If you follow me on Facebook or Twitter, you’re probably already aware that my first novel is being released this summer by Harper Voyager Digital. There’s more information about Darkhaven elsewhere on this website, but in brief, it’s … well, a murder mystery. Except I'm a fantasy writer, so this is a murder mystery that includes shapeshifters, swordfights, carriage chases and a rampaging Wyvern. Be warned.
I was in two minds over whether to write this post, because it does feel a little self-indulgent. OK, a lot self-indulgent. OK, like standing in the street with a megaphone and shouting “Yay, me!” But there are a few pieces of advice I've extracted from my journey up to this point that are probably worth sharing. And I think they’re relevant whatever your publishing dreams and whatever stage of your own journey you’re at. So here goes.
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Welcome to the party, everyone! Yes, it's true: Reflections of Reality is turning two this week. In honour of my most loyal audience member**, all the cake this year is made out of dog food. I hope that's OK with y'all.
So here we are: a whole year older, but by no means wiser. On my first blog birthday I attempted to pull together what I'd learned from the twelve months that had just passed, so to continue the tradition, here's what this year has taught me. 1. If you want to be a writer, don't have a baby. 2. Er ... Seriously, though, I have learned a lot this year, but almost none of it is about writing or blogging or anything else that's remotely connected to the purpose of this website. I've learned how exciting it can be to watch a tiny person go from barely being able to support his own head to running all over the house. I've learned how to go to work when I've barely had any sleep at all and still remain professional. I'm still learning how to balance my new family's needs against my own; how to keep my temper when Baby Smith is crying and throwing things and all I want to do is cry and throw things back; how to be a mother and a wife and an employee and a writer without going completely mad***. In a way I'm quite proud of myself, because I have been all those things this year. My son is happy and healthy and I haven't accidentally left him in Ikea. My husband is stressed and trying to fit too many things into the day, just like me, but at least we're talking about it. My job is ... well, still there, which is the main thing. And though I may not have done as much writing as I would have liked, guess what? I never did. At least now I have a reason for it. And at least I did some. When I look back over the year, it feels kind of amazing that I did any. Which leads me to a little bit of exciting news. You may be aware that my blog is not the only person, er, entity celebrating a birthday - the very lovely Kristell Ink turned one recently. In honour of the occasion they ran a flash fiction competition with a feline theme, and guess who won first prize? ... No. ... No. ... No, certainly not. OK, fine, I'll tell you: it was me. Woo hoo! If you'd like to read my 500-word cat story then you can find it here. Hmm. Maybe I can be a writer and have a baby after all. Which contradicts my sole point above and means I haven't learned anything this year at all. Oh well. *If you get that reference then I'm officially ashamed of you. ** That dog has listened to me ramble every week without fail for two years. I really must find out his name. *** This point is up for debate. 1.
Partner: What are you doing? Me: Writing. Partner: No, you're not. I've been watching you for the past five minutes and you're just sitting there staring into space. Me: Staring into space is part of writing. Partner: Uh-huh. And before that, when you frowned at the screen, typed in a single word, frowned some more, then sighed heavily and deleted it again - that's part of writing too, is it? Me: Yes. Partner: And those times when you swear and slam the lid of your laptop shut, before stomping off to the kitchen to eat chocolate - they're also part of writing? Me (defensively): Yes. Partner: I see. (He sits back in his chair and closes his eyes. Ten minutes pass in silence.) Me: What are you doing? Partner (without opening his eyes): Unloading the dishwasher. 2. Casual acquaintance: So, I gather you've written a book. Me (warily): Yes. Casual acquaintance: I've often thought I'd like to write a book. Me: Oh? Casual acquaintance: Yeah. I mean, how hard can it be? People write books all the time. Me: Well, yes, but - Casual acquaintance: It must be nice, getting paid for just sitting there scribbling all day. Like getting paid to daydream. Me: Well, it's not exactly - Casual acquaintance: Have you signed up with a publisher yet? Me: That's not how it - Casual acquaintance: I'd go for Penguin, myself. I reckon my name would look good on one of those classic book cover mug things. So what's your book about? Me: Um, it's a fantasy, and - Casual acquaintance: Like Harry Potter? Me: No, not really. Casual acquaintance: Oh. To be honest, I don't read much fantasy. I don't read much fiction, actually. I prefer celebrity biographies, stuff like that. I got Peter Andre's autograph the other day. Me: Yay. Casual acquaintance: Still, not reading other people's fiction means I won't be influenced when I come to write my own, right? Me: Well - Casual acquaintance: Like I said, how hard can it be? Me (under my breath): You just wait.* 3. Me: This scene we wrote yesterday is actually pretty good. Myself: Er, no, it's not. It's terrible. Me: But look how witty the dialogue is! How cleverly we built the suspense! How successfully we revealed character through action! Myself: It's the worst excuse for a piece of writing I've ever read. It sucks in every conceivable way. Based on this heap of garbage, we don't deserve to call ourselves a writer; in fact, I think we should give up and do something else with our lives.** Me: Yeah, you're right. I don't know what I was thinking. Myself: Let's go and eat chocolate. (The following day ...) Me: I know we said we were going to give up writing, but I just can't help myself. Myself: I know. Me neither. Me: So what are we going to do with this scene? Scrap it and start again? (We read it through.) Myself: Actually ... it's pretty good. (Repeat ad infinitum.) * The sad thing is, this woman probably will end up getting a multi-book deal and a six-figure advance. C'est la vie. ** Like play Gollum in the LOTR movies. or, How to write a blog post when you're completely lacking inspiration, in 15 easy steps.
1. Switch on your computer. This is a pretty fundamental first step; if you can't summon the energy even to do that, I'm afraid there's no hope for you. 2. Check your emails. Read them all thoroughly, even the one informing you that you've won a million pounds in a competition you never entered, run by a company you've never heard of.* Refresh your inbox. Repeat until you're sure no new mail is going to come through. 3. Log in to all your social networking sites. 'Like' at least three photos of cats being mildly amusing. Spend half an hour composing a tweet that perfectly reflects your brilliance. 4. You must be hungry by now. Go and get a snack. 5. Return to your computer and check your emails again. 6. Log in to your blogging site, create a new post and stare at the blank page. 7. Find someone to distract you. A small child is your best bet, because they'll distract you whether you want them to or not. Other possibilities include a partner, a relative, a friend or, at a pinch, a door-to-door salesman. 8. Return to your computer and check your emails. Follow a link to someone else's blog. Note that this person blogs every day on a range of varied and interesting topics. With colour illustrations. 9. Make yourself a consoling cup of tea. Whilst drinking it, remind yourself that only three people and a dog read your blog anyway, so it's not as if you're under the same pressure as Ms Ten Thousand Subscribers. 10. Pause for a brief daydream about when you are a famous author with a hundred thousand subscribers and can laugh in the face of colour illustrations. 11. Return to your computer. Do not check your emails. Open your current work-in-progress and start tinkering with Chapter 7. 12. An hour or so later, remember you are meant to be blogging. Also realise that it's dark and you have to get up for work tomorrow. 13. Mix yourself a reviving gin and tonic. 14. Go back to your empty blog post and dash off a few hundred words about what you've been doing all day. Post it under the guise of being helpful to your fellow writers. 15. Try not to repeat the process too frequently, or your readers may notice.** * To claim your prize, click on this link and answer a few simple questions about yourself and your bank account ... ** The dog will, at any rate. He has a suspicious mind. 'Tis the first Sunday in August, and thus my self-imposed banishment has come to an end. As is customary for a person in exile, I've spent much of it thinking: about writing, about parenthood, about life. And as is customary for me, the vast majority of that thinking has ended up with me doubting my own decisions.
I'm good at that. Call it the natural self-analysis of anyone who is forced to leave their homeland (er, this website) for a prolonged period of time (er, three weeks), but since I left, I've been questioning all sorts of things. Was I right to return to work five days a week and leave Baby Smith with someone who isn't his mother (even if, admittedly, it's his father)? Can I be a good parent and a good wife and still be a good writer, or any sort of writer at all? Is it really worth dedicating my time to blogging and interviewing when there are so many other things clamouring for my attention? What proportion of my life do I have a right to keep for me, and what proportion do I have a responsibility to give to others? I've visited forums on parenting sites where some of the mums are of the opinion that being a mother requires dedicating 100% of your life to your children. By that reckoning, I'm a pretty terrible one. I work, which to a certain subset of the population automatically disqualifies me from good motherhood (why have kids if you're just going to leave them with someone else?). And when I'm home, I often spend Baby Smith's naptimes and the evenings after he goes to sleep on my computer, which means certain chores get neglected to the point of, well, not being done at all. I annoy my husband, I know I do. And sometimes I annoy myself. Why can't I just focus on making a home for my family instead of indulging in what is essentially a time-consuming hobby? The thing is, I never intended to be a working mum. Well before I had Baby Smith, I was of the opinion that I wanted my children to be looked after by one of their parents. And I always assumed that parent would be me. Yet when it came to it, it made more financial sense for me to be the one who worked full time. I have a steady job; my husband works on a freelance basis, which you'll know if you've ever done it is notorious for its unpredictability. With a bigger house to pay for and a baby to look after, we couldn't afford unpredictable. And so he got the most challenging and most important role - raising our offspring - while I went back to the office. I was torn about it, but now, if I'm honest, I'm relieved. I'm well aware that I got the lighter load.* Sure, some days are frustrating or confusing or, you know, work, but on the whole it's good to be using my brain for what it's been trained to do. I miss Baby Smith, but at the same time ... I'm glad I don't have to spend 24/7 with him. Bad Parent Test #1: check. And so to the writing. I'm already out of the house five days a week while someone else brings up my baby. What possible right can I have to extra time for myself? Isn't the fact that I work full time enough? Am I not, in fact, being incredibly selfish in snatching every available hour for something that isn't for my husband or my baby or us as a family, but for me? I could argue that my job isn't for me at all - if money was no object, I'd happily give up my existing career so that Mr Smith and I could take turns raising the baby and pursuing our dreams (and, you know, maybe going on an actual date once in a while). But I don't think that's really the point. What it comes down to is the fact that I think it's more important to write than it is to clean the bathroom. And no matter how hard I try to tell myself that I should bake and sew and polish and sweep and weed, as soon as a little fragment of free time comes along, I'm right back on my computer again. Bad Parent Test #2: check. Yet I have a justification for all this, though perhaps not one you will agree with. It isn't the time-honoured cry of the breadwinner throughout the centuries, I work hard so I deserve a break (we've already established that's a premise built on very shaky ground). It isn't I'm doing this for my family, because one day I'll be a bestselling author earning millions of pounds; I know full well I'm doing it for me (and how remote a likelihood it is that I'll ever earn that much by writing). No, it's simply this: it makes me happy. Yes, I know that makes me sound like the most stupid and self-absorbed person in history, but hear me out. (We're nearly at the end, I promise.) I may pass my own bad parent tests, but I love my son. He's happy, he's healthy, he's clever and funny and affectionate. He doesn't need anything he doesn't get, physically or emotionally. And without having the balance of my other passions in my life - without writing and reading and drawing - I would lose myself. I would become less of a person. Because I firmly believe, and I have always believed, that although being a mother is a wonderful and important thing, it can't be all there is. Same with being a wife. When all the things we are to other people are stripped away, there has to be something left. Otherwise, what is it we bring the people we love? We need the ability to be happy independently of them, or we are doing no more and no less than putting the burden of responsibility for our happiness on their shoulders. And without passions of our own, how can we teach our children to find theirs? The balance between family and self is a difficult one to get right. I still doubt my decisions. I still beat myself up over it all. But in the end, I came back from exile. Make of that what you will. * I really mean that. Apart from maybe brain surgeon or firefighter, no job is quite as difficult or comes with quite as heavy a burden of responsibility as bringing up a child. And at least if you're a brain surgeon or a firefighter, you're not doing your job every minute of every day for eighteen-plus years. To all you men (and women) out there who come home to your childcaring partners and moan about the stress of your jobs and expect a sparkling clean house and dinner on the table, I say: get over yourselves. Seriously. Dear friends/interweb acquaintances/people who've just stumbled across this blog for the first time and are wondering what the hell is going on: So, recently Baby Smith decided that sleep was his Least Favourite Thing in the World Ever. This may be because there's been an unusual amount of sunshine for a British summer (i.e. some) and so the house keeps getting up to temperatures more commonly seen in the cooking instructions on a pack of sausages. It may be because I'm now back at work five days a week and he's decided that if he can't see me in the daytime, he's damn well going to see me at night. Or it may just be because he's a baby, and mixing things up to keep the parents on their toes is what babies do (after all, life would be no fun if it was predictable, right?). Whatever the reason, the net result is the same: I've been spending my nights up and down like a deranged yo-yo, and my days trying to do a good job even though my eyeballs are covered in sand and the only recognisable thought in my head is a single giant yawn. Any other commitments have been left by the wayside in a jumbled heap marked 'to be picked up later'. Which is why, dear friends, I am writing to you from the shade of a palm tree* on one of my very own barren islands. For the next couple of weeks, I'm going to be exiled here while my boring real-life alter ego gets on with things. I know it will be a terrible blow to you all not to have the twice-weekly joy of my presence (ha), but if it's any consolation, I'll be back in August. In the meantime, I leave you with this picture of the view from my palm tree. Bet you wish you were here ... * OK, it's not technically barren. What's the point of being the Ultimate and Supreme Ruler of the Barren Islands if I can't bend the rules a little on my own behalf? Cast of characters: Cigam, an enigmatic and bearded wizard. Edragne, a feisty warrior woman. Rieh, a farm boy with a crown-shaped birthmark on his left buttock.* And me.
The company is currently camping in an eerie forest with the sound of wolf howls in the not-so-distance. Cigam is looking enigmatic behind his beard. Edragne and Rieh are engaging in the kind of playfully insulting banter that's a prelude to them sleeping together. I'm hugging my knees and trying not to think about snakes. Dammit. Now I'm thinking about snakes. Cigam: We must reach E'calpecin ere break of dawn, else Redael will be slain and Drolkrad triumph. Rieh: Do we have time for a brief stop by a moonlit pool that has a strangely arousing effect on all who behold it? Only Edragne and I - Cigam: If you must. Me: <startled yelp> Edragne (drawing her sword): What is it? Do you sense the foul minions of Drolkrad approaching? Me (sheepishly): Something brushed my cheek. I think it was a moth. Can we turn the fire down a bit? Rieh: The bird-with-outlandish-name-that-happens-to-look-and-taste-a-lot-like-chicken is ready. Cigam: Thank you, my friend. Edragne: Thanks. (They both tuck enthusiastically into legs.) Me: Um ... is there a vegetarian option? (Blank stares all round.) Me: Something that isn't made out of meat? Edragne (doubtfully): You could try the bones. Me: Never mind. Rieh: You know, as well as my birthmark I also have this sword with sparkly bits that goes zing when I draw it. D'you think that means anything? Edragne: It means you fight like a little girl, and also that I'll definitely sleep with you when we reach that magic pool. Rieh: Mum said the sword was my father's. But come to think of it, that's weird, because he was a goat too. (He sees everyone staring.) What? I was raised by goats. That's perfectly normal, isn't it? Cigam: All will be revealed in good time. Even the gazelle cannot outrun winter. Me: <stifled scream> Edragne (drawing her sword again): What is it? Have you foreseen our doom? Me (shaking an arm frantically): Get it off me! Get it off me! Edragne: Is it an omen of dire significance? (I point wordlessly to the small spider clinging to my elbow.) Edragne (brushing it off): That's nothing. There are spiders in here the size of your head. Me (shuddering): Seriously? Then what the hell are we doing here? Cigam: 'Tis the fastest way to E'calpecin. The coastal path, which is entirely danger-free and includes some beautiful vistas, would have taken half an hour longer. Rieh: But we're still going to have time to visit that pool, right? Only Edragne and I - Cigam: Yes, my friend. Even the platypus must sing when it rains. Me: I'm sorry. Did you say platypus? What does that mean? (Cigam rearranges his beard into a more enigmatic configuration and doesn't reply.) Rieh: You know what I just noticed? Drolkrad is Dark Lord backwards.** Edragne: Coincidence. Cigam: Even a weed does not grow without order. (He looks pointedly at me.) In other words, there is no such thing as coincidence. Me (in a mutter): Yeah, but there is such a thing as a lazy author ... (Another, bigger spider runs over my foot.) Oh, that's just mean. To be continued ... * So I'm told. I didn't peek, honest. ** Having written this scene, I'm now 95% sure that most of the fantasy names in existence were created using this method. Baby Smith just had his first ever birthday party. Only a family affair, but it took a surprising amount of preparation. We cooked. We cleaned. We went to three different supermarkets in search of the perfect menu. I baked a cake for the first time in, well, ever. I even made a pass the parcel. And the silly thing about all that is, he isn't going to remember any of it. The person who all that effort was aimed at is the one person who won't appreciate it. In that respect, it was a bit like a funeral.
Yes, I did just compare a child's birthday party to a funeral. But bear with me. Many key events in life are for pretty much everyone's benefit except the person whose name is actually on the programme, as it were. Funerals are the obvious one: even if you believe in an afterlife and think the departed is watching events unfold from a cloud somewhere, showing them their own funeral is just adding insult to injury. Not only are they dead, but they can now see just how miserable everyone is as a result. (Or, worse, how happy ...) With my cynical hat on, I could say weddings aren't much of an improvement; after all, there must be a better way for a couple to celebrate the start of their new life together than by running up several thousand pounds' worth of debt on overpriced food and alcohol for a hundred distant relations and casual acquaintances.* And even birthdays, I have always found to be much more for other people's benefit than my own – because when it's my birthday, I have to be the host, and that means running around with plates of nachos and olives on sticks while everyone else talks about the economy and spills wine on my carpet. At this point, based on the brilliance of my previous blog posts**, you're probably expecting me to pull some amazingly insightful writing comparison out of the bag. And that, dear friends, is why writing is like a funeral: it's not about you, the author/dead person, but about your readers/mourners ... But I'm afraid I'm going to have to disappoint you, mostly because I'm still exhausted from helping Baby Smith unwrap a billion presents. So instead, I'll just say this. Yes, our birthdays tend to be all about keeping other people happy. Yes, our weddings basically consist of our guests enjoying free food and drink while we fret about the bill. Yes, our funerals will be solely for the benefit of the loved ones we leave behind. But that's OK. In a world where everything increasingly seems to be all about the individual; where each of us is concerned with our own ambitions and our own frustrations, our personal space and our 'me time'; where personality is much more prized than community ... maybe it's nice that many of our biggest social occasions turn it all on its head. And, after all, for every time we're called upon to play the host, there'll be many more times we get to spill wine on someone else's carpet. As for Baby Smith, he seemed to enjoy himself. And he would have enjoyed himself just as much with no cake and no presents, only the family who'd come to see him. Perhaps, after all, that's the point of this post. * Before you pick me up on this one, yes, I know not all weddings are like that. Sometimes the couple actually know all their guests. ** You can stop laughing now. I'm up to my eyeballs in various kinds of busyness at the moment, so let's keep this short.
Last month, Baby Smith had his first fall. I'd sat him on my bed to get ready for his nap and had just turned away to draw the curtains when I heard the most spine-chilling sound imaginable: the thud of a small body hitting the carpet. I spun back round and there he was. Face-down on the floor. He'd obviously tried to crawl to the edge of the bed and peer over, with inevitable and disastrous results. My immediate response was, naturally, ohmygodohmygodohmygodhe'sdeadhe'sdeadhe'sdead. But once I'd finished panicking, berating myself as the worst parent in existence, checking him all over in search of the tiniest scratch, comforting the tears I'd called up with my alarm, and berating myself some more — once I'd ascertained that he hadn't damaged so much as a hair follicle — I started thinking about why he was OK. (This was about a week later, when I'd stopped having flashbacks and was able to remember the incident calmly instead of bouncing off a flashing neon wall of terror in my brain marked The Time I Nearly Killed My Child.) And it occurred to me that babies can fall without getting hurt because they're not frightened. They don't tense up. They don't go into it expecting pain. They just fall. Over time, children learn what to expect from a fall, and they know it isn't very nice. So they begin to try and prevent it from happening, by flinging out a hand to catch themselves or by avoiding accident-prone situations. In short, they learn fear. And of course when they do fall, it hurts more — because they're expecting it, because they try and save themselves from it, because knowing the risks of what you're doing always makes you more tentative and therefore less wholehearted. The thing is, life is all about falling. Unless you're that one in a billion who will never ever experience setback or rejection or failure, life is really just a series of falls. Unfortunately, most of us get worse and worse at falling as we get older. We stop taking risks. We take our failures to heart. Each one of those falls makes it that little bit harder to get up again. Of course we shouldn't be reckless. I'm not advocating that you jump without even checking to see how high the drop is. But if you're aiming for something you really want, you could do a lot worse than fall like a baby would: without any expectation of pain. And when the pain does hit you? Let it happen. Learn from it. But never let it make you afraid to try again. So, I am now 30.
It shouldn't mean anything. Yes, I've just entered my fourth decade, but only because I happen to belong to a ten-fingered species who therefore invented a base ten numbering system. If I was one of the twelve-fingered Ka'taan, I'd only be halfway through my third dodecade; whereas if I was one of the arachnoid Zool, my fourth octade would nearly be over by now. Like new year, in which we attach vast and profound significance to the resetting of a calendar we ourselves invented, milestone birthdays are completely arbitrary. It shouldn't mean anything … and yet I find myself staring at my face in the mirror as if it's going to start decomposing rapidly like a scene from a horror film. Feeling a momentary twinge when I get up and instead of thinking I must have been sitting awkwardly, thinking That'll be my joints deteriorating. Most of all, as is customary in these situations, enumerating the long list of everything I haven't yet achieved in my life. Age is just a number. But as a company announcing its annual profits or an author anxiously tracking book sales will tell you, numbers measure the difference between success and failure. When I turned 20, the very existence of 30 was more of a legend than a reality. The fabled continent of Trois-Dix, shimmering in the mist like Atlantis, barely present at all. I had many miles to travel, and many quests to accomplish, before I would reach its shores. But now … now it turns out there was a motorway that would take me there, and I jumped straight on it. All those twisty paths and strange encounters passed me by, and all the things I'd hoped to achieve as a young adventurer were lost in the process of everyday life. In short, arbitrary or not, reaching 30 without having achieved certain things makes me feel like I've failed. And arbitrary or not, the jump from 29 to 30 seems far, far greater than the one from 28 to 29. I think, in part, this is down to the prevailing perception – perpetuated by a thousand movies – of what different times in a person's life are 'for'. Your twenties are when you get to be carefree, reckless, irresponsible. They're for pursuing your dreams and taking risks. Whereas your thirties are intended, according to Hollywood's Life Map, for settling down. Becoming a parent. Leaving behind the follies of your youth and accepting your status as an adult with obligations to others. As a newly made 30 year old with a job, a mortgage and a baby, I'm virtually the blueprint for that model. I have officially entered the Age of Responsibility. Which is unfortunate, given that I still feel like a 20 year old inside. I still want to achieve all the things I dreamed of. I still want to embark on something more interesting than a motorway journey. But I feel like I've missed my chance. In reality, though, life is far more complex than society makes us feel. Life doesn't give you a cut-off point for reaching your goals, after which point it slams the door shut in your face. Life is about growing and learning and changing, redefining what's important to you and getting there when you're ready, not when a number suggests you ought to. And learning to stop being selfish isn't at all the same thing as giving up on your dreams. I may still feel like a 20 year old, but it comes with a hell of a lot more knowledge and experience than I had back then. I haven't missed my opportunity to succeed. Rather, I've gained the opportunity to do it in a different way. So, screw 30. I'll have my adventures when the time is right – or, if I don't, I'll have different ones. (After all, even the motorway of everyday life is its own adventure.) In the meantime, I've decided that since I have ten fingers and ten toes, I will now be using a base twenty counting system. Which means I'm only halfway through my second icosade. Practically a teenager. |
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