Westgate Writers: Retrospective

For the last couple of months I've been working with the Westgate Writers, a group chaired by writer Steve Dearden. The brief was to explore the train station: people were recruited by an ad in the Metro but I bumped into the call-out online and accessed it that way. I jumped at the chance because the relocation of Wakefield Westgate station fascinated me as I passed the construction site last year each time I went into town. It became a habit with me to note how it was going (and, truthfully) criticise various aspects. Although I don't use the station daily, I travel to Sheffield a fair bit and the simple act of demolishing the old station buildings has thrown up a lot of thoughts and feelings. Coupled with the shininess of the new station, this little patch of land down the bottom of Wakefield centre proved to be fertile territory for fiction.

As with all these things, I didn't know what to expect from the group. But it turned out really well. There were six of us plus Steve, a nice size that worked well for the final performance slot. We had a little fun with writing activities involving prompt cards, song lyrics and idea dice but what really came out was the amount of work you could connect to the station, As a place where you're in transit, of course, many stories could be planted onto that location without growing organically. We did a little of that but, for the most part, our stories grew out of the station itself. At one point another member of the group said that I really didn't like the new station because I kept criticising the change. Well, I'm back and forth on it but I do miss the markers of the old decrepit buildings, the same way you miss anything that's been a part of your life for so many years.

Our work came together on Saturday. The first half of the event was Steve discussing his project 'Wake Lost Wake Found, details of which can be found here, which was fascinating. Then the Westgate Writers got up and presented our work in a manner that mimicked like the transience of the train station. I read out two little pieces which I was quite proud of and, I'm told, the event was a success.

Working with the Westgate Writers has been brilliant. Talking about writing and listening to work isn't something I've done much of since my MA and it's ridiculously beneficial to my writing process and confidence apparently. So thank you to Daniel, Gregg, Jim, Nigel and Stefan for being part of it and especially thanks to Steve Dearden for being such an excellent chair. It's been a pleasure to work with you all.

(My post-event drinks with a little green friend courtesy of a big not-green friend)

Book Review: New Grub Street by George Gissing

New Grub Street is a biting analysis of literary London in the late nineteenth century. First published in 1891, it tells the story of a group of writers and their dependants. Jasper Milvain fashions himself as a 'modern' literary man, someone who will turn his hand to anything and fully expects it to be forgotten as soon as it has been read. He aims for financial success, not literary merit. In sharp opposition to him is his face, Edwin Reardon, a man of considerable talent who has faded under the grip of poverty. He cannot write well and so does not want to write at all. His wife, Amy, despairs of what she sees as his inability to try and a break emerges between them. In addition to this trio, other important characters in the novel include Milvain's sisters, Maud and Dora, who move to London when their mother dies and try to support themselves writing fiction, Harold Biffen, another impoverished writer, and the Yule family. Amy's cousin, Marian, catches Jasper's eye early in the novel but her poverty repels him. Marian has been helping her father, Alfred, research and write for years and dislikes her life. Both Amy and Marian live in the hope of a small legacy from their paternal uncle which would alleviate their stresses.

The main characters in this novel are easily distinguishable, though occasionally the supporting cast of names can get a little confusing. But, for the most part, this novel is about Milvain and Reardon and their differing fortunes. The depiction of Milvain towards the end of the book is very clever: although his star has risen, there's the sense that something is missing from his life. This provides an ambiguous conclusion to a life where everything has been decided on businesslike terms.

For Reardon, life is completely different. Once he and Amy part, there is the sense of inevitability about his fate and perhaps Gissing dwells too much on his poverty. However, as a character, he serves to demonstrate that non-commercial writing, however brilliant, can lead to destitution. It's a stinging indictment of not only the literary world at the time but the public which gobbled up three volume novels of no substance and failed to appreciate the talent of 'real' storytellers. Harold Biffen is another casualty of such a system, putting much effort into a realist novel about a grocer with the full knowledge that the public will not read such a story. The dual fates of Reardon and Biffen are a sad by-product of the 'trade' of literature.

New Grub Street is an excellent, if ultimately depressing book. There are some scenes of humour - including a daring rescue from a burning building which perhaps should not be as amusing as it is - but, for the most part, it is bleak and unrelenting. No character is wholly good, in the same way that no character in wholly bad. Reardon's pride adds to the wounds inflicted by his literary failures and Biffen's sudden affection for a woman assists in his downfall. As I said above, Milvain may prosper but it may not bring him complete happiness. This is a book about fortune and about the 'trade' of literature, something as hotly debated now as it was a century ago. 

Getting to Grips With Scrivener

On a whim I first downloaded the trial version of Scrivener then purchased the full licence last week. It wasn't a complete whim - I'd read Emma Darwin's post on why she's been converted to Scrivener and a lot of what she said appealed to me. At the moment I work from paper copies for my second drafts onwards and it's cumbersome. It limits where I work and I also need the grounding system of notes without having half a dozen Word documents open. I can't focus like that so I thought Scrivener might be a solution. My intention from the start was never to use it for first drafts - I like my trusty Word document for that and the idea of there being things I 'should' do or 'need to' do in the way of planning would mean a first draft would never get written.

So far I'm treading cautiously. One of the best things about Scrivener is the ability to plan as you go along. The way I've got it set up at the moment is that I have the first draft of the novel on the right hand down in a slightly slimmer panel then on the left I have the scene I'm currently working on. From the left hand panel I skip to the character notes and general theme notes that I've started to make sure everything seems consistent. My real problem in this respect is that I keep accidentally changing the right hand panel than the left!

To be honest, I think I've tried to use Scrivener on a rather odd project. It only has three parts (or three chapters) with tens of scenes involved in each. It was the way the novel fell when I first started writing it and it fits for the story I'm trying to tell. What that means, though, is that my chapter 'corkboard' is looking very packed and my chapter drop-down is stretching on and on.

I'll slowly get used to it I suppose. I'm not regretting buying it; just regretting the time I'll have to spend reading the manual. However, on present information, I think it will end up working for me. I just need to learn what it does - and what I want from it. I'll keep you updated on my progress!

Thoughts on Queen's

I turned on the television to check the Queen's final score yesterday afternoon, fully expecting it to have gone into a deciding set, only to find Marin Cilic wandering around with the trophy. This puzzled me, since he'd just lost the first set the last time I checked the score and there was definitely something going on - for one thing, he was booed when Sue Barker tried to get a comment from him. It took a few more minutes to decipher what was going on but it eventually transpired that his opponent David Nalbandian had overreacted to being broken by Cilic and had kicked an advertising hoarding beside the court. Unfortunately, that hoarding shielded a line judge: the hoarding struck the judge, causing him to fall off his chair as the wound on his leg started bleeding fairly heavily. Nalbandian was disqualified, handing the title to Cilic. The Telegraph article includes the video of the moment Nalbandian lost his temper.

What astonished me, however, was not the actual kick but the reaction of the crowd to Cilic. I honestly can't believe they booed him for the fact his opponent ended the match in a sudden and rather violent manner. Yes, they felt deprived of their tennis final; yes, some of them didn't realise the severity of the line judge's injury. Still, wanting a match to go on when someone outside of the two players has been hurt feels selfish beyond belief on the part of the crowd. More than that, it seems like they wanted to reward Nalbandian for his antics. In fairness to them, though, they did boo Nalbandian himself when he waffled on live television and tried to blame the ATP's hectic schedule for his reaction.

All this got me thinking. As a collective, humans are very selfish. We boo if something unexpected goes wrong in a tennis match; we boo if a band doesn't perform the song everyone wants to. What about authors? I would imagine the criticism they receive online is akin to crowd booing. If you write a series which people become invested in and then make an unpopular turn I'd imagine the crowd can be fairly harsh: what were the reactions, I wonder, to the killings of Sirius Black and Albus Dumbledore in the Harry Potter series?

Step back another inch, to somewhere in-between writing and spectacle: television drama and soap. These combine writing with performance and therefore any 'blame' can be spread around a large group. However, anecdotal evidence suggests that actors are criticised in the streets for the actions of their characters - this is a nice way for writers to avoid criticism!

Of course, I don't think there's anything wrong with debate. The recent Alzheimer's storyline in Coronation Street provoked a lot of debate, most of which seemed to shy-away from outright 'booing'. However, the actions of the crowd at Queen's yesterday edged away from polite irritation at the rules (and the right of the line judge to work in relative safety) and moved into outright hostility. What happens if you start listening to the crowd's demands to be entertained? I don't know. But I do know I'm not keen on trying it.

Fielding Questions From Children

I was spending some time with my eight year-old niece on Saturday. We'd gone into town to get some belated birthday presents for her and then we were playing games on the Wii and generally looking stupid in the living room. Now, the living room doubles as my office. The desk's piled high with PhD materials, I've got three novel manuscripts in clear folders hanging around and notes all over. Growing bored of the Wii, she picked up the nearest thing and asked what it was.

Fortunately for me, she hadn't picked up one of the novels. That would've been tricky to explain in a few words. No, she'd picked up a notebook open at a page with a short play plan sketched out. So I told her it was a short play. She asked what it was about! I started off as vague as I could - it's about two women who meet on a railway platform when the trains are running late. She seemed to gaze at me expectantly so I added that one of them was upset. Of course, she then asked why. I got as close to the truth as I could - I said she'd lost someone she cares about. Then I distracted her with something else before she asked me who that was! The truth is, the woman had lost her son in an accident and I didn't want to explain that concept to an eight year-old if I could help it.

How upfront should you be with children when it comes to discussing what you're writing? Even more everyday than that, how you do explain to a child something they see on the news or overhear you talking about? I never know whether I'm doing the right thing when I speak to my niece as honestly as I can. I get the feeling that she (and probably a lot of kids) know when they're being either lied to or mollycoddled. They ask questions for a reason - they want to know the answers. If you can't give them the full answer then I suppose they deserve at least the PG answer. These are the things that you need to learn as an aunt as well as a parent - and I'm a little behind in my lessons.

I Am Good (Possibly)

Today I attended a seminar group about how to teach seminar groups (yes, I know). One of the first little tasks we had to do was think of something we're good at. Whereas a year or so ago I would've dodged the question, desperate not to think of my many shortcomings, this time the answer shot straight into my head. Writing. I'm good at writing. It's actually very difficult to get me to say I'm half-decent at anything, despite people attempting to drum it into me (yes, Nicola, I'm looking at you). Today was a big step forward in my development. I am good at writing. I know I am. I also know there's plenty of room for improvement but I am on the path. It's like answering the tricky question of when you start to call yourself a 'proper' writer (I blogged about this last year). I think you have to be comfortable with whatever label you give yourself and how you measure your own success.

The next part of the task was to think what had made you good at your little something. Practice, that was my answer. Perseverance. Of course, that doesn't apply to just writing. Unless you're naturally gifted, everybody has to put in a little effort to get where they want to be.

Do you think Dorothy agrees or disagrees? I can't decide...

Performance Time

Last night I attended a showcase of work by writers, directors and actors which celebrated work in this region. I was lucky enough to have a piece included: a ten-minute play called 'Shards' which revolved around a woman's inability to communicate with her dementia-suffering mother following the death of her father. The problem is exacerbated by the woman she deems responsible for her father's death becoming friends with her mother. Honestly, it takes longer to explain the piece than to watch it!

I was pleased with the way mine looked on stage. I don't think there's anything that quite matches the sensation of hearing words you've written come out of other people's mouths. The three actresses involved in my piece were excellent. I saw a rehearsal on Wednesday evening and the first thing I said afterwards was that the actress playing Eliza was scary. The director pointed out that I'd written her that way but words on a page can sometimes be so subdued and the effect has to be seen to be enjoyed. Judging from the audience reaction, I think my play went down quite well and - when I remembered to breathe - I found I enjoyed it too.

The other twelve pieces were very varied. However, my father did point out afterwards that a running motif seemed to be death. That probably says a lot about the preoccupation of writers at the moment, feeding off the gloomy atmosphere and worrisome news stories. The comedies were very good though and provided some much-needed laughter in the midst of all the death and pain.

It was an excellent night all round and I'd like to thank my family for coming to support the hyperventilating writer and the various friends who have kept me calm over the last few weeks - Claire, Sal, Laura and Nicola included! Well done to everyone involved in the performances and I hope I get to work with some of them again in the future.

Climbing Back to Progress

The other week I went indoor climbing for the first time in six months. Prior to that, I hadn't been for about eight months. So I was somewhat out of practice. Add to that the fact that my fear heights usually consumes me each time I manage to get a few feet off the floor and you'll understand why I was apprehensive. However, after conquering my first (very high) wall by nervously singing songs from Sweeney Todd under my breath, I did something I'd never done before - literally threw myself into climbing until everything hurt and I was dangling precariously on a rope while reaching for a hold I could never get. Previously, I wouldn't go for anything remotely out of reach, my fear of slipping and bashing myself was too vivid. But I actually did slip and bruise my knee quite badly. The worst sort of happened and I was still climbing.

This past weekend I opened up a WIP I abandoned a few weeks ago when my PhD schedule became all-consuming. I'd left it at around 28,000 words. I'd finished Part One (of three) and faltered as I couldn't fathom how to progress. Taking a leaf out of climber-me's book, I just started writing. I knew my characters pretty well; I had a vague idea of where I wanted to go - why shouldn't I write? Well, on Saturday I added 3,500 to my word count and at least another 1,000 on Sunday. By forcing myself to begin writing, much as I forced myself to begin climbing, I found that I soon got into the swing of it.

One final note: after climbing I was in agony for two days. My forearms burned to the extent that reading a book was painful. When I awoke one morning I thought I was fine, then I moved and pretty much started crying. I've experienced something similar with the writing: by devoting my weekend to this novel I woke up on Monday utterly drained and lacking a weekend break. My head feels like sawdust and, I suspect, my PhD work thus far is demonstrating that. Still, progress in one area is better than progress in none...

A Little Friendly Inspiration

I was reminded recently how much speaking face to face with other writers can give your lagging enthusiasm a kick up the behind. Oh, I know that the Internet is a fantastic tool and allows you to interact with people you've never met. It can open so many doors. But it can also leave you feeling a little solitary on one side of a computer screen while the writing world trundles on somewhere else.

During my MA I was thrown together with some very vivid personalities. Some I liked and some were creepy. I remember many an evening sitting with people and talking about our work, talking about the rest of the world and our lives, even talking surreptitiously about which tutors we thought were talking out of their...well, you get the picture. While discussing your writing with sympathetic family members is something of a solution, they can become a bit vacant half way through an explanation. They might appreciate what you're trying to do but they may not understand the driving force behind your work.

On Saturday, as Sal and I (she won't mind me mentioning her name) were chatting over coffee, I suddenly felt a rush of enthusiasm for the stories that either I'd abandoned or I was trudging through like an obligation. I wanted to get home and get writing. As it happened, I couldn't do that due to other circumstances, but the feeling lasted. I want to write. That's a sensation I may have been lacking recently.

I wish I saw my writing friends more often. However, in the meantime I'll enjoy it when I get the chance and always keep a notebook handy when I do.

Oh, and Sal (@Bamdaph on Twitter) has recently started a blog about learning how to drive. It's going to be funny so you may want to take a look!

Some Rather Exciting News

Well, I found this out a week ago but only told a select few people because I was convinced I'd get an email saying they'd re-read the submission and actually they hadn't meant to send anything but a curt 'thanks but no thanks' to little me. You know what? That didn't happen. Therefore I feel secure enough to be able to squeak this to you all: I'm having a short (ten minute) play performed on the 15th September.

I'm very excited. I first found about the NSC Theatre Awards 2011 four days before the deadline. Luckily, I had a short play all prepared but it was touch and go as to whether I could get an entry form emailed over and get the thing posted before the deadline. Fortunately, all worked out! Nothing for a few weeks. Then an email popped into my inbox last weekend and I prepared myself for another rejection to top off an altogether-unpleasant week. Amazingly, though, it wasn't a rejection.

As a finalist I get to have my play performed in front of a panel of judges and any members of the public who want to come along and see what I'd imagine is going to be a diverse selection of pieces. The awards are being held at the Northern Ballet in Leeds on 15th September (as I think I mentioned before!) and you can find out more about them on the NSC site.

Meanwhile, this about suits my mood. Substitute the pillow Audrey hugs at the end for an Eeyore and I swear it's me!

Pet Names

To avoid any confusion, I'm talking about 'names for pets' in this post. Not 'pet names' such as 'snuggles', 'cuddles', 'arsenic', and 'bulldozer'. That's a whole different category and one that could make everyone feel rather nauseous. No, I've been thinking a lot lately about animal names and their relationship to fiction: how do you decide what to call your pets and, more importantly, how do characters?

So far in my novel drafts I've only included one pet. There's an excellent piece of advice in some book somewhere that warns writers not to include animals without an exceptional reason. They can be self-indulgent little things that do nothing apart from hold up your plot and, when you forget about them, can leave the reader wondering where the fluffy kitten is and whether you did actually leave it in the burning building. The cat in my novel serves a few purposes, or at least I believe she does. I may be being self-indulgent. But Meg gives my protagonist something to get up for in the morning, she gives her something to talk to, and she serves to illuminate aspects of character by her preference for certain characters over others. As a cat person, I have to say that a cat's opinion can occasionally sway me in something like that. Yes... I know.

But why the name Meg? Well, my protagonist found the cat as a stray and gave her a human name to make her part of her hitherto single-person family. The old saying goes that if you give a cat a human name it becomes more human in your eyes. Now, I don't know what our pet names say about us as a family.

My cat, who unfortunately died last week, was called Stalin. Her sister, who passed away a few months ago was called Vlad. These cats were originally my sister's but part of her agreement to get them dictated my mother should have a say in the names. And she was kind of into her history. I have to say, whereas Vlad was a softie, Stal lived up to her name on some occasions. But not as much as the first cat I remember - Beast. Now, she was a stray and a very violent scrappy cat. I was scratched more than I care to remember when I was younger by that darling. She had a particularly amusing game of hanging around on the kitchen country ready to leap onto the back of our poor, unsuspecting doggy. She was originally called (embarrassing moment coming up) Icolbit, because a child who shall remain nameless couldn't speak and wanted her to come over 'a little bit'. However, 'Beast' was a much more appropriate name for her.

We've had two dogs in my lifetime. Paddy, probably a whippet crossed with something it really shouldn't have been crossed with, was a rescue dog. The first day we got him he ran from the house into the middle of a busy road because he was scared. I'm not sure the car helped his fear much. However, one metal plate later and he was perfectly happy. He still shook at anything, even a raised voice, but he was the most docile, friendly dog you could encounter. When he died my mother was heartbroken, and made the decision to go check out a puppy next door to one of my aunts the very same day. So we ended up with Rosie, a Cairn crossed with a Westie... we think. She's highly excitable and we're currently having some problems with her because she misses Stalin terribly. Once Beast died she became attached to Vlad and when Vlad died she latched onto Stal. She's now lost and confused and thinks we're going to leave her every time we leave the dining room. Rosie was my name choice, and not for very pleasant reasons either. There was a stuck-up girl I hated at school, part of a set who loved the look of themselves in a mirror. Naming my dog after one of them seemed to be the ultimate revenge at the time. Ahem. I promise I have grown up since then.

We've had an array of animals in my family. Maud, a grey long-eared rabbit; Norman, a brown and white rat; Noel and Liam, my brother's budgies. Plus an assortment of mice, rabbits and fish whose names escape me. But, for the most part, they were all part of the family - that is, they were named as if they were part of the family.

I know that including pets in fiction should be avoided if they're just going to be an issue of cuteness and irritation to the reader. But think of Fang in the Harry Potter series: whenever Hagrid was in his hut I wanted to know where the dog was because he was a vivid character in my mind. He helped define Hagrid. Where would Count Fosco be in The Woman in White without his assortment of mice and birds? The attention he pays to them highlights a peculiar edge to his character. And, in the world of television, where would Martin Crane be without his dog, Eddie? Animals can help define and shape character as much as they can annoy the audience by their constant interruptions. The key as a writer is to know when you're indulging yourself and when you're indulging the requirements of the plot or scene.

The Mileage of Longing

As anyone who follows me on Twitter will be aware of, I'm currently going through one of my periodic binges on excellent television. This time, it's American sitcom, Frasier, which I hope many people still remember fondly. It told the story of radio shrink, Frasier Crane, as he returned to Seattle to start a new job. His father, Martin, moved in with him, along with English physical therapist, Daphne Moon. And, quite often, his brother, Niles, dropped in to visit. From their very first encounter, it was clear Niles was entranced by Daphne, something which later developed into a strong love.

The comedic value of that attraction was massive. There were some notable episodes which played on it: the series one episode, 'A Midwinter Night's Dream', in which Niles and Daphne are trapped by a storm at his house:

Another favourite of mine is the series three episode, 'Moon Dance'. Daphne helps Niles learn how to dance and eventually ends up accompanying him to the event after his partner cancels. Martin has warned Niles that he'll say something he'll regret in the heat of the moment. Niles duly does this, only for Daphne to surprise everyone by declaring her love as well. For a blissful few seconds both Niles and the audience are ecstatic, only for Daphne to joke that they had everyone fooled:

By series six producers had decided to end the audience's agony. During this series there were several hints Niles and Daphne would get together, despite Daphne accepting a proposal from someone else. Series seven saw Niles start a relationship with someone else, only for Daphne to finally learn how he felt about her for six years. As will occasionally happen, she finds herself suddenly attracted to him too. We get the happy ending, despite Niles marrying someone else and Daphne preparing to walk down the aisle with her fiancée. They start series eight as a couple, in a move which altered the dynamic of the show considerably.

I'm probably not the only one who thinks the most magical aspects of the Daphne/Niles relationship occurred while they were apart. Aside from the merits of the earlier years, when Niles pined silently after her, I'm extremely attached to series seven. From the very next episode after Daphne has discovered how Niles feels about her, she begins to alter her perception of him and starts to look at him in a different way. In a half-an-hour comedy where the spotlight is on another character there isn't much space devoted to the on-going trials of the ensemble cast. That said, the writers and Jane Leeves (playing Daphne) pulled it off magnificently. With little moments scattered throughout series seven, the audience were as involved in Daphne's realisation as they had been in Niles's adoration over the previous six years.

The Frasier producers seemed to have realised they'd pushed the unrequited love boat as far as it could go. It was a key ingredient of the show and I know people who think it suffered for losing the will-they-won't-they strand. But it had to happen. They had to get together. You can't build the expectations of your audience up for years then betray them. This sense of longing can offer immense mileage to a writer, whether you're writing fiction, scripts or anything else, but you have to be careful to resolve the tension before interest diminishes. Soaps are one medium where you can milk this kind of thing too much. For every wonderful Olivia/Natalia storyline (from American soap, Guiding Light, now sadly defunct) there is an Ashley/Bernice (Emmerdale, quite a few years ago now). The beauty of the former was that it switched from longing to fulfilment at just the right time. The viewer had been able to follow both Olivia and Natalia's emotional journey's and jumped when they jumped. However, the problem with the Emmerdale storyline was that the couple couldn't last. They were too different. Once they were together the producers didn't know what to do with them and so the character of Bernice eventually left.

I love my will-they-won't-they dramas. Currently I'm hoping for Rita and Norris to settle into happy retirement strangling each other in Coronation Street. Or what about Sean and Vicky in American import The Event? The tension there is beyond belief! As a fan of Downton Abbey I was screaming at the screen for Bates to admit how he felt about Anna all through the first series and it's one of my motivating factors for watching series two later this year.

Let's face it, if love makes the world go round, longing from a distance certainly makes it a more interesting ride. Anybody else have some excellent will-they-won't-they shows for me to get hooked on?

Aspiring Or Perspiring?

I recently read this thought-provoking blog on writers who call themselves 'aspiring'.

The general message seems to be that if you try to do all the things those professional (read, published) writers do then you should consider yourself a writer. After all, you're not sat there talking about writing a book, you're actually getting on with it and the sweat from the effort is visible on every fibre of your being. I do appreciate this sentiment and yet I'm still calling myself an aspiring writer. Why?

Well, firstly, I don't want to mislead anyone. If someone happens across this blog or my Twitter page I would rather they didn't mistake me for what I'm not. Is this because I consider myself a failure? No, because you can't fail at what you haven't really tried yet. I confess, I haven't submitted my novels yet but I will. Maybe when I'm going through the submission process I'll feel more comfortable about calling myself a writer with no prefix.

Another aspect of this is that calling myself 'aspiring' keeps me on my toes. I have a desperate urge to shed the self-imposed label. Every time I see my Twitter profile I'm reminded of my goals. At least this way I can never forget them.

Yes, I do all of the things Ami Hendrickson suggests make me a writer with no prefix: I monitor my daily word counts, I love my characters to bits, I criticise every bit of television and film I see in terms of bad plot, bad characterisation and ridiculous occurrences (you should hear my thoughts on Glee). And maybe I should let go of the tag for those very good reasons she listed but I can't.

It's personal preference and probably has more than a little to do with my low self-esteem. But what are you going to do? You can only be what you feel you are. And maybe I should listen to that advice in every facet of my life for good measure.

Crunching The Fourth Draft Figures

Now I've come down from the elation of actually closing the document housing my fourth draft and sending it off for a lucky someone to read, I decided to open my spreadsheet of daily totals and see how the whole endeavour panned out. Please tell me I'm not the only writer obsessed with statistics. It's a habit I picked up in my last job and, actually, all my PhD stuff is organised onto spreadsheets that do several wonderful but useless things. I like the information there, so I can berate or congratulate myself as necessary, So, let's take a look.

I started the fourth draft on 16th January and completed it on 6th April. My calculation there is that it took me 81 days.

I wrote nothing for this particular story on 31 days of the 81. That means I only really worked for 50 days on it. That makes my average word count over the days I actually wrote 1361 words.

On 27 days I wrote less than 1000 words.

On 15 days I wrote between 1000 and 2000 words.

On 3 days I wrote between 2000 and 3000 words.

On 5 days I wrote more than 3000 words.

My highest daily word count was my last (6821) and my lowest was 324 on 26th January.

Well, I have to say, I like those figures. They're not too shabby. It proves that I could complete a draft in two months if I worked everyday. It also proves that the slowly-but-surely method yields results. I didn't manage to meet my minimum target of 1000 words on more than half of my working days and yet I still completed the thing. My five 'super-spurt' days were pivotal in the success but it would only have taken me a few more weeks had I stuck to lesser amounts.

I shall now stop dwelling over the fourth draft. I'll have enough to contend with when I deal with the next one...

Remember To Support The Arts

Life is difficult for everyone at the moment. Thanks to government cuts (whether you believe them justified or not), most ordinary people are struggling in one way or another. I'd imagine - although I don't know for certain - that people creating "unnecessary" luxuries of life will be suffering more than most. I heard it during some of the radio debates on the arts funding cuts: who needs art really, what does it accomplish?

Well, just to digress for a moment. Books (if you're willing to buy used) are one of the cheapest forms of entertainment going. They're also an excellent way to learn and, come on, who doesn't like the feel of a book in their hands? Feel free to roll your eyes at my enthusiasm. After all, you can watch television and search for information on the Internet, can't you? Yes, of course you can. But reading a novel and getting lost in it is an unrivalled experience. Equally, I like good old fashioned library looks for learning from - I believe in them more. However, small publishers were particularly battered by the Arts Council this year. One of my favourite publishers of short stories and poetry, Salt Publishing, were unsuccessful in their bid, although they have luckily received a reprieve in the form of some ADVANCE funding. However, other small presses haven't been so lucky. ARC Publications lost their funding in a move which is both demoralising and potentially debilitating for them. Flambard Press are ceasing operation in 2012.

All this is bad news for writers. Small presses are notoriously helpful towards younger writers. Most of them have made it a mission to encourage new talent. If we lose those organisations then new writers are going to struggle more than they already do. Personally, I don't want my book market to be dominated by Katie Price's thirtieth autobiography and the latest copycat book involving a wizard or a brooding vampire. I like exciting fiction and moving towards a system where small presses are increasingly frozen out is not to my tastes at all.

On a more local level, my closest theatre in Wakefield lost their funding. It seemed particularly baffling as they've just entered into a lucrative partnership and are celebrating their twenty fifth birthday this year. One theory bandied around my household is that good old-fashioned theatre just isn't trendy any more. Case in point: the new Barbara Hepworth Gallery down the road received a bump to their grant, some of which could easily have been passed onto the theatre instead. Our theatre's beautiful and I really don't want to lose it.

You can debate about the rights and wrongs of the Arts Council cuts in the grand scheme of things as much as you want. However, it doesn't change the facts. Did you know that 49% of funding has gone to London groups? This is only down by 1% on the 2010 figures. Personally, I find that ludicrous. Similarly, all the groups that The Telegraph labelled as the big winners were from London. The losers? Sheffield Museums, Derby Theatre and Exeter Northcott Theatre. Yes, there were some losers in London but, looking at it, not the majority. I realise that taking a slice out of all funding wasn't the right way to go about it. It did have to be assessed on a case by case basis. I'm just concerned about the North/South divide and the impact on small companies already struggling with the recession. Could the biggest organisations not have taken a small cut to keep these afloat?

So what can we do to help? Well, support the suffering groups. On the day the cuts were announced I bought a book from Salt Publishing to show solidarity (a short story collection I'm looking forward to reading). They've been using the Twitter hashtag #JustOneBook and it applies to all small presses, even those who haven't had their funding wiped out. These small presses are the lifeblood of fiction. Pay full price, buy directly through their websites. Don't give third parties like Amazon any more of the pie than they've already got.

Support your local museums, gallery and theatres. Due to my sudden interest in Wakefield Theatre Royal I stumbled across the Wakefield Drama Festival 2011, being held there at the end of May and into early June. Seven plays in seven nights! Several of which can be legitimately linked to my PhD (one is about Branwell Bronte and another is about the Road murder of 1860). I've bought a week pass for £45 and I'm definitely looking forward to it. The thing is, your local groups don't just need support, they deserve it as well. Most of them do exceptional work which won't be missed until it's gone. By then it'll be too late.

Support the arts!

Making a Mess/Clearing It Up

Most writers have a difficulty in common: we work from home a lot of the time.

Now, this has benefits. There's no need to get dressed before you start work and you can listen to music while you work as loudly as you deem necessary. However, one significant pitfall which I've been encountering lately is the peril of the phone call.

I admit to being a little frustrated when somebody I know calls. I've been having grandmother issues lately and I've spoken to her everyday for considerable periods of time. Does that frustrate me? Yes, but she's more important than my frustration. However, I haven't yet extended the same courtesy to the cold callers who are frequently trying to sell us something. Usually I just ignore their calls but today I was rather irate, having bashed my knee on the filing cabinet in a mad rush to get there. So I answered it quite abruptly.

Woman: Hello, can I speak to Mr or Mrs Brown please?

Me: No. And, do you know what, I wish you'd stop calling like this. If you've got something to say you leave a message. You don't just repeatedly call.

Woman: I'm sorry, have we got the wrong number?

Me: No, you've got the right number.

Woman: Is that Mrs Brown I'm speaking to?

Me: No, this is Miss Brown. Mrs Brown's dead.

Woman: (Pause) Look, it was just a courtesy call. I'll take you off the list.

As soon as I hung up I felt terrible. After all, the woman had only been doing her job. In fact, I didn't even find out who she was calling on behalf of. I just lost it with the first person I came across because they were disturbing my PhD time.

I got a little upset and went into town to cool off. When I came back I decided it was bothering me, not knowing who I'd been so rude to. So I called the number back. It was British Gas.

At this point my stomach dropped out. You see, we'd had some work done last week, and the fact that it was a 'courtesy call' suddenly made sense. I felt lousy. Out of the four numbers repeatedly calling over the last few weeks I'd yelled at the legitimate one. To combat the hideous way I felt I called them back and apologised profusely to a very nice operator for a good five minutes. To be honest, he seemed astonished that someone was apologising for being horrible.

The trouble is, I feel better now, but I still yelled at someone when they didn't deserve it. I pride myself on absorbing all the rubbish daily life throws at me and getting rid of it all at a later date. I suppose today was the later date.

Kicking Pivotal Scenes Into Submission

I've had a lacklustre week as far as writing is concerned.

Since I began this third (fourth??) rewrite of this novel I've been keeping my daily totals in a spreadsheet. I wanted some record of my success at fitting writing in alongside my ever-hectic PhD study. It worked fine until last Thursday when I put a '0' in the column. As I was away for the weekend three more followed. And then Monday to Wednesday this week I think I just gave up. Who cares? I'm only fighting against myself. Yes! And if I can't win that battle how do I expect to win any others?

So last night I dug my heels in and got writing. Then I realised the problem, the thing I'd been avoiding.

The scene I'd halted in the middle of was the first encounter between my protagonist, Danni, and one of the antagonists, Vincent. Working from my last draft I could see the scene was melodramatic, loosely written and involved a lot of direct communication with the reader. In essence, it was rubbish. I'd been hesitating because I didn't know how to improve it. I hadn't had time to let it percolate in my mind since I'd been too busy with everything else.

As I worked on the scene I realised it had to go on longer. Pivotal scenes can be short, of course they can, but this one needed an extensive amount of give-and-take. It's a polite, conversational struggle for power and information. It still needs work but I think the skeleton of it is there. The reader shouldn't come out of it thinking anybody has actually won because the novel is supposed to be more complex than simply good triumphing over bad.

I even managed to write and extend the short scene after it. I'll have to share my favourite lines now because due to the laws of editing, I like them too much to be able to keep them:

‘That’ll be a great story,’ Harriet muttered, starting the engine laconically. ‘How did you die, Mrs Fitch? Well, some slimy prick in a shite-coloured jacket tried to force-feed me custard creams until I threw up. Oh, is that the way you went! I wish I could’ve gone like that.’

I wrote over 1300 words last night, taking my total for this draft up to 9697. I'm playing the tortoise game, I haven't got a choice, but maybe I do need to pick up my pace a little here.

Staking Out A Hospital Waiting Room

It wasn't a deliberate exercise.

Today I volunteered to collect my grandmother's prescription from the new super hospital in Wakefield. Although she lives close to it she would've had to take a taxi there and back which seemed ridiculous. As I'm perfectly able-bodied I took the two-mile walk instead.

It was the first time I'd been inside the new hospital. It felt like walking into an airport, all bright lights and sparkling floors. It was a far cry from the dingy corridors of the old wards. Exciting to me at this point was the coffee bar dead ahead but I restrained myself, located the dispensary and took a seat.

What I didn't realise at first was that the seating area I was sat in was the main waiting hub for the entire building. People had to watch the screen to let them know they were allowed to move to the next seating area, the one closer to their ward. A bit of a dictatorship, I thought to myself, and an intelligent way of keeping the complaining patients away from the people actually involved in their department.

In the forty-five minute interval before my prescription was made up I got to listen to some interesting conversations. I learned all about the ailments of the man next to me, despite never looking up from my book. I listened as the old man with a cane across from me was taken away from his seat by an impatient nurse only to be returned five minutes later and plonked back down again. I heard the whining about waiting times for prescriptions morph into loud admonishments of the poor dispensary staff. I found that the ringtone of the grey-haired woman in front of me was a quote from 300. I even learned that the reason the prescriptions were taking so long was because they'd built the dispensary too far from the pharmacy itself. Having people go downstairs to get their medicine there was unrealistic - it was next door to the mortuary and, as the receptionist cheerfully pointed out, it wasn't the best place for a good odour.

All in all, it was an interesting afternoon. I feel like going back for another go, maybe just to get a coffee and listen to people. Those folk in that hospital are my people; their accents and voices are the ones I hear in my head as I write. I'm a Northerner. Maybe it's time I got back to listening to Northern folk.

Farewell 2010...

I must admit, at first I had some difficulty in establishing what had changed in my life this year. After all, I'm still living in the same place with my father and I'm still in the same relationship I was twelve months ago. Yes, I'm doing a PhD but I was reading so many books before that I really can't tell the difference...

The truth is, though, I've accomplished more than I thought I could, at least on a personal level. I've left two jobs of my own accord and devoted myself entirely to a subject whose depth astonishes me on a daily basis. I now have two full-length manuscripts vying to get themselves revised and published. I've also come on leaps and bounds with my confidence in the creative sense. Generally, I feel better about that aspect of my life.

I owe thanks to a lot of Twitter people for helping me out this year, whether by posting links to massively informative and inspirational blog posts or just responding to my own ramblings. And, of course, a special shout-out must go to the (old) stalwarts: Claire, Laura, Nicola and Sal who have all egged me on this year to the point where I want to strangle them. Thanks!

Since I started this blog back in April I've made 71 posts. These have been on subjects from politics to coincidence, but mainly concentrating on the world of writing and entertainment.

2010 saw the triumph of Downton Abbey, for instance. I was reluctant to watch it at first and allowed four episodes to build up before I started. Of course, then I sped through it. It's escapism, I think that's why it's so popular. Plus, it's well-written, it's coherent - both exceptional things in the world of modern television. Read my series review here.

As for the rest of the television world this year, I haven't really been into much. I've taken to watching American import, The Event, which I'm hooked on. It could be said that I've watched Glee religiously but there are gaps in the plot and characterisation on there that the Titantic could squeeze through. Coronation Street hit 50 and I tuned in for the special tram crash week. Aspects of the soap really make me want to keep watching as another form of escapism but I may put my fist through Kate Ford's face. We'll have to see what 2011 brings on that score.

I haven't read many books this year, many that aren't directly related to my degree anyway. I'm swimming in Sensation Fiction which is fine because I seem to have developed an adoration for it. However, several of the new books I've read this year I've managed to review: The Good Doctor, Tell It To The Bees, Nights At The Circus and The Haunted Hotel.

All in all, it hasn't been a terrible year. I've learned more than I thought and lost less than I should have.

I went to places I would never have considered going twelve months ago. I've met new people, reconnected with the old, and tried to be a decent human being. That's not a bad sum total for a year.

Jackie Kay & Gay Icons

Last night I went to Sheffield to hear writer, Jackie Kay, talk as part of the Gay Icons project. Aside from being an entertaining evening which added several things to my already-extensive fun-reading list, her response to one of the audience questions raised an important issue, I thought.

Someone questioned why she'd referred to more gay men than lesbians as her icons in this brief talk. In a nutshell, her response was that it didn't really matter about their gender, they all had inspiring aspects to them. And that, I think, was the key issue for me.

Unfortunately, we still live in a world where a celebration of gay icons like the one taking place in Sheffield at the moment is necessary. The news of the United Nations dropping homosexuality from its anti-execution resolution is a stark reminder that around the world people are still heavily persecuted simply for who they love. Events like this one in Sheffield are a celebration of the fact that in the UK it's acceptable to have gay icons and to shout it from the rooftops if you so wish.

My problem is just the old issue: we want to be the same as everybody else and yet we accentuate our differences.

Perhaps, that's unfair. It's hardly accentuating a difference to reveal that this gay man or this lesbian inspired you in some way. What perturbed me was that people seem to expect that your icons will automatically be in 'your group', so in Jackie's case they should be lesbians. Maybe this was a fair assumption coming from a room full of women but I don't think a lesbian should necessarily have to exclude gay men from a discussion about gay icons. In fact, I don't completely buy into the idea that we should be celebrating gay icons at all.

Please don't misunderstand me: I'm not saying that Alexander McQueen or Quentin Crisp or Leonard Bernstein should be celebrated with the gay aspect hushed up. I may be idealistic but I'm still hoping for the day when it becomes less of a jaw-dropping fact for someone famous (and I use that word with a cringe) to come out. But I hate the fact that if you ask a lesbian writer for her inspirations and she cites people aside from other lesbian writers then the listener automatically feels a little disappointment.

I hate the grouping prevalent within society - as most of us do. If someone asks me for my modern literary icons in a few years I want to reel off my list without worrying whether it fits someone's perspective of how I should answer.

For the record, my literary icons right now would be: Sophie Hannah, Kate Atkinson and Sarah Waters, to name but three. I can justify my choices at length but I refuse to change them to fit what someone else expects.