel like it was worth retrying and improving. I hated the things people said about him. I was trying, through it all, to demonstrate that he was loved, even in his brokenness. I read out the poem at the prize giving in our local Ottakars (now Waterstones), though it was the last thing on earth I wanted to do. Someone approached me afterwards.

'That was a great poem.'

Heart thudding. Is this the real thing?

'What’s it about?'

Are you serious? I just said what it’s about by reading the damn poem.

'A pet?'

A pet? I could have punched her. Did you even listen? I wanted to say.

Now I know that in my youth, my strings of words may not have been wholly subtle or literary, but it was my feelings poured out on a page, and the fact that I won meant there was something in that. But it frustrated me so much what that woman said.

A more recent example was something I sent into Writer’s Forum, which was a mistake.  I ticked the box for a critique, because that’s what a keen writer does. Well, I didn’t like it. Not because it was bad, but the whole concept of somebody else telling me that what I’m feeling doesn’t quite scan...

I’m not whining at WF, at all. I guess I just didn’t know myself well enough. Thing is, poetry is like painting. It delves and it strips away the mask to what’s beneath, and right now I don’t think I want to see what’s beneath.

Listening to EOTC’s LowCountry also makes me want to get my paws about those sticks again and attack my trusty Mapex. Except it’s sat in stacks because I live in a terraced house. So close I can touch the shiny red of its beautiful shells... And yet so far.

Maybe I will write some poetry. But without digging too deep, it would mostly be about tea. Anyway, it’s got to that point in the night where I’m dropping the phone on my face so I think I’d better try the sleep thing.

Goodnight, world.

NaNoWriMo....No. and Single Father finale

I realise that it is now NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month), and I should probably explain why I am not taking part. Trust me, I did consider it. See, the thing is that NaNo requires writers to start a novel from scratch on the 1st November, and being half way through a novel already with a Christmas deadline, starting a new effort that would most certainly not get my full attention at this vital stage seemed pointless.

It is a shame, though, as now seems like the perfect time in my life to do it. I'm unemployed, I'm not a student anymore, and I'm not yet married, so time and attention would not be envied. NaNo seems like a really fun, challenging but rewarding excercise in not over-thinking. I can imagine that the pure heart put into a NaNo novel would be raw and genuine.

Someone in Writers Forum said to prospective NaNoers that it is not advisable to use an idea or character that you really care about, as the fast-paced 'just write' nature of the game can destroy any attachment or disappoint your own view of what they should be like.

I've realised that I've set myself up for failure from the offset even by the way I set myself a deadline. It has been a very ambiguous 'Christmas' deadline. Now that could mean anything. It could mean the 25th December, it could mean 1st December, or when term at Uni finishes, it could mean the end of December, or if I want to be particularly technical and pedantic, it could be sometime in the spring. You see the shepherds wouldn't have been out in the winter. (I'm such a nerd.)

So, my proposal is this. I enter into the spirit of NaNoWriMo and set my deadline for the 31st November. That way, I've still got time before the year's up to faff and flap with perfectionism before I let my team of readers loose.

Gosh, that's terrifying. At the back of my mind I've got this voice going 'Don't be silly, this is all just rubbish. It's not a real novel.'

And so, I've got a month to make it a real novel. Because there's real people who actually want to read it. How weird is that?

Anyway, Single Father. I realise I have not yet given my opinion on the finale. I thought it was excellent. I wasn't entirely sure about Sarah having intended to get pregnant all along, though. The kids were so cute with their 'Can we say "Hi" yet?'. I can imagine there are some viewers out there who didn't like the ending. I read one blog on the short series that said 'One thing I don't want this to turn into is a love story,' and, well, I guess it did. But I didn't mind that. I think it worked quite naturally, though it seemingly didn't take Dave long to get over Rita.

But, that said, having found out what he did about Lucy's Dad, it was obvious he was incredibly angry with her. And how is he supposed to deal with that? He'll never hear her side of the story, and he'll never know what she was thinking. And so, what he is doing is moving on. Letting the past lie.

The hand flew to the mouth at the scene in the studio with Tanya and Matt. That was good, I liked that little twist. I also liked the fact that given the choice, Dave made it clear that the kids were more important than anything, even if that meant sacrificing his feelings for Sarah.

Definately a success in my eyes. I look forward to the next BBC drama input, not to mention the continuation of Sherlock next year.

On Ross Noble and Vampirism

I'm currently sat watching Ross Noble whilst waiting for my dinner to cook. I've set myself an impossible task - keeping up with Ross whilst attempting to make insightful, interesting comments about life, the universe and everything (42) and also not burning peppers. We'll see how it goes.

I went to see Ross Noble at Hull City hall the other day with a bunch of lovely friends, and he was on top form. I love the way he makes jokes about whatever city or town he's in, usually at the expense of the locals. Its a valuable thing to be able to laugh at oneself, and as the British people, I think we are very good at it. Dunno what that says about us really... What was even better was being at a show in Hull as a Southerner. Oh yes. Beautiful. The audience participation was priceless. Hullites are weird. Best joke of the night was about Lady Gaga. He built it up, like he does, straying then coming back, then straying again. He said 'There she was at the MTV music awards covered in meat! Has she been stalking me for ideas?' in reference to his tangent of meat on the face on the Sonic Waffle DVD. Absolutely brilliant.

No, the BEST joke of the night was about sexy vampires. He gave a summary of Twilight, flicking his hair and saying 'I'm a sexy vampire' and then went off on one about how a vampire should not have any hair cut that isn't the V-shape. 

I think the appeal of Ross Noble is that he's so inclusive - he makes everybody feel like they're in on something, like its all one big in-joke. Or a collection of many. There's something good in that, I think, whatever form it takes. And at the moment, we need comedy to make us all smile more. With the recession, unempoyment, redundancies, everything going up in price, we need some kind of togetherness as a country, and I think, as I said before, laughing at ourselves is a good way to do that. Yes, there are problems. Yes, they need sorting. But sometimes its good to get some laugh lines, and cheer the hell up.

Rebuke the sneezes!! 

Sorry, so far this winter I have not been ill for a single day, and I'm trying to keep it that way. You see, I'm trying to prove a point to my future father-in-law that I am not always ill. I've been eating my B12, Vitamin C, Iron and Beta-carotene thank you very much!

I've been doing some more painting, which has been fun. I'm painting Ryan at the moment (the main character of my novel), and its really good, as I've said before, for character development. I've been working on the eyes again, wondering at what stage of the book this particular representation is. I've made a start on the bloodshot effect, but for a time his eyes were just red. He looked like a vampire. 

Ok, secret's out. Ryan Dorsey is a vampire. I was writing a scene at two in the morning last year that revealed Lauren as a vampire. It's becoming a frequent occurrence. Bad day? Everyone's a vampire. Well, to be honest, it would sell. What's the big twist I was on about?

He's a vampire. A sexy one at that.

I'm joking. Nobody is a vampire. 

Or are they?

Ok. time to go.

But are they?

But they're not.

But are they?

The Surge

I recently bought some Cranberry scented oil for my burner, and my bedroom smells like a sweet shop. It's lovely. I feel sixteen again. 

I also think the cranberry oil is seeping into my brain. I've been hyperactive up there.

The last two days have been phenomenally productive. Not just in terms of word count either. I've been rewriting some scenes, adding new ones, and filling in the gaps between scenes. 

I've been thinking a lot about character motivations and what brings them to make particular decisions, or gets them to a point in the story. It really is coming together so well, kind of at the detriment to everything else in my life. Well, not everything. 


I started writing this post a week ago. I think that says it well enough. 


I'm currently writing the climax scene. That's right, I have an ending. That's not to say I'm nearly done, by any stretch of the imagination. There are big gaps and chunks of unexplained, half-written scenes in the middle, but I at least know what I'm working towards. It's good, because all the half-thought threads of possible themes, decisions, dialogues and scenes are starting to come together and work towards something. 
No, I will not tell you what happens. 

I've also got a secret weapon, which I kind of stole from Peter Brett. I say kind of. I just got a shiny new phone, a Nokia E5 and it has Word on it. I've managed to get my entire novel onto it, and it hasn't even broken a sweat. This widens my ability to edit and to write. Fantastic for my writing career. Detrimental to my social life. I'm in bed, I write. I'm waiting for a bus, I write. On a bus, waiting for dinner to cook, walking to the shops, in a bank queue...


At the moment, I'm listening to U2 with the other half who is playing Mass Effect, looking forward to the last Single Father - tonight at 9:00 on BBC 1. So excited. 
I'm hooked on 24 at the moment too. Behind the times, I know. But I never got to watching it when it first started, and never had the time to catch up, so just getting into it now. Season 3, it's all very tense. 


Right now, I think I might write some more. Oh and just before I go, nobody has made any comments. I know people are reading, so please - let me know what you think, say hi, tell me I'm an idiot.

The Editing Struggle

I managed to get quite a lot done yesterday. I'm being ruthless.
I don't know if I'm being too ruthless. I've chopped another scene (in my novel) and rewritten it in about a quarter of the space. I'm trying to make the beginning sharper and more interesting. I think there's too much of the mundane. The scene I've rewritten is one where they are basically sat around playing playstation and drinking tea, which is all fine and good, as I had managed to slide in some important conversations and exposition. But it just felt really flat and boring. I couldn't help but think there must be a better way to get this information across.

I've replaced about 1000 words of blah blah blah with the simple line 'They spent the afternoon taking turns to challenge Joe at racing on the playstation; he remained unbeaten.'
Well, ok that's not all of it, but it's something like 300 words now, and still gets across the same points. There's actually more description of Lauren's mother in there, and it sets up Toby, Lauren's brother's arrival far better. He has been away for 6 or so months, so Ryan (the protagonist) has not met him yet.

I think this goes to prove a point I read in Writer's Forum a few months back - sometimes the rule 'show, don't tell' doesn't apply. There are times when you just need to move the story along by telling the reader what happened. Otherwise, I find I end up pointlessly describing really ordinary, unhelpful things that just don't really add any kind of pace.

I've noticed, also, that I've broken my own rule, my own pet hate. For the first four pages, maybe more, there is no dialogue. It's all Ryan's inner monologue. I don't really know how to get past that. I'm thinking maybe I should start someplace else. But then that changes the whole structure of everything.

It feels like I'm going at a half-done painting with a large brush and black acrylic paint. It's already taken me years to get the damn story to this point, and yet here I am tearing it completely apart again. I guess it's called refining, prooning. But it's tough. It's one step forwards and 29 back. Remind me why I'm doing this??