Creepy 50

Well, Creeper's Cottage is now at 50,000.

I get the sense it's about halfway through. Longer than I was expecting, but coming along nicely.

It's been a strange week for writing. Monday and Tuesday flew past at 3,000 each. I was planning to finish up by Friday and have a long weekend, but then I got swept up with Secret Order and putting it on Inkitt for the competition (please check that out).

It's been getting good feedback from beta readers, but no nibbles yet from publishers. It's extremely experimental, but I still think it has potential. It's really hard trying to write the next novel whilst your current manuscript is getting battered through submissions. Easy to give into the doldrums.

Still, writing continues to happen despite all else.

Creeper's isn't my usual style either, and neither is the next one likely to be, but I think I'll write this off as my experimental phase and if nothing comes of it, I'll return to writing in the style of Rosy Hours and Children of Lir. It has been suggested that I publish the other stuff under a pseudonym, and I have been tempted, after reading the statistics, to try submitting as a bloke. When I was a kid I'd dream up fantastical nom de plumes, but as an adult I'm less willing to try it. Would you really want a publisher who accepted you under a different name but not your own?

All being well, I should have another novel in the next few weeks. It'll take quite a bit of editing, but I'm looking forward to it.

The Secret Order of the Literati

Hi everyone.

I need your help.

A while ago, I finished writing The Secret Order of the Literati. It's an experimental urban fantasy. Not the type of fiction I usually create, but I had a lot of fun writing it.

Because the story itself is a little experimental, I've decided to take an experimental approach to publishing it.

I've just entered SOL for a competition on a new author site called Inkitt.

The more people who read the book on their site, the greater its chance of getting noticed.

Here's a short introduction to how it all works.

Please pop over there before 7th June (closing date) and have a read through, and tell everyone you know. There are options on the left to share via social media (please do!), and to change the reading backgrounds and font size.

READ SECRET ORDER ON INKITT

Much appreciated.

Sharing Secrets

It is done.

Eight days of edits, 1,087 words and almost three pages added. So that's pushed it up over the 80,000 mark, which is satisfying.

I think I'm happy with it.

The Secret Order of the Literati, Book I is about ready to meet its first friendly beta readers. Little nervous, as it's not what I usually write. I've been heavily into literary historical fiction lately, what with Those Rosy Hours at Mazandaran and the forthcoming Children of Lir. 

This is a total departure from poetics. Fast-paced and fantastical. Hugely influenced by people like Borges (The Library of Babel, The Book of Sand), Zafón (The Shadow of the Wind) and Sloan (Mr. Penumbra's 24-Hour Bookstore) in terms of magical realism, though I may just have stepped over into full-blown crazy town. 

Really, I just wanted to have some fun.

Try something new.

I've always wanted to attempt a trilogy. This is me taking a shot at an opener. If it flies, it flies. If it doesn't, well, back to the drawing board.

I'll be dedicating this one to Christiane. I get the sense she really would have enjoyed it. So, even if it doesn't get picked up, I think I've created something worthwhile. 

Nothing left to do but see if it can swim.

Taking a couple of days off to catch up on some other stuff, but then it's back to the keyboard to crack on with Creeper's Cottage, a creepy ghostie story I'm planning to set in David Southwell's Hookland. 

Secrets Laid Bare

Really? Was it really only five months ago I was doing this for Swan Song? 

Blimey. 

Thus begins the author's edit of Secret Order of the Literati. It's far shorter than Children of Lir: 79,100 (293 pages) to CoL's 123,000 (308 pages). CoL is heavier on word count for the pages because there's more descriptive. Secret Order is faster-paced, so more dialogue and line breaks.

The editing process for this one is very different. For the first time ever, I've written a book so complex I require flip chart paper and an assortment of multicoloured sticky tabs to figure it out.

I always have been, and undoubtedly always will be, a 'pantser'. Someone who writes by the seat of their pants, without thinking too far ahead in the plot (which would make me a 'plotter').

Usually this works really well for me. But this time, the book is so fast-paced, and involves so many inter-related characters, I've slightly lost myself. The action was all happening a little faster than I could think about it, so I'm having to go back and make sure that I've got a grip on everything.

I have three revision sheets on the go:

1. Character details. That's the one below with all the sticky tabs. Making sure a character doesn't have green eyes on one page and blue on the next. Jotting down details about them and making sure I have a continuous reference for how to spell names and places. 
   
   
2. The sheet after that is a timeline. The plot has chronology craters wide enough to warrant 'Please mind the gap' signs in flashing neon lights. It was more important to get the action down in whatever order it came to me than to decide whether it made sense in the grand order of things. Because the story follows several different characters, it's not always going to work in a linear time frame, but you can't go having someone murdered one minute and down the shops the next. This isn't a zombie novel.
   
   
3. Finally, my WTF? page. This is where I can chalk up any questions that come to mind whilst reading through. Any dangling threads that the kitten of literary destruction can bat at to unravel the entirety of the plot. I can't stop to ponder each WTF bullet-point as I go, otherwise I'd lose the train of the novel, but these are things I need to find answers for somewhere along the line.

It's not going too badly. I've just hit the 100 page mark. Entering the in-between territory. I tend to remember writing the beginnings and endings of my books quite well, but the bits in between sometimes feel like someone else wrote it. That game where you draw the head, fold the paper, someone else draws the body, etc. You only really see the full picture at the very end, when you unfold everything in the edit. So it does start to feel like a voyage of self-discovery.

So far, I'm happy with it. I guess I wonder whether I've introduced too many characters, but it seems to be holding together. I think people nowadays are more comfortable with multi-character books. It's also interesting for me, as this is the first third-person novel I've completed since Lucid - which was the first novel I ever wrote. Seems strange that over the past eight years I've strongly favoured first-person.

I think because it's third-person, you can, as a writer, feel slightly more detached from the story. I was so hell-bent on writing it, that I don't think I've had time to sit back and enjoy it until now. Through editing, I'm starting to see things in it that I really like. Even made myself laugh at one point, which is a good sign. I'm nervous about letting anyone else see this one because I'm hoping to pin two more books on the end of it. If it's a flunk, it's a flunk. But I'm starting to hope it's a goer. 

Last Secrets

Well, I didn't make my word count this week.

Instead of 10,000 I fell 863 words short - because I finished.

79,137 and 293 pages.

It's a shorty.

But I fully expect the word count to go up in the edit. I plan to give myself three weeks to work on this. I know you shouldn't go direct from completion into edit, but I have another novel to write and it's excruciatingly difficult to try to write one novel whilst editing another. In switching your head between two entirely separate worlds, you're likely to leave half your brain behind.

I just need to get this one to a position where someone else can comb through. There's some major plot mishaps, and things I only learned about characters towards the end that need fixing in the beginning for continuity. I actually think this might be the hardest edit I've ever tackled. It's a real slippery fish of a novel.

Anyhoo. 

Fetch me my red marker!

70,000 Secrets

Artist Leilani Joy

I am on fire.

Another 10,000 words added in the past four days: 3k, 3k, 2k, 2k. 

The Secret Order of the Literati is now respectably novel-length and can only get more so.

Ideally, I was only aiming for 80k. Write shorter fiction and more of it. I'm now not so sure. I think it can be done, but I'm taking tomorrow and the weekend off to think hard about how to get the plot over the finish line. 

I am incredibly happy with my progress over the past couple of weeks. I've put a cool 23,000 words on the manuscript since getting back to Kigali earlier this month. This time next week it would be wonderful to say 'finished,' but that always depends on the book, never the author. We shall just have to wait and see.

Time for a well earned beer.

60,000 Secrets

I'm ever so slightly tearful at the moment.

It was only Monday, five days ago, that I passed the 50k mark on Secret Order.

Which means I've added 10,000 in the past four days. 

I honestly can't remember the last time I did that.

Really hasn't been easy. I've been working through some serious plot block, but it's starting to come together. 

I'm trying so hard to work out a routine. I'm not a routine person. I started by telling myself I had to reach my word count for the day before doing anything else. It was the first few days after getting back to Rwanda, and I was having trouble sleeping and getting up at a sensible time. Now I realise - because it's the dry season - that if I want to get anything done during the day, morning is way better, before it gets too hot. This works well, too. By the time I've zoomed around town I feel ready for a sit down.

I still don't have a solid routine, but so long as I continue to churn out a word count like that I'm happy.

It's been ages since I've shared anything from this work. So, rough, ready and unedited as ever:

The final guest had been different.

He looked odd. Much odder than the man with the flat cap. But he didn’t give her the willies. He was about the same height as the guy in leather who had rolled to a halt with the woman and the giant, only he was really thin and angular. More than anything, it was his hair that stood out. Or, rather, up. It was black and sort of buoyant, with the occasional wisp of gold that caught the light.

He was perched on the counter when she returned with a book, one ankle casually resting over his knee.

“Hi,” she said, keeping her distance.

“Hello. And you are?”

“Sophie.”

“And I’m Aesop.”

“How may I help you?” she said, before stopping herself. She wasn’t going to make the same mistake twice. “Actually, no. You can help me. How do I get out of here?”

“Out of here?” he raised one eyebrow.

“I’ve been kidnapped. I’m a prisoner and I can’t get out.”

The man frowned and she thought perhaps she shouldn’t have spoken.

“Oh. So you’re the one?”

“One what?”

“The one he was talking about. Frizzy afro, beautiful brown eyes.”

Sophie self-consciously put her hand to her hair. “Who was talking about me?”

“The Deliverer. Faces are changing around here so fast, it’s hard to keep track.”

“Look, please, I really need to get out of here. I have a boyfriend, and a family. They’ll be so worried about me.”

“Have you told Allen?”

“The old woman with the—” she held her hands on top of her head to indicate the giant bun.

“Yes.”

“She’s the one keeping me here!”

“Well, that’s most irregular.”

“I’ll do anything. Please, just show me the way out.”

Aesop looked behind him at the door, then over to the bookshelves, then back to her. “Really, I’d love nothing more, but I’m afraid I have rather pressing business. It’s extremely important that I speak with Allen.” Sophie opened her mouth to protest, but he held up a finger. “You tell Allen I’m looking for her, and when we sit down to talk, I will find out what this,” he swept his fingers to indicate the entire room, “has all been about. I will help you Sophie, but you need to help me first. Deal?”

She wasn’t at all happy about it, but she nodded.

She had finished wrapping up the last list of books a while ago. Her uneaten meal sat in the dumbwaiter, waiting to be lowered away. There was nothing for it but to sit on the floor and hold herself.

For some stupid reason, she trusted that weird bouffant of a man. There was something in his voice. He didn’t sound like he was lying when he spoke. But how long would it take Allen to come back, and how long before she did go to visit him, and how long after he’d finished talking about his crisis would he remember to talk about hers?

Was she destined to spend the rest of her life locked in a lonely library?

The floor trembled.

At first she thought she’d imagined it. Then it trembled again, so hard that she put her hands out to brace herself.

The next wave was less of a tremble and more of a violent shudder. It dislodged a book from the shelf. The book fell to the floor, bounced once, and fell open at the middle.

Sophie watched in disbelief as streams of text curled up from the pages, twisting and entwining to create thick ropes of prose.

…came down from Cumbria for Christmas and brought with him a large stocking, red, with my name embroidered in white around the rim. Mother told him he’d brought too much, but I could tell that she wasn’t really angry with him… in the flower garden, and I picked up a ladybird, opened the mouth of the snapdragon, and placed it inside, waiting to see how long before it would crawl out, its little red body yellow with pollen… ringing in my ears as he punched me again. I rolled over to get him off me but he was too strong so I had to hold up my arms to defend against the next punch… think the interview went well, but the questions were tough. Perhaps it would be better to go freelance, but you need the experience, or the qualifications, for people to trust what you do… ticket to Pakistan. The camera’s definitely charged and somewhere in my pocket is the name and number of the guy who’s picking me up at the airport…

The words were moving so fast, Sophie’s eyes couldn’t keep track of them all, she could only snatch a few sentences here and there. As she watched, the words seemed to form a murmuration, flexing left, then right, up, then down, pulled back to the centre by an invisible force until they amassed a solid lump. She couldn’t say for certain what prompted the thought, but she suddenly realised she was looking at a human being. That all the words and sentences made up a life story.

At the moment of her realisation, the words formed an image.

That image fell to the floor, screaming.

50,000 Secrets

Phew.

Well, today was my first day as a writer.

I mean, as a writer to the exclusion of everything else.

It's not entirely easy being a writer in Africa. I'm currently sitting here in the dark, and yesterday I had no electricity for so long my laptop battery ran out and all the ice-cream in the fridge melted. I can live without ice-cream, but it's hard to write a novel without a computer.

Still, onward.

How has my life changed now that I've decided to admit that I am a writer rather than a development consultant?

Well, main changes include:

• Turning off my phone and telling my friends not to expect me to answer if they call in the mornings. I've always been a night owl, so I accept that I get up late, drink coffee, and start work when most people have been at work for several hours. My phone, and social media, goes on once I hit my writing target, not before.
• I'm doing my own housework. You may scoff at this, but when you live without washing machines, hoovers and other household appliances, a full-time worker enlists help to get the chores done. As I now don't have a full-time job, and writing is an exceedingly sedentary profession, I need to do the housework to get some exercise. And stamping on laundry in a large bowl of suds does take a lot of energy.
• I'm panic-meeting with people I think might have writing-related work. I've set up an editing service (which I'll start advertising this week), I'm in talks about running a creative writing night class at a local college, and generally arranging to meet publishers and creatives to see what's going on in an industry I haven't been a part of before. One positive sign is that Rwanda's Immigration department lists Author on their Occupations in Demand List (ODL) - so I'm trying to find out what sort of authors, and in demand by whom, in the hopes there might be some work out there. 

Most of all - I've been writing.

I polished off 3k today to push myself over the 50,000 mark on Secret Order, my first attempt at a trilogy. Well, the first book of my first attempt at a trilogy.

It's been tough going. I think I may have introduced too many characters (but then I think about R. R. Martin and realise I can always kill most of them off). I'm still not entirely sure where it's all going, even at this stage, and I'm sort of hoping it'll magically all come together soon-ish. But, one step at a time - I am writing, and that's the important thing.

The Children of Lir isn't even in edit with its publisher yet, so as an author of fiction, you always have to be looking a year ahead. What I write now is unlikely to bear fruit for at least twelve months. But if I don't sow any seeds, I'll reap no harvest.

45k of Secrets

Got back from Scotland about a week ago. Managed to do a couple of days of writing, then sat down yesterday and bashed out 3k on Secret Order of the Literati. 

I was writing three stories - two novels and a novella, but I've ditched the novella for now. Focusing on the two novels, and loving them. Two very different styles, though both contemporary.

Secret Order just crossed the 45k mark, 165 pages. Yay! Woop woop. *happy dance*

Up until this point you can't be entirely sure whether all the weird stuff that's been happening is explainable or magical. I've finally committed to the reveal. The shit, so to speak, just got real. If only I knew what the shit was. I'm still not entirely sure where I'm going with any of this, but the characters are now strong enough to lead the way.

Recently I was in a café called Coffee & Curios in Gloucester. Along with a fabulous fried breakfast, they also have a selection of steampunk-esque pocket watches. I couldn't resist. But they also inspired a quirk in one of my characters (rough as ever):

Slowly, almost reluctantly, Aesop reached into the pocket of his skin-tight jeans. Suzan had never noticed the thin silver chain looping from his belt before. It was a delicate thing. On the other end was a pocket watch, one of those old ones with a window, where you can see all the inner workings. 

“Please don’t,” Aesop said, raising his hand to cover Evangeline’s. 

“Every morning, every evening, until the end of time,” she replied. 

Uncurling his fingers from hers, she pinched the winding mechanism and began to twist. When it would twist no further, she pressed down on the button and slipped the watch back into his pocket. 

“I preferred it when you wore waistcoats,” she said. “It belongs near your heart.”

It appeals to me, this character who religiously winds up his watch, uncertain whether he will die should it stop. Maybe he would, and this simple act keeps him alive forever. Or maybe he is immortal, and it wouldn't matter if he threw the watch away. But he will never, ever know. 

I needed a little something to make Aesop vulnerable, otherwise he's a bit sharp-edged to be lovable. Mortality and memento mori are always good levellers when you don't think you can love a character. 

On the whole, things are shaping up well. Only one character's gone missing entirely. He featured quite a bit at the beginning, then I rather lost the thread and have no idea what happened to him. I plan on getting to the end of the first draft and finding a way to write him back in.

One thing is certainly clear: this book will need editing like nothing I've written before. Usually everything falls out in more or less the right order. This just fell out in no particular order. I don't think I've ever had to rearrange chapters for continuity before. I'm not looking forward to it.

40k of Secrets

I have been woefully, woefully lax on my writing regime. Taken me almost a month to add 5,000 words to Secret Order since I've been traipsing about Scotland with friends.

I waddled over the 40k mark on Monday. In my mind that's a halfway point for the first book in the trilogy. If I can bring them in at 80k, 240k total, I think that's respectable.

I've been angsting a little, though.

Writing a series isn't like writing a one-off. In my mind, I have three books to wrap up one story. Yet, looking at other people's trilogies, there's often a part of the subplot that gets wrapped up each book.

In a series that isn't a neat three-booker, the main characters usually stay the same, the books can contain running themes, but there needs to be a satisfactory story arc within each book. Crime thrillers and detective series sort of stuff.

I'm adamant it's going to be three books. I've always wanted to write a trilogy. A trilogy is what I'll write. I'm not interested in a running series, though I suppose there's always a prologue and epilogue spin-off you could add ten years down the line if it remained popular. 

But it is difficult doing this.

Tricky.

A challenge.

At halfway through the first book, I feel as though I'm only just finding my feet - working out what the rules are. I'm writing multiple characters in short sections, and already it's clear that I'll need to rearrange those sections once I'm done, because none of the timelines match up. 

I'm stopping regularly because I made the mistake of adding a detective, not knowing a thing about the policing world other than what I've seen on The Bill. This necessitates frequent Facebook messages to an exceedingly patient and forbearing friend in the Met. Yes, it's magical surrealism, but it needs to be believable magical surrealism.

Honestly, I can't see any part of this I can wrap up neatly in the next 40,000 words. Especially when I can't even imagine where the second book will begin. Planning isn't my forte. With a trilogy I'm beginning to suspect this is not such an asset. 

I am enjoying it, though. I have a couple of stories on the go at the moment. This and my creepy one-off have me hooked, though not hooked enough to sit down and finish them. Planning to pay my rent once I get back to Kigali and sit down for a marathon couple of months' writing. Haven't even started edits with Ghostwoods on The Children of Lir yet, so it's highly likely I'll have Secret Order close to submission by the time that's out next year. 

The boring practicalities of a writer's career, eh?

Thought I'd come back to the UK and do lots of writing, but instead I've just done lots of eating and standing under hot showers. Think I'll just embrace this lifestyle until the New Year.

35k of Secrets

Well, day five of the routine and things are going well. Both new stories up to 2,500 and Secret Order up over 35,000. 

Thought I'd share some very short, rough snippets. The first is from Secret Order:

Once her hands were untied, Suzan began rubbing her wrists to restore circulation. The girl didn’t untie her feet, though. 

“What is this place?” she asked, her eyes now adjusted. “Some sort of library?” 

It was a relatively small room, but made all the smaller by towering bookshelves against each wall. Hundreds of thousands of books. Mighty tomes and slim paperbacks, not a gap between them. Even the ceiling was decorated with book spines, old leather with faded gold and silver onlays. 

“The world is a library,” the man said. “This is but one small corner of it.” 

“You like books?” asked the girl, smiling. 

Suzan nodded as she continued to cast her eyes across the myriad covers. 

The tall man reappeared carrying a dainty china cup on a saucer of white and blue. 

“How rude of us,” the girl said, collecting the cup and bringing it to Suzan. “We haven’t introduced ourselves. This is Aesop,” she said, indicating the dark sprite in the corner. “Grimm,” the tall, bald man. “And I am Evangeline.”  

“Are those your real names?” 

“Perhaps not as real as yours, but they are the only names we have.” 

“Well, it has been an absolute pleasure to meet you,” Suzan said, sounding far calmer than she felt. “But, really, I must be getting home now.” 

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” said Aesop. He came to crouch before her, staring up from her lap where the teacup trembled against its saucer. “You see, Suzan, you are a very special person. Our very special guest.”  

“And I appreciate your hospitality, but—” 

“Truth is, we need you.” 

This bit's from my novella, with the working title The Wolf in the Woods: 

Sometimes, whilst we worked, Grandma would tell stories.  

She talked of the Ondines who lived in the river, their silver hair causing light to dance between the waves, and of Sylphs who floated on the summer breeze, carrying bees and butterflies between the flowers to collect pollen. She told me stories of the clouds, and the adventures they had seen beyond the purple mountains, and spoke of the Gnomes who lived beneath the earth and pushed up daffodils in spring.  

Every now and then, once a moon or so, Grandma’s brow would furrow and her tales turn darker.  

When this happened, she would gaze into the hearth, flames flickering in her ancient eyes. Her lips would tighten and she’d speak of things I did not understand.  

“But Grandma,” I would say, calling her back. “Tell me again of the Healing Tree and the Upstanding Oak. Tell me of snowdrops and marigolds, and how you collect the lucky heather.” 

She would look at me for a moment, then nod. Reaching for the silver bowl beside the fire, we would pop lemon drops and peppermints into our mouths and suck. 

And finally, my mystery in progress, Creeper's Cottage: 

Adam turned to flick her the bird, but the fog was so thick she’d already been swallowed. He continued down his lane. At the bottom you could usually see Capstone Reservoir, but he practically had to run his hand along the buildings to count the houses. He couldn’t remember a time when the clouds had ever been this heavy. They’d had a few pea-soupers when he was a kid. He remembered his mum driving like a granny one evening, bringing him back from a guitar lesson in Halterton, but this was something else entirely.  

Part way down, the buildings ended and he stepped off the curb onto the road. Pausing to listen, he couldn’t hear anything coming, so started to cross.  

He kept crossing, one foot in front of the other, but no curb came into sight.  

For a moment, Adam wondered if, instead of crossing the side road, he’d accidentally wandered out into the middle of the main road. He panicked, stepping sideways and back, trying to locate the white line, but it wasn’t there.  

“Shit,” he said to himself.  

He took a few more paces forward, but still couldn’t find the curb.  

A sound caught his attention. Something was coming.  

“Hey. Hello! I’m in the road. I can’t see where I am,” he shouted, feeling like a total prat.  

There was something odd about the sound. He’d been expecting an engine. A slow-moving car; hopefully so slow-moving that if it hit him, he’d just bump the bonnet. Though the more he listened, the less like a car it sounded. In fact, if he had to place a bet, he’d say it was a horse approaching.  

“Hello? Can you hear me?” 

Everything went quiet for a moment. He took a step in the direction he thought he’d heard the sound.  

A large black shadow rumbled past, causing him to leap back. It was a few feet out of view, cloaked in cloud, but he swore it was the shape of a carriage.  

He stood perfectly still until the sound faded away.  

Shaking, he looked at his shoes. They were caked in mud, but they were angled down, following the slope of the road.  

The carriage hadn’t moved down. It had moved straight ahead. 

So, that's what I've been working on. Likely have to take a break for a few days as I'm headed up to Scotland, but pleased with my progress. 

30k of Secrets

That's it. I've officially fallen down the rabbit hole.

I've been struggling with Secret Order, my first trilogy attempt, lately. I've just managed to heave myself over the 30,000 mark. Things are starting to pick up again. There's lots of interweaving character and plot lines. It's been a struggle to remember which thread is tied to what, whilst trying to work out where everything is headed.

So, I thought the best way to help myself would be to start two more novels.

Yup. I'm now writing three novels at the same time.

Well, two novels and a novella, as I reckon one of them - interesting as it is - is unlikely to have enough juice in for more than around 50-60k.

I've started a writing routine: 1,000 a day on Secret Order, 500 each on the other two. The idea being that my main project should always progress by at least 1k a day. The others just need to progress. That way, when I finish with my main project, my next one will at least be far enough along to keep the momentum up.

It's not something I planned to do, it just sort of happened. There's an idea I've been toying with for a couple of years - the novella - and then there was a sudden bolt of lightning, brilliant idea, that I was afraid of losing unless I started writing it down. 

The other rule I've brought into the mix, since I'm on holiday and have nothing urgent work-wise to deal with, is that I'm only allowed to check my e-mails once a day, after I've finished with all three projects. 

It's only day two, but so far, so good. I know my 1k a day routine didn't last long before, but what I'm really loving about this method is that each of the books are so completely different in genre: quirky fantasy, adult fantasy, mystery-thriller. If I'm struggling with one it's not long before I can switch to something else. Hopefully they'll all have their ups and downs on different days, so at least I'll get some sense of satisfaction from one of them each day.

Yes, this may all be the writer's equivalent of a fad diet, but I'm willing to believe in it for now.

Children of Lir is still months off publication, but I'm hoping that by the time we get there, I'll have something else to present.

Drawing a Blank

AAAARRRRRGGGGHHH!!

Sorry, that should have been screamed into the void, but it escaped.

I am suffering at the moment. Secret Order is twisting the sanity out of me.

This is my latest novel, and my first attempt at a trilogy. Something fast-paced and peculiar. It started off really well, born of two earlier short stories I bashed together. But the steam has blown out of it. Rolling to a halt like a joy ride after the stinger is deployed. 

Just past 26,000 words but I'm clawing each one of them from the air.

Partly it's because I've been travelling back and forth between counties since returning to the UK two months ago. I have family and friends scattered about the UK, so spreading myself between them.

Partly it's not being at home - my own home - where I can wander about my house, sit on my porch, contemplate, procrastinate and write without worrying about the rhythm of other people. I love my family and friends, I do. But I also - like most writers - love my solitude. No accidental interruptions or social decisions to be made. Of course I came back to the UK to be sociable, and to spend time with people I wouldn't ordinarily see, so writing can wait. 

Partly it's a genuine problem with the plot. I set off at a hundred miles an hour, got too clever for myself, and now can't see where I'm going. It's also a monumental shift from literary fiction to something a little more jaunty. Complete switch from my usual style of writing. With previous books I've had a good couple of pages to work out what's happening next. This is a real dervish of a story.

Partly, it's having no one to talk to about it. I have some fabulous beta readers. People who are really good at telling me whether something hangs together, whether the tone is right, whether the continuity is there. But it takes a specific type of mind to work through a plot over a couple of pints. Someone who gets what you're trying to achieve and can speak the language of 'what ifs' without 'what if'ing it into a parallel dimension. 

Partly I'm in the post-submission flump. I've signed off Children of Lir to Ghostwoods. A solid, poetic pile of prose which I'm very much looking forward to seeing in print. But all the time I was finishing that up, I was thinking Yay - now I can start work on Secret Order. Now Children of Lir is finished I don't have an excuse anymore not to be working on Secret Order, except the excuse of - Oh, maybe I should keep my desk clear for when CoL comes to edit, so my head is still in the right space. Like writing something else might ruin my mind.

Essentially, I'm just useless. The only way to get through this is to write my way through it. 

I've just been listening to Victoria Schwab on Tea & Jeopardy, and she suggested a fabulous way to attain "a reduced sense of self-loathing." Which is to get a calender and set up a sticky-star award system for yourself. A star for 500 words written, 1,000 words written, X number of pages read etc. Perhaps I could also award myself for the number of cups of coffee quaffed? 

I think it may come to this.

More and more lately, I've been thinking about how much I'd like to co-write something with someone. I haven't got any further or more specific than that. I just think it might be fun - and more productive - to collaborate on something for a while. Suggestions welcome.

Joyful Advancement

Explosions of Joy by Amy Giacomelli

Doing the wiggley-bummed dance of happiness this afternoon.

Things haven't been going great with Secret Order since getting back to the UK. They weren't going great before I left Kigali either, but I tried to convince myself it would take off again once in Blighty with creature comforts and cake. I've just really been struggling with the plot. Stuck at the 25k mark and using social media as an excuse not to think about it.

Just when things take a dip, something tends to happen to pull me out of it.

Today I signed my second contract with Ghostwoods Books for The Children of Lir. It's now officially official.

The cherry on top - they've offered me an advance!

I was just saying to Will the other week, as we ambled through a park in Hackney, that I had never had one of those.

An advance is where a publisher pays an amount up front to the author, ahead of sales. The idea is that you make back that money in sales before your royalty payments kick in.

So, what's the big deal about advances?

Well, there are certain points in a writer's life where they feel validated. It's not easy writing, it's really not. Most writers hold down more than one job, few make a full-time living out of writing. The article All Work and No Pay sums it up well. It's hard to hold your head up.

Those little moments of validation are important to a writer. The first is where someone who isn't an immediate member of your family, or someone obliged by friendship to be mindful of your feelings, tells you that your writing is 'good'. Another is the first time someone offers you a publishing contract you don't have to contribute to financially. The first time you win a writing prize for a poem or short story, even if the prize is just inclusion in an anthology or publication on a blog. The first time you win a cash prize. Your first royalty cheque is a big one.

Little milestones along the way.

My first advance is modest, but it means a lot. It's the first time a publisher has said: Yes, we believe in you. We believe that we can sell what you write. We believe this enough to give you part of your future earnings up-front.

In an industry where money is often tight and nothing is ever certain, that's a massive token of trust.

It also has another helpful effect. It makes me want to be a better writer. A publisher valuing what I write makes me value what I write more. Plus, it makes me want to pull my head out my arse and keep writing.

I'm really chuffed. Every book I've written has been slightly better and gone slightly further. Partnering with Ghostwoods has been an amazing experience, and I'm really looking forward to working with them again - they're tops.

The Story is Dead, Long Live the Story!

It's been a gruelling few days at the keyboard. Finished editing 308 pages of The Children of Lir. Knocked about 5,000 words off, down from 123k to a little over 118k. Tidied, polished, sprinkled a little glitter.

The earlier manuscript has already gone out to readers, and so far the feedback has apparently been positive. I read my editor's e-mails through my fingers. Taking on characters like the Morrígan is as intimidating as taking on the Opera Ghost, in that they have an established cult following of people with strong expectations of how that character should look and behave. 

You have to be quite mindful of that.

Anyway. That's that for now. I'm not at liberty to sign it away until later in the month. I decided to enter the manuscript in a competition, just for kicks. I'm not holding my breath, but one of the stipulations of the competition is that it can't have been accepted for publication before the results are announced. This seems a little odd, as they're not offering to publish the winning manuscript. But, their rules, and I don't want to jinx it by signing when there's only a couple of weeks to wait.

Meanwhile, I opened up Secret Order of the Literati the other day. This is a a manuscript I started at the beginning of July. I had to put it aside because work was manic at the time. Opening the file, I was expecting about 15,000 words. I was quite surprised to see I'd written over 23,000 - 85 pages. I think it's long on pages because there's a lot more dialogue in this than in most of what I write, and it's really fast-paced. Fast-paced dialogue equals a lot of line breaks. 

Just started reading back through now, and feeling excited by it. After Rosy Hours and Children of Lir, it's really refreshing to write something entirely from my own imagination again. It's far less literary than the stuff I've written before, with the exception, perhaps, of Georg[i]e - it's got that bounce. 

As I've mentioned, I'm looking for my first trilogy in this. Writing shorter books, but more of them. Hopefully something people could get hooked on. Characters you could cling to. I have no idea if it's going to work, but at the moment I'm feeling confident.

As the last line of CoL reads (at the moment, subject to editing): 

Each ending is its own beginning.

CoL - for me - is done. Here beginneth SoL.