The Repeating Finish Line

Last night I finished the fourth draft of my manuscript. As I stared wide-awake at the ceiling several hours later, I worked out that it was indeed my fourth draft (I have been puzzling over this) because my third one was a non-starter. I began enthusiastically then gave up and went back to the drawing board. I'm still counting it as a draft because of all that pointless thought that went into it. Then again, it was all part of the process. It just felt like a complete waste of my time. Anyway, as I ran through the novel again in my head at two o'clock in the morning, I began to think about the different types of manuscript completion, at least the ones I've encountered.

Firstly, you've got the idealist souls. These are the people who rush enthusiastically to the end of their first draft and believe that their job is done. Of course it's perfect: they wrote it. Why wouldn't it be perfect? Distance is alien to them and perhaps they start submitting the manuscript straight away to anyone they can think of. If they're an absolute genius of Dickens or Woolf proportions then it gets them where they want to be. For the rest of us, we must start scribbling away at that second draft, often a major overhaul.

Once you close in on the end of that draft you become an optimistic soul. You've probably lost your initial enthusiasm for your project but you recognise what you have now is better. However, since you've spent all this time fiddling about with the plot and characterisation, your prose reads like cardboard. Your images are all muddled up and at some point you described your protagonist in very biblical language which may or may not indicate you believe him to be the saviour of mankind. It needs fixing.

When you enter the third draft you're more of a hopeful soul. You're praying that the novel will be done at some point but you think you might have numerous medical conditions before it is. But, still, when you reach the end of it, it looks better than it did at the beginning. Of course it does. It's not like you'd waste time, is it?

Then you enter the stage of the obsessive souls. These are the people who are happy with their plot, happy with their characterisation but can't leave the manuscript alone. The number of drafts spreads into the teens, with no real tangible differences between them. Perhaps a word has been altered or an image bettered. This novel isn't going anywhere, except through the printer so you can edit a few words again.

I realise that I'm in danger of falling into the latter category. I'm insistent that there needs to be a fifth draft of this manuscript and I swear I'll consider letting it go after that. However, I do have a legitimate reason for another edit: I've substantially changed plot points in my fourth draft and, as a consequence, I need to check all that makes sense and do some polishing.

Will I be able to let it go afterwards? I may need some of you kind readers to pry it from my hands...

Book Review: Blue Guide Literary Companion London

This book was one I stumbled across due to Twitter. Clicking on links to blog posts can really help you discover great things and I'm certainly not sorry I found this little gem.

In a nutshell, compiler Robin Saikia takes you on an historical tour of the capital using extracts from numerous essays, novels, poems and even speeches. Each of the thirteen chapters is prefaced by an explanatory note highlighting important biographical information of the authors involved and including some extremely charming anecdotes. Being a Wilkie Collins fan, my personal favourite was a memory of Mrs Jane Ellis Panton about Collins and Charles Reade and their particularly see-through stage mystery.

The fantastic thing about this book is that nothing is redundant. All the extracts are intelligently selected and entertaining to read. I don't think there is one piece that I rushed over, or one chapter that I wasn't engrossed by. Two of my favourite chapters were ones I hadn't expected to love at the outset: 'Lions & Tigers, Cats & Dogs' and 'On the streets'. That said, I find it ridiculous to label any chapter my favourite since all of them captured my attention.

The extracts are well-varied. Alongside poetry from Wordsworth, Byron and Lawrence are extracts from factual books such as Henry Mayhew's famous analysis, London Labour and the London Poor. There's a speech from Prince Charles on the beauty of St. Paul's just a few pages after Joseph Conrad gives his view of the Thames. Count Dracula visits London Zoo in the same chapter that Dr Johnson's adoration of his cat is made plain. Addiction is covered by Sherlock Holmes, Dorian Gray and James Bond. The jumps in time make one thing abundantly clear: the themes are equally relevant in any era.

Practical things I appreciated about the book: it's relatively small, meaning you can pop it in a bag as you travel; most of the extracts are easily digestible and well-organised and the picture of Ludgate Hill a couple of pages in had me entranced. I've noticed criticisms elsewhere that the book doesn't really cover much 'modern' London. Well, as I said before, the themes are fairly universal anyway. Plus, the book is just the right length as it is and every extract serves a purpose: there isn't anything you could yank out to make room for more modern pieces. Besides which, I think it's perfect.

When I next go to London I'll be taking it with me. It'll be fantastic to walk into Bloomsbury and recall Edward Walford's piece on the Foundling Hospital.

Please visit Robin's blog here. I was hooked from the first post I read.

Also, take a look at his website for more information about (and praise for) his books.

My Morning Internet Routine

As regular readers of either this blog or my excruciating Twitter feed (@CharmedLassie) will know, I'm a stay-at-home research student and wannabe writer. This means I have to scavenge for self-discipline and remind myself that the only person who loses out if I don't get anything done is the idiot staring into space and listening to Radio 2 most of the day. However, I've noticed that my morning routine, before I can get started on any work, is very ordered and specific. Maybe even worth documenting?

• The first website I visit is Facebook due to the fact I'm playing three games on there at the moment. Yes, a waste of my time, perhaps. But they have the advantage of keeping me at the computer, or getting me there for set periods of time to harvest crops or build up my city. Whenever I'm sat at the computer my conscience inevitably kicks in. Plus, they offer little incentives: work for an hour and you get ten minutes tending to your farm. It actually works.
• My email pops up in the corner. I check (mostly delete) all that and log into Twitter while I'm sorting out my Facebook games. I'm obsessive; I have to read all the way back to where I left off the night before. I respond to anything directed at me.
• I visit The Telegraph website. I scan the homepage but I'm mostly interested in the 'Comment' section. I get riled, I respond to articles and I send any interesting ones to my Twitter feed.
• I go to The Guardian website. I visit the 'Comment' section and then usually the 'Culture' page, again sharing anything I find of interest.
• The Independent website is my next stop. What I use this for mainly are the headlines on the right-hand side. They're really good for breaking and recent news stories, several of which end up on Twitter.
• I go to the New Statesman website and check out their homepage.
• Next port of call is The Spectator Blog page, full of political observations and stories that, while interesting, probably wouldn't make it onto mainstream news sites.
• Next it's the BBC News site! Local news then most-read stories. I then check out the 'Entertainment' section.
• It's the turn of my Google Reader page. I scan the updates from the blogs I'm subscribed to and read/respond where appropriate. Then I look at the sites related to articles I may want to write for Lesbilicious.com and plan those into my day.
• I check my university email.
• I FINALLY GET TO WORK!

Is this obsessive? Looking at it like that, I think it might be. However, I do have a severe craving to be well informed. I blog about both writing/reading and current affairs and, though I'm blowing my own trumpet a little, I feel like I'm pretty up-to-date with what's going on around the world. I know people who really don't care what's going on in Westminster or the Middle East and I struggle to understand the apathy. I would just much rather know.

And I do get to work eventually... honest.

Am I the only one with this sort of rigid routine?

Book Review: Staying On by Paul Scott

This was another book I bought during my undergraduate degree (for my Colonialism and Post-Colonialism unit, I believe) and never read for whatever reason. Looking at it now, I can speculate on one probable reason: on the copy I own the female character is named on the back of the book as 'Lily' when you discover on the first page that she's actually called 'Lucy'. Despite the fact this is a publishing error, I think it had a psychological effect. Hence I waited four years to read the book.

Staying On is the story of a couple, Tusker and Lucy Smalley, who remained in India after Tusker retired from the British Army. They live in a small town called Pankot and, it's no spoiler to say so, Tusker is discovered dead on the first page. From there, the novel meanders backwards in time a little and unravels the events and relationships in the months before his death. Towards the beginning of the book it can be a little difficult to put your finger on where you are in time but this soon settles down. Also, don't think that the novel focuses solely on these few months: Scott's characters do that ever-human thing of thinking about their pasts, Lucy Smalley in particular. You honestly do get the feeling you've lived a life with these people.

There are so many strands to this book that it's impossible to separate half of them. Characters like Mr and Mrs Bhoolabhoy, the Smalley's landlords, are faithfully (sometimes even painfully) represented. Mrs Bhoolabhoy is a larger-than-life harridan and dictator, mercilessly ruling her business and her husband, a mild-mannered Christian who loves his little church and his hotel. Mr Bhoolabhoy serves as one of the viewpoint characters of the novel, along with Lucy Smalley and Ibrahim, the Smalley's servant. All of them are easily distinguishable and amusing in their own way.

I haven't read any other reviews of Staying On but I can imagine some of the criticism. Not much happens! Well, maybe that's true. After Tusker's body is found in the opening pages the climax of the novel has already been revealed - what's left to know? I think that's a little short-sighted. What Scott does, to great effect, is invite you into Pankot and into the lives of Tusker, Lucy, Mr Bhoolabhoy and Ibrahim. There is never the sense that he's embellishing for literary merit: the novel feels truthful and authentic. I trusted Scott as I trusted George Orwell when reading Burmese Days: I felt like I was being transported to another country but without cliché-ridden prose and character representation. You can say this for Scott and Orwell: you certainly know they've been there.

Staying On won the Booker Prize in 1977. Scott is perhaps most famous for the quartet of novels beginning with The Jewel in the Crown but many critics seem to regard Staying On as his best novel. Having only read this one, I can't comment on that. However, I can say that the story lingered in my mind for days afterwards, not an easy feat in an age of instant distraction and social media. I would wholeheartedly recommend it.

The book can be purchased here.

Characters Who Stand On Their Own Feet

Whenever I hear the phrase above - or a variation of it - I'm immediately transported back to Seven Brides for Seven Brothers. Cook and waitress, Millie, soon to be married to her customer, kindly informs Adam Pontipee that her stew doesn't need ketchup, it can stand on its own feet. Although the analogy may seem a little strange, in my head it applies to certain characters of my own creation.

There are various arguments on how you're supposed to craft fiction. Oh, you start with a plot idea, don't you, and take the character from there? Or you get a character and tangle up the plot from there? The apparent rules to writing fiction are both baffling and irritating. But what about those characters, usually secondary ones, who you can lift from one situation and put into another? They're not linked to plot and they just plopped into your head fully grown. You have to use them but you don't quite know where they belong yet. But, it's alright, because due to their versatility you can play around with them until you're satisfied.

I've got two characters like this. One, Mervyn, emerged from a rather amusing train guard I encountered during my trips from Lincoln to Wakefield during my undergraduate degree. He sang, he helped you out: he was the most good-natured train guard I've ever come into contact with, and I knew I had to take his premise and put him into a story. However, I tried him in one short story - about trains, funnily enough - but the story didn't work. Mervyn did, however, along with the little cast of characters I assembled around him. So I gathered all of them up and changed the transport system - they were now working on buses. Hmm, that story stalled for a good two years. Then, quite recently, I had an epiphany. I don't think Mervyn was happy in short stories because he's a much richer character than that. I know him; I know his speech patterns, his background and his temperament. I know his lifelong infatuation with schoolmate and now colleague, Linda. I know that he's a father figure to a younger workmate, although neither of them would admit it. In short, I know how to fit him into a novel. And best of all? I've got the plot as well. I haven't got the time to write the thing but we'll deal with that problem later.

My other character is one who made an appearance in the first draft of one of my (almost) completed manuscripts. Giorgio was universally disliked by the people who read that draft and, after thinking about it, I chopped him. However, unlike my test readers, I liked him. He was a nice old gentleman, obsessed with art and wanted dead by his money-grabbing son, Patrick. I haven't yet found a place for him, but I will.

To return to my Seven Brides for Seven Brothers analogy, I think that characters who are like Millie's stew are pretty rare. How many characters could you take from one story and substitute into another? We weave plots around character, build character from plot. In my experience, those characters who can stand on their own feet are rare and should be treasured as such.

Fifty Books A Year, Mr Gove?

This week our darling Education Secretary, Michael Gove, was reported to have suggested that children just hitting secondary school age should read fifty books a year, and not just the one or two novels that make it onto the curriculum. Unsuprisingly, people were quick to jump on the comments. How are poorer children supposed to obtain these books when their local libraries are closing by the dozen? Children's Laureate, Anthony Browne, also pointed out that children should be reading for enjoyment, not to reach some arbitrary target. Personally, I thought this Coalition was all about removing unnecessary targets from life but I may have been wrong.

Anyway, the statement got me thinking about reading in our society. Was I the exception to the rule fifteen years ago or were attitudes just different back then? Some of my most idyllic memories involve me perched precariously on a wall above twelve foot sheer drop onto concrete reading until I literally couldn't focus any more. Those were the books of childhood; the Enid Blyton stories and Roald Dahl's adventures. I wasn't tied to conventional authors either. For a painfully short space of time Wakefield had a discount book shop that half-specialised in stocking unheard-of children's novels. I practically ate those. I wasn't adverse to reading books half a dozen times either. I was told off in class for reading ahead in the books we were reading as a group.

But now I come to think of it, people at my school didn't seem as interested in books as I was. Could that be because I came from a relatively deprived area? Maybe. I'm willing to accept that some working class families just don't care enough about reading to pass it on to the next generation. My elder sister freely admits she barely reads now and I'm not sure she ever really did. My brother was a little more interested in books then, but I don't know if he still reads now.

Is that the problem then? Children grow up in households where their parents don't read so they don't see the significance? We live in a society where laziness prevails. Why bother reading a good book when it's coming to ITV1 as a drama in a few months? Or why bother watching any literary translations at all? There's enough on with Coronation Street, Holby City and CSI. Not that I mean to insult anybody who watches those. I'm an avid Corrie fan these days and it makes up an important part of my relaxation for the week. But, then again, so does reading. The last thing I do every day is read for anything between twenty minutes and an hour. It just depends how gripping the book is.

Do I get through fifty books in a year as an adult? Quite possibly, though at the moment my PhD reading figures will be skewing the data (I'm unsure in which direction). Do I love reading? Yes. Am I disappointed that my six-year-old niece seems indifferent to ever picking up a book and avoids her reading homework whenever she can? Yes, of course I am.

But I honestly don't think that Michael Gove proclaiming something will automatically make it so. If he proclaims it won't that just reinforce the idea that books are the privilege of the upper-classes? If I was a family being hit hard by community closures thanks to our lovely Coalition, the last thing I'd do is listen to a condescending, pompous twit like Michael Gove.

A Life In Museum Leaflets

As part of my ongoing quest to preserve anything I may want from my grandmother's home as she prepares to move, I spent two afternoons in the last week going through her hoard of leaflets and brochures gathered over the years. When I say it constituted a mountain, I'm not exaggerating. The ones I threw away half-filled the paper recycling bin. I haven't even started properly on the theatre programmes, spanning forty years, which I'm going to have more difficulty being discerning with.

However, the leaflets were my first port of call. My grandparents were very active in their retirement, travelling all over the country and dropping into every museum, gallery and castle along the way, usually several times. As a consequence, I had to sift through everything from those flimsy A4 folded things up to glossy colour magazines on some of the most beautiful castles and pieces of artwork in Britain. Most of the little ones had to go. I came to the conclusion that none of those could be useful to me, and even though I half-wanted to keep them, we couldn't afford the space. My 'office' is already looking like a book depot; I can't actually get to my PhD bookcase without moving a box, putting it next to my desk, then moving it back again afterwards. This isn't mentioning the fact that we're expected to take a bureau, a bookcase and a flipping piano into our cramped abode. Oh, well, who hasn't wanted to edge sideways around a tiny house on a daily basis?

Still, I found it difficult to part with some of the glossier items. I had to come up with some rules. If a book was damaged in any way, it had to go. If it was black and white, it had to be carefully considered. If there were smiling eighties families on the inside cover... well, it was a toss-a-coin moment. As a result, I've ended up with half a huge box of magazines to bring home, along with whatever number of theatre programmes I feel I can't part with.

It's quite sad really. All those memories that my grandparents made, cleared away in one fell swoop. All that money they spent on brochures they barely looked at again. The multiple visits, marked by half a dozen different styles of leaflet, struck me especially. I wonder how many people these days hoard these kinds of things. I keep my theatre programmes and any glossy magazines I buy. That, however, is as likely due to the price as much as anything else. It's only when you consider pamphlets sold for 10p which would likely be several pounds these days, that you realise how expensive exploring our cultural heritage is getting these days.

The last thing I drew from this experience? That I want to visit as widely as my grandparents did. They already gave me a good grounding in British history: the number of National Trust and English Heritage properties I visited in my youth isn't worth counting. I remember my first visit to Skipton Castle and going to an extremely odd little museum on cats which baffled the three of us. I remember visiting The Royal Armouries before I went with school and I can easily recall my numerous trips to the National Media Museum, as it's called now.

I owe my grandparents for the starting push. But I have to do the rest of it on my own I think.