On being an idiot

dunce cat

By the love of all that’s holy, don’t set your novel in a place where you don’t speak the language.

That’s what I’ve done: I’ve tried to write a novel set in France and I now find that it’s full of pesky French-speakers and it’s ruining my vibe, man.

Writing a novel is hard work. I mean it’s seriously hard. Getting the words down on paper is the easy bit; it’s doing all the thinking and plotting and working out settings and characters that’ll make your brain go runny. So, whatever you do, don’t add any unnecessary complications along the way.

I should say that I have reasons for setting it in France, and specifically Brittany. Reasons that have all to do with worldbuilding and history and which make perfect sense. Apart from anything else, it’s quite unusual; not exactly exotic – that’s the wrong word – but how many spec fic novels can you name that are set in rural France? Rural anywhere, come to that.

Yes, I’m writing a rurban fantasy novel, a genre of my own invention and in which I can think of only one other novel (Foxglove Summer by Ben Aaronovitch). I therefore claim exclusive rights and all appropriate kudos.

But still, setting it in France really is the height of stupidity.

Map_of_Gaul

The map from the Asterix books,  which, as I intimated last week, has had a suspiciously large influence on my work in progress

I might have to give in and move it to Cornwall, a location which also works but I oddly know less about. Brittany often features in mediaeval British histories; Cornwall, it seems, was only glued on to the British Isles when tin mining because industrialised.

As it is, I’ve already had to remove a character from a scene because he spoke neither Breton, French nor Irish (the major languages of my fantasy Breton court) and unwrite a scene entirely because I realised that my spying character wouldn’t have been able to understand a word of what was being said. A lot of the locals are now suspiciously fluent in English, something I put down to the increasing numbers of ex-pats in the area.

There are ways around almost every problem. I can do this: I can jerry-rig a solution to all the issues – hell, I can even make language issues into plot-points if I try hard enough and the reader is sufficiently involved to suspend their belief hard enough. And it may all work out well enough to be worth the hassle.

Just… why? Why would I do it to myself? Why make things harder than they already are?

Because, dear friends, I’m an idiot. That’s why.

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Death to the Editorium!

Egyptian mourning

Sad news! The Editorium is no more. It has ceased to be. It has shuffled off this mortal coil. It is an ex-Editorium.

Yes, I am moving house – moving across counties, no less. So far I have left my phone in IKEA and had to dash back 100 miles for forgotten things. Idiocy is no respecter of location.

The Editorium is dead. But fear not! For, like royalty, no Editorium can die without another rising to take its place.

All hail the Editorium! I shall shortly be tipper-tapping away in a room of one’s own: in the meantime, let’s all raise a glass to the place where I wrote all those thousands of words.

I will, at least. And you’re free to join me.

cheers__by_natoli-d9b782h

Image stolen from natoli.deviantart.com