No, not my characters. Spammers.

I'm pleased to report that turning the 'comments' facility on has resulted in actual comments, and almost no spam. However, this blog also allowed 'trackbacks', and this has led, over the last few weeks, to an ever-increasing volume of notifications of trackbacks regarding the efficacy of dodgy pharmaceuticals. As with comments, I need to approve or delete any trackbacks, and whilst the choice is pretty obvious, I really don't have time to go in and individually remove several dozen of the little f*ckers every day. I have therefore asked M the Uber-geek to disable all trackbacks, in the hope that this will stem the tide. Comments should still work as they did.

I have no idea what the interweb drug pushers think they'll gain by tracking back to an obscure SF writer's website, but the ways of spammers are strange. I'm increasingly coming to wonder if the spoof article in Fortean Times a couple of years back might be true after all, and most of the spam we receive is in fact a virtual manifestation of the psychic emanations of a dying sex-starved galactic consciousness.

Obviously, any real people out there who want to link back to this blog are most welcome to do so; you just can't use the trackback facility to do it.

At the risk of being pretentious and/or presumptuous, I think I've come up with a mission statement. No, really. It occurred to me as the latest plot tsunami rolled through my brain. Here it is:

I’m trying to write stories which have the tension and intrigue of John le Carre, but where the characters get to really live their angst. In space.

I know: no chance. But it’s something to aspire to.

This one’s really more of a ‘livre de bois’ ('Prententious? Moi?'). Given how little time I have to read, I probably wouldn’t have tackled Neal Stephenson’s latest doorstop if I haven’t read – and loved – Cryptonomicon. Because I’ve also read – and not loved – the Baroque Cycle (that’s two months of my life I’ll not get back…) I was ambivalent about Anathem, but it was an Xmas gift, and I started it in the holidays when I knew I’d have more time.

I’d say my time was well spent. I can’t remember the last time a book so comprehensively took me to new and alien places – though not so alien that we can’t relate to them, which is part of his genius. Journeys like this are one of the reasons I read SF. Having said that, the journey does meander a bit; with my ‘craft head’ on I suspect Mr S outlines his world meticulously then lets the plot just happen. Also, I probably shouldn’t admit it, but I got a little lost round about page 865. Up until then I didn’t pretend to know what was going on, but I was happy to be along for the ride. Then the ride turned out to actually be a toboggan run, or possibly a car crash and …

Yes. Not sure about the ending.

Overall verdict: magnificent if ultimately incomprehensible to us lesser mortals. Beloved has just started it, and he’s a trained mathematician, so I’m rather hoping he’ll be able to explain the ending to me some day.

Back before he made it big, Lord Pratchett of Discworld used to bring his laptop to conventions and write, usually in the bar. He'd also find time to drink and socialise – he is, as you’ll know if you’ve ever met him, a lovely bloke and as witty in the flesh as he is in print – but if there was nothing else to grab his attention, there he’d be, writing. As a young wannabe, I used to think how cool that was, and how maybe one day I’d sit in con bars writing, and people would wonder (as I did when I stole glances at Uncle Terry) what works of genius were being created before their very eyes.

It turns out I can’t. Delicate little flower wot I am, I have to be alone, ideally with the right soundtrack, before I can extrude first draft, or perform significant restructuring on an existing story. It’s like the logical but incorrect belief of non-Westerners who’ve never seen a camera before and think it can steal their soul, or to put a more skiffy twist on it, the quantum foam of ideas collapses due to the observer effect. When I spot someone looking at me, the words go away.

This is odd, because I can copy-edit a finished story in public. I can also, as my previous posts imply, write notes in public. In fact, whilst in ‘first draft’ mode, scribbling down an idea/scene/plot twist is a sort of behavioral interrupt that can occur at any time. I’ve already mentioned doing it in restaurants (on the menu if necessary), and my usual plot walk has some well-leaned-on trees and bridges, including one tree I sometimes sit in with my feet dangling over the river. But it really can happen anywhere: I’ve scribbled notes between bouts of cooking (I have a rather alchemical approach to domestic science), whilst driving along the M40 (actually I dictated these, and Beloved wrote them, which was probably for the best) and leaning on the speakers in a nightclub at 4am (for some reason these notes turned out to be not entirely legible when I looked at them the next day). I can even write notes whilst talking, as the two activities appear to use different parts of my brain.

This is all well and good, but I really need to learn to actually write stories in public. Writing notes is a small part of the job, albeit a fun one. If the timing of a convention means I need to work during it, I'd prefer not to have to lock myself in my room. So, maybe one day I will be sighted emulating Sir Terry – not that I can begin to compare to him. If that happens, just make like I’m not there, OK?

All writers, especially those who write fantastical literature, get asked the following question: ‘Where do you get your ideas from?’ The short and somewhat glib answer I usually give is ‘Everywhere’. It’s true though: the germ of story might come from something I heard on the radio, or read in a book or on the web, or from an off-hand comment, or as a random ‘What if?’ that just arrives out of the blue.

I’m sure that anyone with any imagination – which generally includes readers of SF and Fantasy – has ideas at least as interesting as I do. The difference is that I follow a few of these ideas through and make stories out of them. And that, I think, is what is really being asked: ‘How do you make daydreams into novels?’

Any answer to that question will be long and complicated, because there are a number of stages, some of which I’ve already talked about on this blog. For me, one of the earliest stages involves walking through the countryside near my house, or sitting in t’garret staring out of the skylight whilst listening to appropriate music. Or, to put it another way, I let the idea ferment.

The visible froth from my mental brew is copious quantities of notes, written on whatever comes to hand; I try and carry a notebook at all times, but in the past bits of future plot have been recorded on envelopes, shopping lists and menus.

From this fermentation, I hope to get a skeletal plot sequence, character sketch, or detailed scene. At this point I deploy a secret weapon not available to any other writer in the world: my husband. Beloved is one of those SF readers who has great ideas but  no desire to convert them into novels. He’s as widely read in the genre as me, though with more of an emphasis on hard SF and (unlike me) he is scientifically trained. So, I often run my current crop of plot bunnies past him, generally somewhere comfortable where we have time to talk. Hence the plot pizza.

The most recent plot pizza resulted in the sudden and unexpected introduction of a new character into Bringer of Light. I knew that one of the plot threads was about to take off in an interesting direction, but because I don’t outline in detail, and because we’re about to go to a scary place (scary to write anyway) I’ve been glossing over the details. When Beloved and I went through my scribbled notes and questions – never underestimate the value of asking questions when converting ideas to stories – over a bottle of Italian red and a large pile of garlic bread, we concluded that the story needed someone else. And a very odd someone they look likely to be too. But now I’ve realised this – with his help – their presence in the story has gone from an unknown variable to an essential component.

I just wish I could convince the Inland Revenue of Beloved’s usefulness to my writing; he (or at least the meals I buy him while we plot) really should be tax deductible. But then there would probably be some sort of mileage allowance or something …

If anyone reading this blog is in the position I was this time three years ago - you've been writing for years and sold a few short stories, but you're wondering if you'll ever get that mythical book deal – then don't read anything after the line marked 'smug alert'. If you ignore this advice, you may feel compelled to send me hate mail, and that's OK, but I probably won't reply.

However, do read this, which comes from Liz Williams, author of Banner of Souls, Winterstrike and the fabulous Inspector Chen novels, amongst other things:

“I'm scheduling a couple of 2 day workshops in London and Glastonbury on the 20th-21st February (Glastonbury) and the 20th-21st March (London).

This particular workshop is directed at people who are aiming at publication and covers the basics of:

- short story writing

- novel writing

- preparing work for publication

- marketing your work

- contacting agents and publishers

- genre as an industry

There are a maximum of 15 places and no entry criteria. We will not be doing a lot of writing during the workshop itself - the idea, which has proved successful in the University of Sussex workshops, is to download as much as possible of what I have learned in a decade-long pro career into your heads!

Please email me on liz(at)arkady(dot)org for full details”

Liz has been very helpful and supportive to me, and many other writers, over the years. She is an invaluable storehouse of knowledge of the SF and F writing world and a great teacher. I recommend this course highly.

*** smug alert ***

Becoming a filthy-rotten-pro has brought many new experiences, most of them pleasant. At the moment I'm enjoying one in particular on an almost daily basis.

As you may or may not know, I'm writing a series, the first two books of which are now in print. This means I often need to refer back to what I've written before, so as to avoid shooting myself with my own canon, so to speak.

I can do this by going into the version of the relevant novel marked FINAL on my computer (that's 'final' of many iterations, by the way). This is what I do if, say, I need to find whether I've mentioned a specific person or place (how did writers manage before the 'find' command?)

However, if I need to read a particular passage to refresh my memory, then I go over to my bookshelves, take down a copy of Principles of Angels or Consorts of Heaven, open it in the relevant place, and start reading. Reading a real, live, genuine book, that I wrote.

I'm sure one day the joy I get in doing this will fade, but it hasn't yet.

This week I’ve been considering what I might talk about during my guest slot at Picocon. It’s likely to touch on the fact that the main way I make sense of this crazy mixed-up world is to write stories about it – not that I’m in any way claiming my fiction contains useful or original insights; if anyone does find one, please let me know. Given this, and in keeping with my current penchant for numbered bullet points, I thought I’d try and list just a few of the things that writing is better than: 

1. Therapy. I put down never having needed therapy to a combination of lucky personal circumstances and undeservedly good health; however, I also think that being able to work some of the shit out through fiction can avoid it getting jammed up in places that require a skilled professional to flush clean.

2. Having a proper job. Compared to when I was in full time employment I’m working up to twice the hours for between half and a quarter of the pay … and yet I’m far happier. What’s that all about, eh?  Perhaps it’s partly because I’m not …

3. Being hassled by the boss. OK, you do get hassled by your characters, but then you can take vengeance later when their guard is down, which brings me on to …

4. Unfulfilled megalomania. Writing allows you to indulge your desire to rule the world – or even universe – without the expense and inconvenience of setting up a secret underground base, recruiting all those minions, being thwarted by the ‘good guys’.  And related to that …

5. Doing time. In fiction you get the chance to humiliate/injure/dismember those who cross you in the real world. The resulting stories might not be great literature but they can be very therapeutic and they beat a trip to court (see also (1) above). Do it on paper, kids, not in the shopping mall.

6. Housework. Except when trying to write first drafts* obviously. That’s when shelves get polished and carpets shampooed.

7. Becoming overly fond of money. I think this one’s self-explanatory.

The above list is both sketchy and subjective. Feel free to make your own suggestions, sensible or otherwise.

* Yes, since you ask, that is why you’re getting quite a long blog post today. 

In some ways, writing a novel that is part of a series is easier than writing a stand-alone. In others, it isn't. Here's a few examples:

1. You already have some of your cast in place … so you need to take extra care when creating new characters.

2. You know the universe, and some of what has gone before … but you need to convey what you know in a way that will satisfy a new reader who isn't familiar with the set-up, whilst not boring an existing one who is.

3. Some of what happens will follow naturally and smoothly from what went before … and some of what might happen actually can’t, as a result of those earlier decisions.

So, here I am getting to grips with book four in a series of more-than-five, and the big story that I’m telling through all the smaller ones is rapidly gaining momentum. Keeping track of my own canon is both fiddly and intimidating, and that’s only going to get worse, but I also find that the weight of what has gone before anchors me. It’s great to have such a rich playground to frolic in. Stories begun in earlier books that I'm picking up in Bringer of Light, are going in directions that I had no inkling of when I wrote those books; at the same time a realisation I had back in the summer (about the male Sidhe, if you’re interested) means that the story is about to go off in a new (and hopefully interesting) direction. I’ve already seeded Guardians of Paradise with a few ideas that won’t pay off until later in the series, and will continue to do that in this novel, because this story is going to need a few more books yet. Although the actual extruding of the words is often a slow and painful process, at times like this I love my job.

I’m quite good at feeling guilty about writing. When I did it as a hobby I used to feel guilty about writing when I could be doing something more useful like overtime at a paid job, working on a game, cleaning the house etc. These days I feel guilty about not writing, because it is my job.

I gave myself permission to take the festive season off, and I enjoyed that. I managed not to feel too guilty about how much I enjoyed it by reminding myself that this was a good point to pause: I’d just ejected the initial rush of (relatively) easy stuff (or, as we writers call it ‘the first three chapters’) and now I needed to have a bit of a think.

I was wondering if such a significant time away from t’garret might prompt revelations about the overall plot of Bringer of Light, but it appears not. What I ended up with was detailed chapter outlines for the next four chapters and a few odd notes. Given that (a) there are two distinct plot-threads in the book and (b) I’m usually thinking about two chapters ahead, I’m not entirely surprised at this.

I take my lack of overall progress as further proof that I’m just not cut out to plot the Powers way. It seems that the luxury of excessive mental composting time results not in a full outline covering the entire plot, but merely in more comprehensive notes on what’s just about to happen.

In other news, I've got my first statement from PLR (the Public Lending Rights service), and it appears that since I registered in June 2008 my books have been borrowed 2697 times from British libraries. Even allowing for my mother-in-law's tendency to check them out whenever she sees them, this is pretty impressive. I'd advise any published UK authors reading this who haven't registered for PLR to do so, as at over 6p a loan, that's a pleasant post-Xmas bonus.

I don’t do detailed writing metrics like exact number of words written, number of short stories submitted etc. This isn’t because I’m not interested in such matters; on the contrary, they’re fascinating and diverting and a lot less effort than actual work – which is why I don’t do them.

However, I estimate that in 2009 I produced about 50K of new words for Guardians of Paradise, that being my third book. I then performed the iterative convolutions of revision over a period of some months, a process almost impossible to reduce to statistics. I’m about 7.5K into the first draft for Bringer of Light, and will no doubt be banging on about that in future posts. I also wrote two short stories which mutated into novellas, and ended up10K and 13.5K long respectively. At the other end of the spectrum I wrote a couple of ‘short shorts’ of less than 1K each. I appear to have lost the ability to wrote an ordinary length short story.

Nothing I wrote this year has seen print during the year, but that’s not unusual. Consorts of Heaven, my second novel, came out in May, as did both the short stories I sold this year.  

For 2010 the priority remains novels, or rather novel singular. Bringer of Light is due for delivery at the end of November, which, baring unforeseen circumstances, should give me a relatively leisurely time of it, at least compared to the preceding two. I hope to produce a few new short stories – three is a realistic target – and I intend to find time to revise the two novellas I wrote this year. Ideally I’d like to sell them, along with some of the other short pieces that have been hanging around for a while, but that’s in the hands of the editors.

So, a happy new year to all, especially those who write. May you achieve your goals, or at least be pleased with what you do manage.