Another month, another snippet from the strange recesses of my mind … This one's the beginning of a young adult fantasy I'm currently reworking. It's called Arcana and there's no information about it currently on this site (ooh, sneak preview!). I'd love to know what you think.
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Welcome to another new monthly slot, the Sunday Showcase. (You can tell I've been trying to become more organised recently, can't you?) In this one, my intention is to share some of my work with you: bits of finished books, pieces of up-and-coming projects, maybe the odd poem or two. If I get enough interest, I might even turn this slot into a serial story. But for now, here's an excerpt from the very beginning of Dawn Rising in which Alyssia has been asked to describe her earliest memory. I'd love to know what you think. What did you like? What didn't you? Would you want to read more?
I used to complain that I didn't have enough free time. Then I became a parent, and learned what 'no free time' really means. In my current state – thinking up new ways to entertain an increasingly curious and active baby during the day, getting up repeatedly to comfort said baby at night, and snatching a few minutes in between to eat and (if I'm lucky) shower – my previous lifestyle seems like a vast ocean of time dotted with a few small islands of obligation. Sure, I had to go to work and occasionally get a few things done around the house, but other than that I was free. Free to spend an entire weekend writing. Free to think of new ideas in the comfort of a long, luxurious bath. Free to stay at my computer until the wee hours, safe in the knowledge of an unbroken night's sleep ahead. Yet despite all this spare time sloshing around, I bemoaned the fact that I never had enough of it to write in. And looking back on it now, it's all too clear why. Instead of using the precious gift of time wisely, I squandered it: on watching TV, on reading books I'd read before, on generally faffing about. (It's amazing how much time it's possible to spend on the art of faff.) Now I squeeze occasional blog posts into the half-hour periods when Baby Smith sleeps and wonder what I was grumbling about for all those child-free years. Yet before you start planning an intervention to rescue the poor mite from my resentful clutches, I hasten to add that I'm not sorry my life has altered so dramatically. Though my writing has had to take a back seat, I'm happy with that. I have a new focus, and I wouldn't change him for anything. No, I simply want to give a friendly warning to those would-be writers among you who are yet to take the plunge into parenthood or any other life-altering commitment: use your time wisely while you still have it. As we all know, with great power comes great responsibility, and time is the greatest power of all. When in doubt, blog moreWhat do you do if you're lacking in time and have consequently missed three blog posts in a row? Why, commit to another post per week, of course!
Yep, that's right, I'm starting a new Thursday post in addition to the regular (or, in recent weeks, not-so-regular) Sunday one. But this isn't as daft as it sounds, because most of the work will be done by other people. Yay! In my guise as talk show host, I will be inviting fellow authors onto my blog to discuss their favourite books. The series is called Barren Island Books, and is in no way related to a popular music-based radio programme. Look out for it in the weeks ahead. My month of blog swaps has now come to an end – many thanks to my wonderful contributors Andrea, Lindsey, Tricia and Will for participating. I thought I'd round things off by giving you my own view on Reflections of Reality and why I chose it as my website title in the first place.
Every piece of writing – whether a book, a blog post, a newspaper article or a shopping list – is in some way a reflection of reality. The act of writing, in effect, is the act of holding up a mirror to the world around us. Yet it is in the nature of a mirror to distort the truth. Even the smoothest and most finely crafted mirror contains minute flaws: a hairline scratch here, an almost imperceptible ripple there. And even if that were not the case, the very definition of reflection is one in which right is left and left is right. A mirror shows reality – often with great clarity – yet it can never be reality. In the same way, even the most 'factual' piece of writing can never be a fully accurate representation of the real world. We all see things reflected in our own individual 'mirrors': the beliefs and experiences and preconceptions that make us who we are. Like the people in Plato's Cave, we are looking at shadows rather than reality. And as a result, our writing says as much about us as it does about the world. Not only that, of course, but not all writing is intended to be an exact reflection of reality. Sometimes we deliberately hold up distorted mirrors to our surroundings, those that stretch and compress and bend things into new angles. All fiction does this, to a certain extent, and perhaps fantasy most of all. The 'mirror' of fantasy is curved and pitted and full of ripples, and the image it returns to us can be something very far from what we know as reality. Yet as much as a mirror can misrepresent and alter, it can also reveal. Who hasn't glanced into a reflection at some point in their lives and momentarily seen the world in a whole new way – whether it's the surprise of a fleeting glimpse in a shop window, the familiar made unfamiliar in a fairground hall of mirrors, or the sense of eternity that comes from seeing a lake reflect the sky? And then, of course, mirrors and their kin (reflections, shadows, photographs, portraits) are the only means we have of seeing our own faces. Mirrors reveal us to ourselves – and so does writing. Here, I think, we have reached the heart of what reflections of reality means to me. Every piece of writing, every painting, every poem, every song is an interpretation of the world from a specific artist's perspective. And however outlandish or alien they may be, each one holds a kernel of truth about the world. The more we read, the more we look at art and listen to music and watch films and plays, the more we learn – not only about the reality we inhabit, but also about the people who share it with us. Perhaps this is our responsibility as writers. We can't help but say something about reality when we write; every time we set pen to paper or fingers to keyboard we are creating a mirror, even if we don't realise it. Yet although we don't have any choice there, we do have a choice over what kind of mirror we create: what view of the world we are going to present. And, in fact, the quirky curved mirrors of fantasy are particularly good at this. By stripping away the everyday details that surround us and replacing them with new and unfamiliar settings, they are able to reveal the fundamental truths that lie at the very core of what we call 'reality'. So there you have it. The way I see it, every good book is a reflection of reality, revealing the world to us in new ways, holding up a mirror both strange and true. That's what I hope to achieve in my writing – and that's how my website got its name. Here we are at the second of my birthday blog swaps! This week, I am very pleased to welcome Lindsey J Parsons to the stage.
After last week's guest post had to be postponed due to leaves on the line/rain stopping play/other unexpected circumstance of your choice, I'm now ready to kick off my series of birthday blog swaps. I asked a few of my fellow fantasy authors to write whatever they chose on the theme of my website title (Reflections of Reality), and here's one of them. Please extend a very warm welcome to Andrea Baker, my inaugural guest speaker. Take it away, Andrea …
Those of you who are familiar with this site may have noticed the addition of a Flashes page. I wrote most of the flash fiction stories it contains for a weekly contest on a writing site I belonged to, and they've been lying around gathering dust ever since – until now. I figure that someone somewhere might get some enjoyment out of them, so why not share? You never know, I might even write more when I get the chance (1000 words being about as much as I have time to achieve these days).
Anyway, in honour of the occasion, the rest of this blog post will be given over to a piece of flash fiction. This is one of the first I wrote, and it's still one of my favourites (for sheer daftness if nothing else). I hope you like it too. By definition, every one of us exists in first-person present tense. Yet it's one of the most difficult tenses to write, and one in which it's very easy to make mistakes of logic. Perhaps this is because in some respects, the act of storytelling is in opposition to the act of simply being. Storytelling is invention, re-creation, the replacement of what is immediately around us with an artificial alternative. The storyteller is always a filter between us and the world, whereas true first-person present is essentially direct experience. Thus to write genuine first-person present, the author must become invisible – if you like, a filter that is entirely transparent.
Selling yourself. It sounds bad, doesn't it? It has connotations of selling out, of being all about the money. Of prostituting your art for the sake of a quick buck. But in this digital age, the ability to sell ourselves is one of the key attributes we as authors require.
It is, of course, nothing to do with money – at least, not directly. We aren't simply selling books in exchange for cash, though we hope that will be a consequence of what we do. Rather, we're selling an image. A sexy, knowledgeable and/or witty version of ourselves that the world wants to spend time with. Because when they're interested in us, they'll be interested in our work – and that's how idle browsers become readers and readers become fans. At least, that's the theory. I've been dabbling in this process for a while now – dabbling, because as yet I haven't actually made any books available for people to read.* And it has to be said, I'm not finding it easy. I never have. When an interviewer asks me why I'd be the best candidate for the job, I always draw a blank. Not because I don't think I'm a fast learner and a team player and a giver of 110%,** but because I feel so awkward saying so. Yes, I'm clever and creative. Yes, I'm diligent and punctual and an asset to any company. But somehow, those words coming out of my mouth sound lame and unconvincing. It's not that I don't believe I'm good. It's simply that I'm not sure I'm the best. Something similar happens when it comes to my writing. The internet seems to be full of people shouting look at me!, and I've never been the look-at-me type. More the reading-a-book-in-the-corner type. So although I think I'm a good writer and maybe even an interesting person, I struggle with letting the world know that. With putting my work out there in the confidence that it will be enjoyed. With making myself into a saleable package. All this is a problem, because in writing as in so many other areas of life, it's often not the most talented people*** who get results but those who can best sell those talents. I always hoped that my work would speak for itself – I always thought that writing was the ideal profession for an introvert like me – but these days, the book itself is only the tip of the iceberg. The rest of the berg is made up of marketing, self-promotion and online presence: in other words, the sell. And as it turns out, I'm not terribly good at that bit. Reading back through this, I realise it sounds a bit whiny – as though I'm yearning for the grand old days when writers just, well, wrote. But I'm not complaining, not really. I understand the fault lies with me. If anything, this post is intended as advice to anyone who's thinking about becoming a writer. Learn your craft. Learn how to write. But also learn how to sell yourself. You'll be thankful in the long run. Because great writing without the sell is like standing in the middle of a busy station and whispering announcements: no-one's going to hear you.**** As for me, if anyone has the faintest idea how I can get over my self-promotion phobia then please let me know … * Though there's always the possibility I might sell myself to an agent or publisher. But that's another story. ** Kill me now. *** I'm not saying I'm one of them, by the way. Though maybe I should be saying it … Argh. You see why I struggle with this stuff? **** Conversely, the sell without great writing is like a marvellously enticing billboard that turns out to be promoting a scam. But again, that's another story – though not a very well-written one. Behind the mask of ice that people wear, there beats a heart of fire – Paulo Coelho
The nature of the Web means that it's very easy to portray yourself as you would like to be perceived. Shy in real life can be outgoing and witty online. Those of us who don't want to show our faces can hide behind a series of masks: avatars, usernames, profiles that reveal as much or as little as we choose. On the internet, no-one knows you're a dog. But as a corollary of that, sometimes they forget you're even real. We all know of people who have let their facade slip and allowed something through they shouldn't have. In the writing world, it's often an author who's reacted badly to a negative review or otherwise behaved in an unprofessional manner. The online community is entirely unforgiving of such things, and to a certain extent rightly so. One of the main benefits of being an author on the Web is surely that even if something hurts or upsets you, you can keep that information to yourself. Throwing an electronic tantrum because someone disagrees with you or doesn't like your work is hardly the best way to win friends – or readers. Yet there's a flip side to this. All too often, author meltdowns are passed around amongst other writers with a kind of malicious glee. Rather than quietly note bad behaviour and take a personal lesson from it, we share it with our contacts like a bag of sweets. We point and laugh. We mock. Perhaps we're secretly glad it's not us, or – more significantly – perhaps we feel as though every writer who fails is making more space for us. It's easy enough to view other writers as rivals. To pore over the negative reviews of their work and ignore the positive ones. To gossip about the misjudged comments they made on a forum or book site. To believe, somehow, that other people's mistakes make us better by comparison. It's nonsense, of course: our work, and our behaviour, stands or falls on its own merit. Maybe we're jealous. Maybe we're insecure. But whatever the reason, when someone messes up we turn into a mob of playground bullies – even (and this doesn't make it any better) if it's only in the privacy of our own minds. All this is a shame. The individuals we interact with online are real people with real feelings, not just a bunch of pixels on a screen. There's fire behind each mask. And we all have the capacity to act unwisely, whether it's by having a public meltdown or by releasing a book full of basic mistakes. For that reason, a little more tolerance would do us good. After all, writers and readers aren't competitors in a skewed game of one-upmanship. We're colleagues, cooperators, a community brought together by a shared love of books. We should rejoice in each other's successes and empathise when things don't work out. And if we remember that the online people we deal with are just that – people, with the same hopes and fears as us – then maybe we can forgive their occasional blunders and work to support them instead of hanging them out to dry. Isn't that what we hope they'd do for us? |
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