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The Synopsis Ate My Brain March 31, 2008

Posted by Caroline Barnard-Smith in Uncategorized.
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I think I may have finished the synopsis for my novel (deep intake of breath…) It was every bit as horrible as every writer says it is. How, after all, can you possibly relay the intricacies of your masterpiece, the motivations of your characters and your flawless, hole-free plot on two pages of A4? It’s enough to send you prematurely grey (incidentally, my family found FIVE pure white hairs on my 25 year-old head recently… That’s not normal, is it?!) But it’s done. Now I just have to write the agent/begging letter and polish the first three chapters until they’re shinier than tin foil.

I’m not happy though. I had so many things planned for when I finished my first draft. I was going to follow Stephen King’s advice and put the novel away before revising (because I always listen to Mr King, my copy of On Writing is so well thumbed, it’s yellow. It also falls open exactly to the page where he tells Tabitha King how much Carrie sold for and she starts to cry… Love that bit!)  After burying the novel and pretending it no longer existed, I wanted to write a short story I’ve been thinking about for a long time and maybe start planning the next novel, which I think is going to be a dark fairytale set in a labyrinthine city (yes, I know we’ve all heard that old chestnut before, but the muse wants what she wants). The thing is, none of these grand plans materialised.

I don’t really know what happened. One moment I was full of excitement, eagerly imagining my dream future as a full-time writer, which is so important for lil’ unknowns like me… The next I was staring at the abyss, wondering where the hell my mojo had gone. I’ve written barely anything since I finished my first draft, and I know Mr King would be ashamed of me. Maybe my muse just wanted a holiday after I forced her to work like a Trojan to finish the book? Who knows…. What I do know is that the muse won’t often arrive willingly. My muse, in particular, is a rude, churlish woman, prone to frequent swear words and large bottles of vodka. I have to poke her with a very pointy stick before she agrees to come out and play. Which means I should get off my behind, get those three chapters ready to send to prospective agents and write that short story.

Here’s a brief side note and probably (?) little-known fact - J.K Rowling’s agent doesn’t accept genre fiction. What’s that all about?! I’m guessing they received a deluge of the stuff after the success of Harry Potter and now they can’t bare to look at another word of it. That’s my piece of wanton speculation for the day, any way :)

One more side note! - I don’t know why, but every writer seems to have a cat. Which I find harshly unfair seeing as I’ve always wanted a kitty of my very own but live in a first floor flat above a shop (hence, no way can a cat live here). So for now, I’m making do with this cute picture (I wan’ ‘im, I wan’ ‘im!!)

The Cookie Cat

All Hail the Discworld March 16, 2008

Posted by Caroline Barnard-Smith in Uncategorized.
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BBC Four have just shown the last part of a series called Worlds of Fantasy, which followed the rise of fantasy as a popular literary genre. It started with Victorian childrens’ writers such as Lewis Carroll and J.M. Barrie, chronicled the cult of Tolkien and his rise to near god-like status in the sixties (a state of affairs, apparently, that appalled him); and finished with the notable writers of modern times, including Terry Pratchett and China Mieville (who I still haven’t read… so many books, so little time, sigh). As a life long fantasy fan, this series was for me what a doughnut is for Homer Simpson (I didn’t do that drooling thing, “Mmm… Doughnut”, but I certainly felt like doing it).

What I particulary loved was the little insights into the writers’ minds. What compelled them to invent fantastic creatures and awesome landscapes, often during periods when everyone else was writing middle-class, kitchen sink dramas? It also reminded me how much I adore Terry Pratchett, god love ‘im. A real British institution, the man should have his own statue in Trafalgar Square. He was recently diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, which is a ridulously tragic disease for a man with his imagination.

I’ve abstained from picking up a Discworld novel for far too long. When I was in my pre/early teens, Pratchett was my favourite author. I read as many Discworld books as I could get my grubby little hands on. I even had the map of Ankh Morpork pinned to my bedroom wall and cherished the signed copy of Johnny and the Dead I won in a competition (using a photograph of an unfortunate pen pal because I was too wussy to have my own mug displayed in a national paper… but that’s another story). The thing was, I always knew the Discworld stories were supposed to be humourous, but I was too young to get the joke. I loved them because the characters rocked and the plots were engrossing (plus I had a crush on Death, oh dear), but they never made me laugh. Since watching Worlds of Fantasy and finally understanding what that line in The Colour of Magic about Rincewind’s enduring hetrosexuality meant, I suddenly have the burning need to read them all again. Thank you BBC!

I would have posted a neat little clip from YouTube, but for some reason the BBC won’t let you embed their videos (and I’m a license payer, dammit!), so you’ll have to make do with this text link. You can still see the entire last episode on the BBC’s iPlayer site, although it’s only up until Wednesday 19 March so you’ll have to be quick. You’ll also have to be patient. I missed this episode and watched it online, braving the terribly slow rate of download and frequent pauses while it caught up with itself. I would say that rather than making the unmissable, unmissable, the BBC have made it unwatchable. But that would just be callous :)

Raw Offal, Bad Prawns and Rancid, Sweaty Cheese March 5, 2008

Posted by Caroline Barnard-Smith in Uncategorized.
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The first draft is back from my mum, my official editor/proof reader/unpaid cheerleader; and perhaps worryingly for a horror/fantasy novel, some of it made her laugh. It really is amazing how many glaringly embarrassing phrases you can shoehorn into a manuscript without ever noticing (can’t see the wood for the trees and all that). My mum gives great constructive criticism, but if something strikes her as hilarious, there’s no reigning her in (which is good, incidentally, because then I can laugh at my mistakes too… often until my mascara runs down my face and my throat hurts). So, because a good laugh can add five minutes to your life, here are some of my best crappy phrases:-

“He shook himself and sat beside Sapphire, reaching for his own vodka.”
– Apparently, my mum stopped when she read this and turned to my sister: “Do you shake before sitting down?” You can already guess the answer was no.

Arm crossing.
– The outwardly innocent act of having my characters cross their arms when they faced other people or leant against door frames garnered much red pen. “Why do they keep crossing their arms?” my mum wondered… and so did I once I realised how often it actually happened.

“An uncomfortable silence bloomed between them, only broken when Dylan frowned and crossed his arms.”
– More arm crossing! Plus, in my mum’s words: “How did Dylan break the silence? He hasn’t said anything yet.” Doh!

“Zach refused to shake the man’s hand. He looked down at it and wrinkled his nose slightly, as if he was looking at something that shouldn’t be borne amongst polite company.”
– The wrinkled nose came under the same category as arm crossing – Over Used and Unnecessary. The rest just prompted much hilarity. “…Something that shouldn’t be borne amongst polite company” – What was I thinking?! Truly tragic…

“It was the smell of raw offal, of bad prawns and rancid, sweaty cheese.”
– God damn. Sweaty cheese?!

“Her eyes slid across the floor to the wall…”
– Next to this my mum wrote: “I hope she put them back in again.” Oh, and there was more than one incident of incredible sliding eyes. Sigh.

That was probably the funniest one. I seem to have an ongoing fascination with eyes. My characters’ eyes are luminescent or hooded, or they stare crazily or wildly… all the time. Yes, very lame.

Thank the lord for editors/proof readers/unpaid cheerleaders.

A little aside concerning my last blog post :-
I’ve considered what I wrote and now realise that calling the ability to do what you love while getting paid for it a “modest” want is more than a little ridiculous. Being able to do what you love for a wage is a privilege enjoyed by very few - movie stars, big name musicians and professional sportsmen and women among them; and breaking into any of those careers is hardly easy, nor is the dream of doing so a “modest” one. Dammit.

I was trying to articulate my wish to simply afford boring life stuff like bills and food and takeaway pizza on a Saturday night by writing, which certainly is modest when compared to the huge fortunes amassed by the J K Rowlings and Stephen Kings of this world. Maybe I didn’t do this very well. Maybe I blogged about whiny pussys who love to wet-blanket all over writers’ dreams and ended up sounding like a whiny pussy myself. But I really was having a bad day. Could you tell?

Then again, who the hell cares anyway, right? I’m just screaming into the virtual wind (which smells a little like raw offal, bad prawns and rancid, sweaty cheese… but only a little).