On Air #3

8-tips-on-how-to-have-a-successful-radio-interview

This is, as per bloomin’ usual, a photo stolen from the internet. I do not look that good.

I’m buried in proofreading and copy-editing at the moment, my deadlines teaming up to smack me oop-side the head. And my daughter has the plague, which is… unhelpful. These are my primary excuses for not having much to say this week.

So please excuse the brevity of this communique. But if you want to hear more about some of my writerly philosophies and the problems of cultural insensitivity, you might like to check out this interview I did on BBC Radio Cambridgeshire on Monday.

I’m on from around 02:20 in, right after Katy Perry. I’m in and out for nearly 40 mins, which came as something of a surprise to me.

Big thanks and kudos to Charlie Thompson for making me feel at ease and for drawing out the best of us guests. Remember, if you ever do interviews like this, the host is your ally. They will do their best to make you sound good.

And now it’s back to the word-mines with me. Them deadlines won’t meet themselves.

Hopefully I’ll have broken the back of them – and have maybe done something more interesting – in time for next week’s blog.

In the meantime may the words rise up to meet the pen.

On being interesting

Interesting
Part of writing is selling yourself and part of selling yourself is being interesting. This is not easy. Not for me, at least.

Should you have the great fortune to be picked up by an agent or somehow manage to inveigle a publishing contract you become a commodity. The publishing industry needs a package, an angle, a way to attract attention to your work. That might just be you.

You won’t immediately be dispatched to do interviews with the great and the good. Journalism is an overstretched industry and most interviews you see are self-written: the tired journo will give it the once-over, maybe cut a few key sentences and shove it in, a way of filling up a column that otherwise she’d have to think about. Here, done and gone.

Occasionally, though, your life will chime into the zeitgeist. Said tired journo will be struggling to fill her pages and something you mentioned as an aside will strike her as worthy of deeper exploration. Maybe you’ll get that elusive personal chat (sometimes in person, sometimes via Skype or telephone) and what you said on the spur of the moment will be unpicked, stretched, your viscera unravelled in front of you.

This is good. This is what you (or at least your backers) want. It’s your job to think of something you’ve done, seen or been that might attract attention – no matter if you wanted to talk about it; no matter if you’re forced to examine some aspect of yourself you wish was left so far in the back of the closet that it might as well be in Narnia.

More likely you – as a newbie writer – will be mining the ‘local interest’ seam. It’s not the Times Literary Supplement you’ll be aiming for, it’ll be the parish magazine. Think about all the places you’ve lived, all the great bookshops you’ve frequented, the library in which you were raised: that’s your target market.

Example: my parents used to take me to Bingley library every week, until I was old enough to go on my own, and until I was old enough to go to Bradford Central Library on my own. Thus I’d be looking to the local Telegraph and Argus for publicity. They’d find me a lot more interesting than the Shetland Advertiser, especially as I just made that up.

Note that people are interested in people, not work. Unless your story is truly fascinating, a hot-button-clickbait-zeitgeist-relevant-to-everyone-world-shaker, it’s you, not your work, that sells.

Everyone is interesting. I’ve never yet met a single person who hasn’t at least one good tale to tell. And if you’re reading this then you’ve got something I’d love to hear about, be it your achievements, your ambitions or your frustrations. Not yet had the moment to do what you really want to do? The story of why you want to do that one thing, or your reasons why you haven’t yet done it – well, the key word there is ‘story’.

Think of it this way: if you were in a novel, what would you accentuate of your own life? What would you hide? What would people want to read about you?

And then forget all that. Because all people really want to know about is where you grew up.

The time-traveller’s strife

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Should you ever get a book published you’re going to have to do a fair bit of promotion. And what you’re going to have to promote isn’t going to be very good.

That’s not actually true. What you’re pushing might actually be brilliant, a masterpiece – but it’s likely that you’ll already be neck-deep in another project by the time the book hits the shelves. And I’m willing to put money on your new work being better. Suddenly you’re dragged back to something you’re already feeling a little embarrassed about. Were you really so naïve as to write that? All those adverbs!

You can’t say that, though. You’re a writer, and writing is a business. You have to show belief in your work or no-one else will. And your publisher won’t be too pleased if the message you’re sending out is half-hearted.

Say, for example, that suddenly a forgotten submission for Chivalry came back with an offer of publication. I wrote the novel nearly a decade ago. There’s a lot I still like about it, but I’m damn sure I’m a better writer now. Suddenly I’m in a moral quandary: can I honestly do a book launch and say how great the work is? ‘Yeah, it’s okay, I suppose’ ain’t gonna shift copies.

And that’s before the questions about inspiration, character development and specific plot motifs are raised. Blimey, I can barely remember last week, let alone an idle piece of speculation nearly a decade gone.

Of course, this is all assuming I’d have a book launch, or that people would be asking me questions. But the same issues arise in more singular surroundings. I want people to read my books. I want people to buy my books. To do that I’d have to muster all my social media resources – this blog also – to promote my work.

I’ve said before that shouting on social media is no way to make friends, or sales, or garner even the most flickering of interests. But telling people I have a (still theoretical) novel on release is basic and acceptable. Which means I might have to adopt a more outgoing face than I would otherwise adopt; a positive pitch with no caveats or “I’m actually more interested in this’s” is the least I could provide.

So this is the tightrope the writer must walk: they must be able to promote a work they no longer see as word-perfect without lying. They must be able to answer questions they’d never considered about a book they may not have seriously contemplated for months.

And, of course, they must be prepared for reviews that make them squirm, whether they’re good or bad.

Writers are time-travellers. They must exist in the present, in the past – and also in the futures of the work they’re currently creating.

And they must do this without losing the essence of who they are. And who they were. And, just possibly, who they’ll be this time next week.