' "I'd kill you in a second." He laughed: "yeah, I know." '

Today I learned some sciency things about the brain. Did you know that as well as the fight or flight response that we have in times of stress, there is also another response? We freeze. Of course, in the real world, these situations apply less to freezing in front of sabre tooth tigers thus leading to being eaten, but more to normal every day tasks which we find difficult. As in- homework looks hard! Can’t do it! Freeze! Which in turn leads to procrastination.

Which is all a roundabout way of saying that I’m finding the idea of maintaining a blog and a full time PGCE stressful and the result is that I Freeze! and procrastinate on my blog, whether through not posting much or not commenting on other people’s blogs. But I want to get better and I will try harder. For anyone wondering, I am still reading your blogs. What would help is if there were any definite topics I had to write about, so if anyone has anything they would love to hear my *opinion* on (I don't know why you would but still) let me know. :)

So, boys and girls, after that rambling introduction I thought I’d talk about the topic of death- or more specifically, goodies killing baddies. Death is a funny thing in novels. In real life, I’m a pacifist. I don’t agree with killing under any circumstances. That’s not to say that I think all rapists and murderers deserve to live, but that I don’t agree with the act of the person who has to electrocute or inject them- I don’t agree that anyone should be a killer, legal or otherwise. But anyway, I’m going off on a tangent here so I’ll get back to the point. In real life, death isn’t taken lightly. I have my views. You have yours. Mr and Mrs down the street have theirs. Most people will have an opinion on killing. Most people don’t ever expect to see it in their lives.

With that in mind, try now to imagine seeing someone get killed. Blood, guts, bowel releases, the whole extravaganza. I know I’m being graphic here, but it’s to help make you place it. If it were me, I’d be throwing up at the sight. I’d probably faint, histrionic as that sounds. 

So why in books is goodies killing baddies often taken lightly? I’m talking about protagonists who kill villains and don’t even blink. They look forward to doing it. They desire it.

I think it’s general consensus now that readers want true-to-life characters who react properly to things, but the death of a bad guy is still lacking that grounding in reality. I think part of the problem is that as authors, most of us have no idea what witnessing a real murder feels like, so we assume that if it’s a bad guy then we won’t care.

I could be wrong but I disagree with this. I’ll admit I feel queasy at the first sight of blood so I’m always going to be on the stronger end of the spectrum, but I think that it doesn’t matter who’s injured or killed: the sight of someone who’s insides are clearly outside should set our gag reflexes going. When it comes down to it, the sight of a dead person should strip us down to our basest instincts: Humans want and expect to see other humans alive, not dead. Obviously, I’m not talking about army vets or doctors here, but for the average guy on the street who becomes a reluctant hero and then finds they’ve killed someone, there should be more of a response than ‘oh, he’s dead.’ I think the sight of a mutilated body will always come across as wrong, no matter whose it is. 

This can go a step further. Why do we make our protagonists want to kill the bad guy? Would we, ourselves, be so eager to kill someone in real life? There’s no coming back from killing, and I do believe the act changes you. If a protagonist decides they have to kill someone, this should be done after an agonising amount of thought.

Yes, I’m overthinking it. If you don’t expect this from me by now then I don’t know whose blog you’ve been reading but it isn’t mine. Perhaps you could argue that the news has desensitised us to violence, but I think that seeing something on a TV from the safety of your house and actually living it are poles apart in their differences.

Is this a topic any of you’ve ever thought much about? Have you found yourself killing off a baddie and had your protagonist act completely blasé about it? Have I now sent you into an editing frenzy as you quickly change your characters’ responses? (Trust me, I’m not expecting that J). I’m fully aware that the above is just my opinion so feel free to let me know if you agree/disagree with it and why!

‘…You and me could write a bad romance…oh-oh-oh-oh-ohhhh-oh-oh-oh…caught in a bad romance...’

I’ve been thinking about romances and what makes them work. It’s always a bit embarrassing to admit you’re a fan of romance novels, but there you have it- I’m coming out in blog world. Let’s just state for the record: I prefer romance as a sub-plot, or at least, as part of the plot. There always has to be something else going on as well. Three hundred pages of ‘I love you, no I hate you, no I love you’ does not, a novel, make.

The problem I find with romance novels is that nine times out of ten the actual romance part leaves me cold. I think the secret that no one shares is that a sizzling romance is extremely hard to write. At best, I can enjoy the story as a whole and like the love interests as characters, but more often than not, I’m indifferent to their relationship.

 I’m aware that as a reader I’m stupidly hard to please, and there is no failsafe answer for what makes a romance work for me, or for anyone. (Although I’ll just say this: if in doubt, banter, banter, banter!)

But one thing I will say, (and this is only my own opinion and others are free to disagree), is that, as a rule of thumb, the instant I know I’m not going to enjoy a romance is when I find out that it’s from both members of the couple’s perspectives. (This doesn’t mean that I then go into the book with a closed mind. I promise you I don’t.)

Question: What makes romance exiting and slightly scary in real life?

Answer: Not knowing what the other person is thinking or what they’re going to do.

So why would books then take away that aspect of romance? It’s boring to be in both people’s heads, and to know everything they feel for each other. This is telling. Not showing. When character A gets annoyed at character B over a misunderstanding, we can’t share that annoyance because we already know everything. Instead, the annoyance turns on character A because she/he/it doesn’t realise that character B is crazy about her/him/it. It is frustrating to the extreme to know everything and have both characters squabbling like children. We need to share the doubt that character A feels to become immersed in the plot. It is never a good idea to have the reader screaming at character A- he/she/it loves you, you moron!

For me, the driving force of Twilight was not knowing what Edward was thinking, or why he did the things he did. Had the book been told from both Bella and Edward’s perspective (and I’ve read what there is to read of Midnight Sun, which is all I’ll say on the matter) I probably wouldn’t have continued past the first fifty pages.

 Romance is about mystery and heightened emotions and uncertainty. (In a book anyway- I’m making no comments about the real world here, folks.) And, in my opinion, the reader needs to experience all of these feelings with JUST ONE of the protagonists. By giving the reader total knowledge of everyone’s feelings, you take away all of the above, and the result is just…flat. Would you read a murder mystery if the killer was revealed in the first chapter? It’s the same type of thing. The drive of most murder mysteries is: ‘who is the killer?’ The drive of most romances is: ‘how will these two crazy kids go together?’ And before anyone asks, ‘isn’t the drive of romance: will they end up together?’ The answer is no. Readers pick up a romance assuming the couple will end up together. The joy for them is seeing how the couple gets there. (I’m actually not just generalising and making up a load of rubbish here. One of my essays at uni was on romance in Women’s Literature. All of the stuff I’ve said about reader expectations comes from a study in a book. A real book. From the library and everything.)

The problem with showing both characters’ points of view is that the reader then already knows how the characters will go together. They’re both vegetarians. They love the same band. She’s a jewel thief and he’s a bank robber. Knowing how they go together is the starting point to figuring out the rest of the book by yourself. Here’s an exercise for you- take two people you know well and imagine a relationship developing between them- imagine how it would or wouldn’t work- all the things that make them click and all the things that make them argue. Do they have complementary personalities? Clashing personalities? Would one be all-give and the other all-take? Does one plan everything to the nth degree and the other live solely on instinct? It’s quite easy to map out their entire romance when you know them well, isn’t it? So if a reader can figure out the relationship before they’ve even read the book, why should they continue to read it?

Now take someone you know and pair them with a stranger. You can't figure that relationship out because you don't know the stranger. You have to wait for your friend to tell you all about their new romance and then you lap up the juicy details like a starving cat provided with milk. It's exciting because you can't figure out what's coming next.  

 I’ve probably read about five books in my life where I’ve thought- that was a great romance, but one example I will give is Juliet Marillier’s books- Daughter of the Forest and Son of the Shadows. (But not the third book in that series- don’t ever come complaining to me that I recommended you read Child of the Prophecy. I did not.) Juliet Marillier doesn’t always get it right, but when she does, I can’t put her books down. Which is why I’m now busy hunting for substitutes until she releases her next book. On that note- if anyone has read any Juliet Marillier and knows of similar authors who are also good, let me know! 

So, what do you all think? What are your formulas for a great romance? And what do you like/hate to see in romances? Have you any favourite romance authors to recommend?? Comment away...

'“Maybe she’s got concussion!” The boy who yelled this out did it with the same excitement he might have felt suggesting he’d won a free holiday.' Take 2!

Since I basically heard crickets in response to my post yesterday, I'm assuming all is not well in Raven's Keep. However, I have taken on board Prerna's extremely helpful comments and hopefully am now posting a vastly superior draft of the opening section of my manuscript, Raven's Keep. I might be shooting myself in the foot with this, but even if only one person comments to let me know what now needs improvement then it's better than nothing. If there are any lurkers out there- remember you can leave anonymous comments, so go crazy!

(Here's the synopsis again for those who don't know: A teenage girl wakes up in a strange town to find that she has amnesia and no one knows who she is. It is a gothic/urban fantasy with a bit of a murder mystery thrown in.)


Chapter one:

Yellow dots played on her eyelids like tap-dancing ants. Her body itched and tingled as it began to wake up, but she kept her eyes shut and didn’t move. Every bone felt heavy and fragile beneath her skin. A confusion of voices filled the air, asking strange questions that made no sense and invaded her space. She wanted to pull the covers over her head and shut the sounds out, but the more conscious she became, the more she doubted that she was in a bed. The patter of ants turned into the jab of needles.

“Make way, make way.”

She could just make out the clucked muttering that comes from a crowd being jostled as someone shoves through, but still she didn’t move, though she could feel her heart pounding in her chest as though determined to draw attention to itself.

“For goodness sake everyone. I’m here now. I’ll deal with this.”

She felt her eyelids twitch. The needles were trying to pry them open. She had begun to sense the people forming a semi circle around her; to feel the bumpiness of the ground beneath her body. 

“Now.” The same bossy voice came again, nearer this time. “What is going on?”

“It’s like she appeared from nowhere.” Someone answered. “She’s still alive, but I dunno what’s wrong.” 

A silence prickled the atmosphere before the bossy voice continued: “how long has she been lying here?” 

“Not long,” another person said. “Do you think she should go to the hospital?”

Cora opened her eyes.

She blinked in the sharp sunlight as the dots continued to make things blurry, and realised her view was obscured by what looked like a crimson mop. She blinked again and the vision reshaped itself into the hair atop a woman’s head. The face below it was middle-aged and fleshy, with several layers of loose powder that made Cora think of uncooked pizza dough. She blinked again and the woman’s blue eyes came into focus.

“Everyone stand back!” It was the bossy voice, Cora realised. The woman was ‘bossy voice.’ She kneeled in the dirt beside Cora, her legs protected from the ground by a shabby tweed jacket that didn’t look like it belonged to her. “The stranger is awake.”

“Who are you?” The words were out before anything else came to mind, but a second later an onslaught of more important questions rushed at her. What was going on? Where was she? How had she got there? Too many thoughts buzzed in Cora’s head like a frantic swarm of bees. Not much was coming to her in that moment, but she felt confident that she didn’t normally wake up outside and surrounded by a bunch of strangers.    

The woman pressed her lips together. “I was going to ask you the same question. You’re the one who was lying unconscious in the street.”

Cora stared at her, trying to focus. Silver earrings hung like church bells through the woman’s short hair, brushing the shoulder pads of a tailored, striped navy suit. Everyone else stood back from the woman, and Cora realised that they all knew who the woman was. She turned her attention to the crowd. No one looked familiar. Teenage boys drawn by the commotion. Mothers with toddlers. Shop keepers who had left their stores unattended to find out what was going on. All were strangers. Cora twisted her head and saw that she was lying on the cobbled ground of what appeared to be a town square. Even now people exited the shops, attracted by the sight of a crowd on such a sleepy, sunny day.

Despite the gathering it was quiet. The cobbles stretched from one side of shops to the other, leaving no road for any cars to get through.

Cora struggled to sit up, feeling her cheeks burn under everyone’s eyes. Immediately a headache threatened to rip open her skull. Massaging her forehead, she looked around the crowd, searching for an escape. She needed to get away- she didn’t know why, but she felt this need for escape as a certainty in the same way she felt her aching legs. A strange snapping sound brought her back to the person in front of her.

“Now look at me.” Even the birds seemed to quiet down when Bossy Woman clicked her fingers. “What’s your name?”

“Cora.” It sounded strange on her tongue. “Cora,” she tried again.

“Cora?” Bossy Woman lifted an eyebrow.

“That’s it.”

“Don’t be stupid. Your wits aren’t addled now, are they? Or perhaps you fell on your head. You must have a last name.”

Cora felt her chest tighten. “I…I don’t remember.” What was her last name? How old was she? What day was it? Her breaths became shallow as she realised she didn’t know the answer to any of the questions. As stars swam across her eyes she made herself inhale and exhale slowly.

“Are you hurt anywhere?” Someone else called out.

“I don’t think so.” Cora turned over her slender arms, examining both front and back, but the pale, freckled skin was clear of cuts or bruises. Her aching bones didn’t need to be mentioned.

“Maybe she’s got concussion!” The boy who yelled this out did it with the same excitement he might have felt suggesting he’d won a free holiday.

“I’m fine.” Cora didn’t know why she felt the need to hide everything. Perhaps it was because all of the crowd were staring at her as though she’d fallen from the sky; perhaps it was because every instinct told her to run. In a minute she would remember everything, she promised herself, squeezing her fingernails into her palms. It was just taking her longer than normal to wake up and her mind was still foggy from sleep. That was all.

BW rose to her feet and held out a manicured hand that looked like chunky chips dipped in blobs of ketchup. As she waved it in Cora’s face, Cora caught a whiff of disinfectant. “Get up,” BW said, her fingers wriggling when Cora hesitated. “I’m taking you to the hospital. Now.”

With shaking arms, Cora pushed herself upwards, ignoring the proffered aid. BW dropped her arm as though it had failed her and she would like nothing more to do with it.

Cora took a deep breath as she straightened up and felt the air rush to her head. Her legs were as brittle as lollipop sticks and her stomach felt like it was being liquidized in a blender.

“Um… thanks for the offer, but I don’t need to go to hospital. Thanks.” Brushing the dirt off of her clothes, she avoided looking at the crowd. Their gazes only made her stomach churn faster and on top of everything else the fog still refused to clear up. Before she could stop herself she stumbled forward and her arms shot out to keep her balance.

“Don’t be stupid and stop wasting my time,” BW said. “You need to be checked for any damages and then I need to phone your parents.”

“My parents?”

“Of course. How old are you anyway? You don’t look much more than seventeen.”

“I’m … I don’t know.” Cora rubbed at her head again. It still sparked as though a firework was banging about inside of it.

“Oh, for goodness sake, never mind.” BW clutched at Cora’s hand before Cora could shake it off. “We’ll sort it all out once you’ve been checked over.” She turned to the crowd. “Everyone, get back about your day. This isn’t a spectator sport.”

As the crowd dispersed Cora felt the tightness in her chest begin to loosen. “Thanks for that,” she said, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other as BW marched her down the street. “How come they listen to you?”

 “Are you actually saying you don’t know who I am? I’m the Mayor of the town of Raven’s Keep. Mayor Winter.”

“Oh.” Cora bit her lip. The town’s name was unfamiliar. “Where’s that?”

“Right here.” BW paused and grabbed Cora’s shoulders, digging her nails through Cora’s t-shirt. She looked at Cora with a solemn expression, yet her eyes seemed to glitter. “You don’t know where you are or how you got here, do you?”

No and no, but Cora wasn’t about to say it. Instead she shrugged. “I’m just a bit…confused.”

“DO…YOU…KNOW…WHO…YOU…ARE?”

Cora jerked backwards out of BW’s hands and then instantly regretted the action as she almost lost her balance again. “I’m…Cora. And by the way-” she massaged her shoulders “-I’m not deaf.”

BW smiled. “Let’s just get you to the hospital.”

So again, PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE comment- say anything at all that comes to mind, even if you think it sounds ridiculous or nitpicky to the extreme! I feel like I'm yelling into a well here: 'is there anyone out there...there...there...' but anyway, you get my drift. Any comment will be welcomed with imaginary cupcakes and the knowledge that you've made a desperate girl happy. So...yeah. I'll shut up now and go look for my dignity. :) 

'“Maybe she’s got concussion!” The boy who yelled this out did it with the same excitement he might have felt suggesting he’d won a free holiday.'

So, after stating yesterday that I finished the first draft of my WIP 'Raven's Keep' I decided on a whim that I would post the opening section of it here, because I'm desperate for any feedback I can get. When I say first draft, I mean overall first draft- the section I'm posting has in fact been edited several times. However, I'm feeling pretty vulnerable right now, so if you think it's crap, please find a constructive way of telling me! The story in a nutshell is about a teenage girl who wakes up in a strange town to find that she has amnesia and no one knows who she is. It is a gothic/urban fantasy with a bit of a murder mystery thrown in. Hope you like!

Chapter one:

 “Do you think she’s ok?”

“What do I look like, a bloody mind reader?”

“What happened?”

Yellow dots played on her eyelids like a million tap-dancing ants.

“No idea. One minute I’m walking down the street, next thing I know she’s lying there, unconscious.”

“You don’t think she’s dead?”

Too much noise filled the air. She wanted to pull the covers over her head and shut the sounds out. Where had all of the voices come from?

 “Nah, I checked her pulse. Look, you can see her breathing.”

The dots were growing more insistent. The patter of ants had turned into needles.

“Make way, make way.”

She could just make out the clucked muttering that comes from a crowd being jostled about as someone shoves through.

“For goodness sake everyone. I’m here now. I’ll deal with this.”

Her eyelids twitched. The needles were trying to pry them open. She had begun to sense the people forming a semi circle around her; to feel the bumpiness of the ground beneath her body. Where was she?

“Now.” The same bossy voice came again, nearer this time. “What is going on?”

“It’s like she appeared from nowhere. She’s still alive, but I dunno what’s wrong.” She recognised the voice- it was one of the first people who had spoken. A man who sounded like he talked from the bottom of his throat.

“And you didn’t think to get me straight away?”

“We thought you were in your office.”

“Yes, well. That’s why we have mobile phones now, isn’t it?”

A silence prickled the atmosphere before the bossy voice continued: “how long has she been lying here?” 

“Not long,” another person said. “Do you think she should go to the hospital?”

Cora opened her eyes.

She blinked in the sunlight as the dots continued to make things blurry, and realised her view was obscured by what looked like a crimson mop. She blinked again and the vision reshaped itself into the hair atop a woman’s head. The face below it was middle-aged and fleshy, with several layers of loose powder that made Cora think of uncooked pizza dough. She blinked again. The woman’s eyes came into focus; diluted blue and ringed with eyeliner.

“Everyone stand back!” It was the bossy voice, Cora realised. The woman was ‘bossy voice.’ She kneeled in the dirt beside Cora, her legs protected from the ground by a shabby tweed jacket that didn’t look like it belonged to her. “The stranger is awake.”

“Who are you?” The words popped out of Cora before anything else came to mind, but a second later an onslaught of more important questions rushed at her. What was going on? Where was she? How had she got there? Too many thoughts buzzed in Cora’s head like a frantic swarm of bees.    

The woman pressed her lips together. “I was going to ask you the same question. You’re the one who was lying unconscious in the street.”

Cora stared at her, trying to focus. The woman wore a tailored, striped navy suit with shoulder pads. Silver earrings hung like church bells through the woman’s short hair, brushing the shoulder pads as though the entire outfit was one, connected system. Everyone else stood slightly back from the woman, and Cora realised that they all knew whom the woman was. She turned her attention to the crowd. No one looked familiar. Teenage boys drawn by the commotion. Mothers with toddlers. Shop keepers who had left their stores unattended to find out what was going on. All were strangers. Cora twisted her head and saw that she was lying on the cobbled ground of a town square. Even now people exited the green grocer’s, the newsagent’s, the butcher’s, distracted by the sight of a crowd on such a sleepy, sunny day.

Despite the gathering it was quiet. The cobbles stretched from one side of shops to the opposite row, leaving no road for any cars to get through, had there been any cars.

Cora struggled to sit up, feeling awkward under all of the attentive eyes. Immediately a headache threatened to rip open her skull.

“Are you ok?” A mother asked, her grip tightening on her child as he began to slip in her distracted hold.

“I’m fine.” Cora massaged at her forehead. She was fine, she told herself. She just needed to…get away. A strange snapping sound brought her back to the moment at hand.

“Now look at me.” Even the birds seemed to quiet down when Bossy Woman clicked her fingers. “What’s your name?”

“Cora.” It sounded strange on her tongue. “Cora,” she tried again.

“Cora?” Bossy Woman lifted an eyebrow.

“That’s it.”

“Don’t be stupid. Your wits aren’t addled now, are they? Or perhaps you fell on your head. You must have a last name.”

Cora felt her chest tighten as though breathing had become harder. “I…I don’t remember.”

“Are you hurt anywhere?” Someone else called out.

“I don’t think so.” Cora turned over her slender arms, examining both front and back, but the pale, freckled skin was clear of cuts or bruises.

“Maybe she’s got concussion!” The boy who yelled this out did it with the same excitement he might have felt suggesting he’d won a free holiday.

“I’m fine.” Cora didn’t know why she felt the need to hide her headache. Perhaps it was because all of the crowd were staring at her as though she’d fallen from the sky.

BW rose to her feet and held out a manicured hand that looked like chunky chips dipped in blobs of ketchup. As she waved it in Cora’s face, Cora caught a whiff of disinfectant. “Get up,” BW said, her fingers twitching when Cora hesitated. “I’m taking you to the hospital. Now.”

With shaking arms, Cora pushed herself upwards, ignoring the proffered aid. BW dropped her arm as though it had failed her and she would like nothing more to do with it.

“Um…no thank you,” Cora said, brushing dirt off herself and avoiding looking at the crowd. Their gazes made her stomach churn, on top of everything else.

“Don’t be stupid and stop wasting my time,” BW said. “You need to be checked for any damages and then I need to phone your parents.”

“My parents?”

“Of course. How old are you anyway? You don’t look much more than seventeen.”

“I… I don’t know.” Cora rubbed at her head again. It still sparked as though a firework was banging about inside of it.

“Oh, for goodness sake, never mind.” BW clutched at Cora’s hand before Cora could shake it off. “We’ll sort it all out once you’ve been checked over.” She turned to the crowd. “Everyone, get back about your day. This isn’t a spectator sport.”

As the crowd dispersed Cora felt the tightness of her chest begin to loosen. “Thanks for that,” she said, as BW began to march her down the street. “How come they listen to you?”

 “Are you actually saying you don’t know who I am? I’m the Mayor of the town of Raven’s Keep. Mayor Winter.”

“Oh.” Cora bit her lip. The town’s name was unfamiliar. “Where’s that?”

“Right here.” BW paused and grabbed Cora’s shoulders, digging her nails through Cora’s t-shirt. She looked at Cora with a solemn expression, yet her eyes seemed to glitter. “You don’t know where you are or how you got here, do you?”

Cora shrugged, not knowing, even as she did it, why her instinct was to try and downplay everything. “I’m just a bit…confused.”

“DO…YOU…KNOW…WHO…YOU…ARE?”

Cora jerked backwards, out of BW’s hands. “I’m…Cora. And by the way-” she massaged her shoulders “-I’m not deaf.”

BW smiled. “Let’s just get you to the hospital.”


So, there you have it. Remember, I'm DESPERATE for feedback, so any thoughts you have, negative or positive, are appreciated. Too confusing? Over written? Anything else??? PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE tell me!!!!

‘When the sale comes first and the truth comes second just stop for a minute and smile.’

So, I’ve been away from bloggy world for longer than I’d hoped, (three days but it feels like a lifetime.) I’d like to say that this is because I’ve been hard at work, writing, but the truth is I’ve been struck with the dreaded blog-writer’s block. So, if anyone has any brilliant ideas on what my next few posts should be, if there are any films or books they’d love for me to review/rip to shreds, or if they are just desperate to hear the sound of my writer’s voice, let me know. I’m needing an inspiration fairy right about now. Inspiration fairies are like muses, but better.

On a side note, I did, in fact, finish the first draft of my WIP this morning, so I guess it’s now time for the real work to begin! Fun, fun, fun. My WIP is currently called Raven’s Keep, and I’d love any feedback you have on that title. Hate it? Love it? Indifferent? Please, please, please let me know!

This post does actually have a topic by the way, and is not just me rambling from one point to the next. Today I thought I’d discuss my biggest book-related pet peeve: Celebrity writers.

God. Uch. The two words don’t even go together. I mean, that’s an oxymoron if ever there was one. Aren’t writers by their very definition meant to be people who stay out of the limelight? (You can disagree with me on that comment- I know I’m generalising to make my point.) Celebrity autobiographies are bad but fiction is even worse. At least with the autobiographies, it’s pretty much a guarantee that the celebrity ‘author’ knows what their book is about.

Don’t get me wrong- I have nothing against ghostwriters. Every writer would do pretty much anything if it involves being paid to do what they love, and I can’t blame them for that.

The thing that gets to me is that I live and breathe writing. I think about it first thing in the morning and last thing at night. I couldn’t not write, even if I knew my work would never ever be read, because writing is just part of what makes me me. 

But for celebrities, it is just a vehicle that earns them money. Most of them don’t care about writing or reading or books in themselves. They just want their hard-hitting, ‘tell-all’ book to be the Christmas number one bestseller. And people wonder why libraries are closing?!

For me, books are art. They might not be for many of you, and that’s fine. You might just view the written word as fun entertainment, whether through blogging, or poems, or reading. But think about it- you wouldn’t catch a celebrity trying to sell a painting, would you? (Although it will happen soon, when people in the industry realise there’s a profit to be made from it) For me, celebrity art *shudders* and celebrity books are the same thing- completely absurd. Writing is an art, and if you don’t have the talent, or at least the love for it, you shouldn’t do it. (I’m aware I could be shooting myself in the foot here, over my questionable ‘talent,’ but hey, no one can question my dedication.) You want to reveal your life story? Do it in a gossip magazine- that’s what they’re there for.

 Perhaps I’m just bitter or grumpy, or can’t face the cold, hard truth of reality, but I can’t shake this skewed idea I have that unless you love reading and the written word, you shouldn’t be allowed to write. Why should people read your books, if you don’t read yourself? People who have never read a book in their lives and don’t intend to start, even with their own products, should not be allowed to make money from their ‘books.’ It’s just plain gross. For every celebrity who churns out a future bargain-bin waste of space without thought or care, there are thousands of would-be writers, dreaming, breathing and loving writing and being rejected by publishers across the world. 

Yes, I am aware that this horrible epidemic can’t be outlawed and that we don’t live in ‘fair’ land. I am also aware that some of these books could be amazing. I don’t know, I’ve never read any, and whether they’re amazing or shit is irrelevant. The issue is why they exist. I recently had an opportunity to do work experience at a big publishing company, and I actually sat through a meeting where one member of the team suggested approaching a certain popular octogenarian to see if he fancied 'writing' another autobiography. No one was keen on the pitch and everyone was clearly thinking: who actually cares what this celebrity has to say? But the idea wasn’t ruled out. You know why? Because they knew there might be money in it.

In all honesty, I just want to know why. Why do people read these books? What is there that draws people to them? Because, personally, I just can’t see it. If you are a fan of celebrity books, don’t be shy- I won’t bite your head off. I’m not attacking the readers, just the principle of celebrity books as a ruthless, calculated, moneymaking venture. I want to know what’s good about them so I can sleep better at night.

(Disclaimer: I do not actually stay awake at night worrying about the future of books because of the current epidemic of celebrity authors- I was just being dramatic. :D )

Writing is easy: All you do is sit staring at a blank sheet of paper until drops of blood form on your forehead. ~Gene Fowler

Working on a WIP (work in progress) is haaaarrrd. Seriously. I find that although writing is perfectly easy to do in short stories, it suddenly becomes a total chore when I have a three hundred-page book to write, and in my desire to get a novel out, I lose all capability for something as simple as decent sentence structure. (See what I mean?) My similes stop making sense, I forget all about description, I start comma splicing, and every character starts talking in, like, exactly the same way.

I am about three chapters from the end of my current WIP. Soooo close! It’s just pushing myself that’s the problem. I hate writing badly, but I know that if I don’t do the first draft badly, it won’t get written at all.

I'm not a very good writer, but I'm an excellent rewriter.  ~James Michener

 Who was it who said that thing about genius being 90% hard work, 10% inspiration? (Not that I’m deluded enough to think I’m a genius- I’d happily accept being called a half-wit -the quote just serves my purpose.) I’m pretty sure I’ve misquoted anyway, but you know what I mean. Right? Right?!

I have inspiration for perhaps the first two chapters of any book. And then it’s gone. Used up in the amount of time it takes me to do this. *Clicks fingers.* The rest of the book- however many years it takes me to write it -is mostly just hard work, and if I’m lucky, I’ll get the occasional spurt of enthusiasm again, every few months or so.

That’s not to say I don’t like my stories, or enjoy creating them, or even that I don’t enjoy writing. I love them. To all of the above. I can spend many a happy hour thinking about my stories and what direction I want them to go in. My characters are as real and as loved for me as any other author’s characters are for them.

The story I am writing exists, written in absolutely perfect fashion, some place, in the air.  All I must do is find it, and copy it.  ~Jules Renard, "Diary," February 1895

And I love writing- I love putting a new spin on old ideas and an old twist on new ones. I love similes and metaphors and cringeworthy puns. I love the surprises that get you at the end of a good book, even though in hindsight you kick yourself because you really should have seen them coming. I love poetic language to describe death and commonplace words to describe love. I love writing something horrendous so that I can sift through it to get to the good stuff, which I know I must have in me somewhere; only it’s probably deep, deep, deep down inside. Probably.

Words - so innocent and powerless as they are, as standing in a dictionary, how potent for good and evil they become in the hands of one who knows how to combine them.  ~Nathaniel Hawthorne

But there’s something about sitting in front of a computer, seeing pages of my own writing, and just being filled with self-doubt. I think self-doubt must be the death of creativity. (Apparently I’m paraphrasing Sylvia Plath here.)

 It gets easier with each draft. I mean, I don’t have much experience as this is only my second proper WIP, but I think it’s about seeing the words on the page translate the images in my head, and the closer I get to that, the calmer I feel. I know I will never reach the point where a book feels complete for me (I don’t think that’s possible for any writer) but I would like to reach a point where I feel confident that I’ve written a good story.

The time to begin writing … is when you have finished [your work] to your satisfaction.  By that time you begin to clearly and logically perceive what it is you really want to say.  ~Mark Twain

So, how about you? Anyone else feeling the frustration of ‘oh my god I could finish my first draft in ten hours if I just made myself work on it’ versus ‘but you won’t because it’s shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit’? Or is that just me?? *Laughs manically.*

Any comments, thoughts, experiences or advice to get my head examined would be muchly appreciated.

A writer and nothing else:  a [person] alone in a room with the English language, trying to get human feelings right.  ~John K. Hutchens, New York Herald Tribune, 10 September 1961

'A good novel tells us the truth about it's hero; but a bad novel tells us the truth about its author.' Gilbert K. Chesterton

Maybe I’m a spiteful, bitter, hard to impress person, but it seems to me that lots of YA (young adult) fantasy books just seem to encounter the same problems again and again and again. I say *problems* but in all seriousness these are things that other people probably love or don’t care about. I’m most likely the stereotypical old man, whining about the music that young kids listen to these days and calling it noise. Maybe I just need to get with the program. Yep. I’ve never used that expression before in my life.

But unfortunately/fortunately I am stuck in my own head, and I like the things I like and dislike the things I don’t like. So, I thought I’d write a list, (you can probably already tell I heart lists) of the top six staples of YA fantasy fiction that I Just Don’t Like. I’m also really curious to know if other people feel the same way, or if it’s just me and I should go sit in a corner.

1. My number 1 pet peeve goes to…Love Triangles. It seems you can’t open a YA book without he loves her but she loves him but he loves her…blah, blah, blah, you get my drift. My issue here is simple: apart from being an easy plot device to create tension in an otherwise harmonious relationship, no one in the triangle can come off looking the better for it. The person caught between the two, looks selfish and irresponsible at best, whilst the two fighting over the girl or boy become jealous and angry and territorial. These aren’t qualities I need or look for in my heroes/heroines. People get hurt, things get messy, and as readers are uncontrollable elements, they often end up rooting for the wrong person and get aggrieved when their favourite is left broken hearted. Oops. Another issue is when a person is supposedly never noticed until they develop a relationship with someone, and then of course, a contender has to come out of nowhere. Realism, people! Attention all authors and wannabe authors- stop making things look like obvious plot devices.     

2. Alpha males. Don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against a strong male character, but when he’s obsessive, controlling, jealous, has man rage and treats the girl like tissue paper half the time, like his property the rest, then I find myself rolling my eyes, and shouting “next!” It's not sexy or hot. It's frustrating and worrying. In these crazy, modern times, a girl can do anything a boy can do. Sometimes, she can even do it better.

3. Lack of interesting female characters. So you pick up a book and it’s written in first person and of course the narrator is the usual ‘I’m not pretty, no boys ever notice me’ type of girl, but wait! She moves somewhere new and a hundred boys are instantly interested in her, and the girls are, for the most part, petty and jealous. In my opinion, female-female relationships are beautiful, complex and necessary, but they are often either neglected or cheapened by stories like this. Where is the best friend that the protagonist tells everything to? Where is the girl who forces the protagonist out of her comfort zone again and again, thus leading to interesting exploits for the reader? I’m aware that some girls never have those sorts of friendships in real life, and that’s fine, but in these types of books I think it’s needed. As a girl, I’m meant to insert myself into the narrator’s shoes and pretend I'm her. It's not enjoyable to do that when it feels like she’s judging every other girl in the vicinity, whilst pretending that it’s they who judge her. If I met this character in real life, she wouldn’t want to be friends with me, so why should I now bother getting to know her? How can you write something by a girl, about a girl, and for girls, and have the narrator not like other girls? This Doesn’t Make Sense.

 

4. The love interest is ridiculously beautiful. It goes back to childhood rivalry; on the playground- my toy is better than yours. If the protagonist has the most insanely beautiful boyfriend or girlfriend, then they obviously win at EVERYTHING and no one can ever beat them again. I don’t want this in the books I read: I find it unrealistic, unimaginative and boring. I want people who look like those I see walking down the street. I want freckles and dodgy hair dye and misspelled tattoos and love handles. And isn't it so much more real and special when an average looking person becomes beautiful to someone else simply because they fall in love with them? A habit of mine when reading a book is trying to cast the lead roles. When someone is described as ridiculously perfect, I can’t even think of A-List stars good looking enough to play them. Think about it- even mega-huge, Hollywood celebs have quirks. Julia Roberts has a huge mouth, Robert Pattinson has those bushy eyebrows, and no one would ever describe Brad Pitt as having a neat, straight nose. No wonder people complain when books are turned into films and they think the chosen actors aren’t good looking enough to play their beloved heroes/heroines. There are probably only five people in the world good looking enough to play those parts, and who knows if they act or even speak the right language?!

5. Everyone is straight and everyone is white. We live in a diverse world, and I like to see it reflected in the books I choose to pick up. Something I think is especially common with YA and children’s fiction is that readers look for themselves in the books they read. Being a teenager is a turbulent time, one where people usually question everything about themselves and feel like no one in the world could possibly ever understand them. They should be able to not only take pleasure in escaping with a book, but also find some relief by relating to someone on those pages. The fact is, a gay teen or an ethnic minority usually has to scour the Internet for specialist areas if they want to find a piece of themselves in their fiction.     

   

6. Once the love story has developed, it becomes the ONLY thing that matters. All friends are forgotten, all family is irrelevant and school is an annoying irritancy that keeps the protag from their loved one. I don’t think that LOVE justifies total selfishness where a character is willing to run out on their family/dump all their friends/put everyone in danger, just because their special someone is extra cute and extra perfect. I have nothing against love stories in my YA fantasy - I enjoy them - but I don’t agree that they permit the protagonist to act like a myopic, selfish dick. It’s ok because he/she is in lurrvve. No. *Shakes head.* No it’s not. 

For all the clever, perceptive followers out there, you may have noticed that Twilight has all six of these issues. Congratulations, you win a prize, and no, it wasn’t deliberate. *Ducks as Twihards across the internet throw dictionaries at me.* Why dictionaries? Because they’re big and heavy.

Agree/disagree with the six points? Have any opinion on anything at all or just want to complain about how apathetic you are? Sound off in the comments!

A Series of Unfortunate Babbling:

So I've heard that Good Things come to those who Blog, and I thought I'd give it a try, even though I'm quaking in my Converses. Apparently, as an aspiring author, I should have been doing this, like, five billion years ago, but better late than never! At the moment I'm strangely lost for words, even though I started writing this post knowing exactly what I wanted to say. Which kinda makes this post completely at odds with its title. Oh well. Anyway, don't worry, there will be plenty of babbling, because once I get started on a topic, I don't shut up until I've dissected it and snipped at it and turned it into a pretty pattern. (I'm almost 100% sure that that metaphor didn't make sense. *Shrugs*.) What I will write about are thoughts on writing - which will be as general as it sounds, ranging from ideas on characterisation to plot to language - and reviews/over inflated opinions of books/tv programs. I will try to be funny, I will try to be clever, I will try to be insightful. I will probably fail at all three but I will try. Happy reading!