It has to be done. I can’t keep ignoring these developments in publishing.
stories for people on the move?
This idea really appeals to me. It obviously appeals to many more. Millions sold? Writers like Lee Child, Stephen King, Jodi Picoult et al joining?
Why have I been holding back all this time?
I’ll tell you. I’m a big-head. I didn’t want lumping together with the thousands of wannabee writers out there self-publishing their masterpieces. Oh, dear. I read some of them. No, that’s not true. I read only parts of some of them. Yes. I’m a big-head. I didn’t want tarring with their brush.
Now, this Kindles Singles and Kindle Serials is a completely different kettle of fish. It’s opened up a whole new opportunity for those of us whose work doesn’t fit neatly into a genre or an ‘acceptable’ word-length.
So, I’ve been watching from the sidelines. It’s time to make a move. I’m going to dip my toe.
Trobairitz were troubadours. Female troubadours. They sang songs and poems about love, tradition and current affairs. Their songs were called cansos. Their language was Occitan – the language that gave its name to the region of southern France where they lived and worked.
Langue means language.
Langue d’Occitan became Languedoc
The region of Languedoc stretches across southern France from west to east.
This where the Trobairitz came from. This is the area they covered when they travelled in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. Not much is known about them. Very few of their songs remain.
Azalais came from Portiragnes
Azalais de Porciragues lived in the twelfth century. Her home town is called Portiragnes now and is a popular beach resort in the summer.
Women like Azalais were strong and independent. It’s thought they must have had their own means to support their lifestyles.
This is where I live. The departments might have slightly different names now, but the rivers are all in the same place and the mountains funnel the winds as they always did.
land of the Trobairitz
Languedoc is a land of tradition and superstition. Its people love the Arts: it’s in their genes. This is where I’m writing about a twenty first century Trobairitz. She has stories to tell. About love, tradition and current affairs. Her name is Weed. Like the Trobairitz of old, she’s strong and independent. She has her own means to support her lifestyle. She travels the land of the troubadours in her truck. She tells her stories at an overnight truck stop.
Edit: Book One – Trobairitz – the Storyteller is available on Amazon from Friday 28th November 2014.
Last night I dreamed I went to duMaurierLand again. (Sorry Daphne)
Let me explain. When I was younger and I might dream of living the life of a writer, I’d create for myself a room with a desk by a French window, beyond which there would be green swathe running down toward the sea and there would be bracken and paths through stands of trees. Indoors, I would have a log fire and tea in a bone china cup and I’d probably be wearing something quite figure-hugging and pearl earrings. You see, dear reader, I read everything Daphne published. The lot. All the novels. All the collections of short stories. I keep by my desk an old copy of Rebecca and every day, before I begin, I look at it. Sometimes, I pick it up and sniff it.
my teenage heroine
There’s nothing like the smell of a good book. Kindles can’t do that. They can’t reproduce the touchy-feely thing about holding a favourite book in your hands. It would be sacrilege to read Rebecca on an e-reader. Wouldn’t it? Would I experience the same sense of connection with the woman who has inspired me for years?
first edition – I wish I had one
Can you curl up with a Kindle?
a scene from Hitchcock’s 1940 film
Rebecca is my talisman. I keep it by my side to remind me of the power of characters. In du Maurier’s Rebecca there’s a character so powerful she controls everything even after she’s dead. Rebecca, who Mrs Danvers adored, still occupies the thoughts and actions of the de Winter household to the extent that poor second Mrs de Winter doesn’t even get a first name all through the entire novel.
That’s power.That’s character. And yet . . . and yet.
I’m writing in the twenty first century. I might have a desk now AND a French window, ( I live in France; everybody has French windows) but Manderley it isn’t. My characters don’t wear pearls and dress for dinner.
My main character in Trobairitz drives a truck. This is where she spends most of her time.
My character loves her cab
She hasn’t worn a skirt for years. She stuffs her hair under a baker boy cap when she’s driving and it’s so long since she had any fun with a man, she wonders if all her bits still work.
Daphne, as far as I remember, didn’t write about women’s bits or have a character admire the way a man fills his tee shirt.
But, if I can get my characters onto a page , whether on paper or a backlit screen, and readers remember them long afterwards, the way I remember Rebecca, I’ll be in du MaurierLand.
In principal, I am opposed to courses.I don’t see the point of aiming to turn out clones of the This is Best School of Literature. What good would that do? You’d have shelves of books in the bookstores and titles of ebooks all in the same mold. Boring, or what?
On my Home Page, I’ve already said how variety is the spice of my life. I grow jaded with repetitive activities such as dragging out the vacuum cleaner and planning meals. Odd, isn’t it, that sitting at the keyboard doesn’t have the same effect?
But, I digress. Creative writing courses. I went on one once. It came at a time when I needed a break from domestic dolour and an injection of uplifting motivation. I’d had my share of rejections and was looking for other avenues to explore.
Snoopy the hack
I found the book doctor. The course, held in the Dordogne, which happened to be a convenient train ride for me, was a combination of motivation and relaxation. The setting was peaceful and nurturing. Our hosts were kindly and nurturing. Their food was delicious and nurturing. Above all, Philippa Pride was friendly and, you guessed it, nurturing.
I wouldn’t say I came away with startling new perspectives about the complicated world of publishing. After all, I wasn’t an absolute beginner: I knew something about what I was attempting to get myself into.
It was such a delight to meet with people who had similar ambitions, who were supportive of each other, who had no ulterior motives. Needless to say, I loved this course and returned home feeling refreshed, ready to get back to work and thoroughly nurtured. Philippa provided a perfect combination of workshop/retreat. Here’s a link to her website:
Sometimes, as soon as I wake, and I’m talking the very second, there’s a question clamouring for an answer. It’s there, in my head and I don’t know where it came from, but it’s pushed itself forward demanding attention. There’s nothing else for it but to do something about it.
This morning the question was about two halfpennies rubbing together. You know the saying, I haven’t got two halfpennies to rub together. What if you had? What if you had those two halfpennies and you rubbed them. What would happen? This What if? question is huge. I read somewhere it’s often the question Stephen King starts out with. So, I looked up the derivation of the saying re: rubbing two halfpennies together and I learned something about myself: I have a tendency to take things too literally.
what if the answer’s in the clouds?
I’m not too hot, it turns out, at this blue sky thinking. See, when I think of rubbing two halfpennies together, I immediately imagine there has to be an element of manual manipulation in there somewhere. You have to grab hold of those damned halfpennies, don’t you. and physically rub them together? Actually, no you don’t. They might rub together all by themselves, jangling in your pocket as you walk along the street, thereby demonstrating to the world around you that you are a person of means.Listen everybody, those jingling coins say to your neighbours. I have the wherewithal to buy whatever one may purchase for ready cash. Of course, the neighbours wouldn’t know whether those were coppers rubbing along in your pocket, or guineas.
what if it’s me?
And so, the whole phrase can mean so much more than I had thought. Now, there are images in my head; there are sounds; there are values and attitudes creeping into the old saying that I’d never considered before.
Spring arrives early here. That is to say, it lets you think it’s arriving early. But, it’s tricksy. Oh, yes. It’s tricksy.
can spring be very far away?
It likes to see buds forming on the irises, and then, just when they’re getting ready to open up, SURPRISE, here comes a late blast of icy cold mountain air. The poor things shrivel and hang their heads.
Writers are like those irises, vulnerable to cold blasts of discouragement and thinly-veiled put downs. Self-doubt, unlike spring, is never very far away.
Wrap up warm. Keep on your comfy, confidence cardie. Smile. Doubt hates smilers; he doesn’t know what to do with them and usually takes his leave. Take a break from your usual routine. Do something physical. Physical activity guards against writers’ arse and I do believe there’s a lot to be said for the old chestnut – blowing away the cobwebs.
Take a good look at the people you mix with. How do they make you feel? Do they drain you, or do they make you feel uplifted?
You have to know. You have to be able to say, very succinctly, what your novel is about. What it ultimately IS. In one sentence. Go on. Say it. If you can’t, there’s a good chance you don’t really know what your purpose is for this book.
just three rules would be easy . . .
A funny little quote from W. Somerset Maugham is all well and good and lightens the mood in an old-fashioned, quaint sort of way, does it not, Madam? Sir?
But we ain’t writing old-fashioned, quaint sorts of books, are we? Unless we’re Alexander McCall Smith and he’s a master so there’s no point in trying to emulate his style.
We have to have thrust. We have to have a clear picture of where we’re going right at the very beginning of this book, and we have to keep watching the SatNav all along the way to prevent from wandering from our ultimate purpose.That’s why we need one clear sentence that says what this book IS. That’s why we have to keep that one clear sentence lodged in our thinking as the plot progresses.
pantsing doesn’t always get you where you want to go
I looked at my tag cloud. What? The blogging word was getting too big. It was almost as big as the writing word. See what happens when you’re not looking? When you’re pantsing instead of planning. For initiates pantsing is flying by the seat of them. Get it?
Pantsing is great for that piece of morning writing when your head needs clearing and you just write down the first thing you think of. Afterwards, you can have a look at what you wrote and decide whether any of it’s worth keeping. Mostly, it isn’t. So you have to plan what you’re going to write.
in love with readingin love with writing
Did I mention before that as well as short stories, I write novels? And, as it’s Valentine Day, I’m taking this opportunity to dedicate myself to them: my novels. I am in love with all of them. I shall be in love with the next when it arrives. My love for them has no bounds. Like with your children, your love grows: you don’t steal from one to give to another. You love them all.
This morning, I happened to catch a UK television programme I hadn’t seen before. Artists went before a hanging committee to win a place at an exhibition at the prestigious Tate Gallery. Three judges sat on the panel and contestants needed a majority vote to go forward.
A young photographer made it through and said she’d charge three hundred pounds if somebody wanted to buy her exhibit. That would cover her costs. On exhibition day, prospective purchasers were requested to put in sealed bids for work they wanted to buy.
There was only the one sealed envelope for this young woman’s work. She sold it for nearly three THOUSAND pounds.
Now then, what if one more judge had given her the thumbs down? What if that particular buyer hadn’t attended the exhibition that day? Might that talented young woman have gone home thinking that nobody liked her work? Might she have been so disillusioned by the whole experience that she simply gave up?
Here’s the thing. You can’t please everybody, so don’t try. Stick with what you know you do best. Make sure it is your best. Don’t be put off.
Waiting. Waiting. Drumming your fingers on the desk. Making another hot drink. Not being able to settle. Can’t read. Not even a newspaper.
I hate waiting. So, I don’t. I write instead. Actually, I blog and network and do some writing. Maybe a bit of editing, too. I go outside with a coffee and do A LOT of staring into space. Walking helps with the waiting thing as well. We have plenty of places to walk – mostly through the vineyards surrounding the village. I take my camera and see what’s new for the upcoming Wednesday Vine Report. The whites have begun sprouting leaves already.
vineyards below the village near the river
So, my time is filled productively without too much waiting. And a very strange thing happens while I’m out walking along the lanes. Ideas arrive! They pop up from behind a bush or they streak across the sky with Ryanair on its way to Beziers airport. My feet crunch through gravel and here’s a tale of lost luggage and a mix-up at the car hire desk where a kind person offers the lost luggage person a lift home. Hmmm. Romantic interlude or Samaritan from Hell? I think that’s already been done. Left, right, swishing through the grass and here comes another idea. Fast on its heels there’s an answer to that question I had about a character in a short story. I meet a couple walking their dog and now I know exactly what my elderly male character ought to wear on his head. I climb towards home. There’s a young man sitting on a bench by the side of the road. He has his mobile phone to his ear. Hang on a minute, goes the old grey matter, that there is an old folks’ bench. What is a young man like him doing sitting on an old folks’ bench using his mobile phone?
And before you know it, another short story is bubbling like Evian, featuring the very handsome young man, a distraught, wronged lover and a victorious wife biding her time for the killing. I dash indoors for my notebook. Then, I come back to my garden for some more staring into space.
Flowers and fruit at the same time
Outside on my baby lime tree there are mature fruits and fruits barely formed and flowers waiting for the bees. A bit like my writing really.
I have three completed novels. Let me rephrase that. I have one novel under consideration at the moment and I consider that one finished after two rewrites. The other two novels need complete, hefty editing. They’re all different genres. One’s a family saga and at 140,000 words needs the heftiest axe. Another’s a psychological drama and needs a restructure. The third’s a book club read and at 86,000 words is close to optimum. I think. I’m waiting to find out. I’m also waiting for feedback on two short stories submitted to Woman’s Weekly. And the serial. So, that’s four pieces of work I’m waiting to hear about.
Then there are the flowers waiting for the bees. Two half-written novels, umpteen short stories and a file called Ideas which keeps growing longer every time I go out for a walk and see handsome young men on their mobiles in the wrong place.
By the time my limes fizz at the top of a clinky drink of Gin and Tonic, I’m really going to need it. Make it a big one. Easy on the tonic!
