A necessary delusion

I believe in myself. I have to have some sense of self-worth to show the public my face each week, writing and publishing this blog; I have to have some sense of self-belief to submit my writing to publishing houses and agents across the world. Each attempt is a little part of me craving for attention. ‘Look at me! I can do this – in a way that no-one else can.’

Every writer that puts their work out there is the same, and that’s no bad thing. You need a little ego to survive, to push yourself onwards; it’s a bold step, trying to get yourself published, and you need to be bold to make the attempt. But I’m worse.

I read a lot of proofs of novels that are about to hit bookshops. Some of them take my breath away, are so accomplished, so innovative, that I’m in awe of the authors. I read these. I work on them, try and give them that final spit-and-polish so the final product is as perfect as perfect can be. I go through all this, I see all these wonders, and I still think I’m good enough to sit on the bookshelves alongside.

Problem is that self-belief and self-delusion are very hard to distinguish between. I do believe in myself. But I’ve got to weigh that against the fact that I’ve been rejected by hundreds of agents over the years. I just can’t cut it, on that front at least.

So maybe I am delusional.

As time goes by it seems to me that my chances of being taken on by either the publisher of my dreams (to whom I submitted Oneiromancer in their yearly open-submissions period), or the agent with whom I got a personal recommendation, are inexorably slipping away. The former has silence equating failure; the latter… well, no news is bad news?

So: I am delusional. And that’s fine. I will take that delusion and use it for the betterment of mankind. Or at least it’ll make me persist, to keep thrashing on, to keep sending my work out into the world.

The problem is that I believe. I believe in Oneiromancer, even if it has a shonky title, even if it turns out to need a good editing. It’s better than anything I wrote before. And in my belief – in my arrogance – I want it to be read.

I just don’t know how to help that come to pass.

The publisher of my dreams achieved that status by having a great network of nice writers and an excellent social media team. I want desperately to be part of that world. Ego again?

I just want to be read. I desperately wish I could do something to make that happen – something that, hopefully, involves other people doing the marketing work. I’m just no good at it, as can be evidenced by the lack of sales of the otherwise excellent New Gods.

I believe in myself. I am delusional. I just need someone in the business to take a risk on me.

All these things can simultaneously be true.

Feelings and fragments

What am I doing right now? Apart from being interrupted frequently with that pesky old ‘real life’ thing – the need to earn a crust, for example – I am mostly concentrating on Breathing Fire. Whilst Oneiromancer is out on submission (to all of two places) I am working on its second sequel. And, as I have frequently complained in these very pages, it has been a long and difficult road.

From being worried about my well of inspiration to it becoming the longest first-drafting process I’ve (yet) experienced, Breathing Fire has been a struggle. And yet I don’t feel any resentment towards it. It’s not my problem child – that was the novel that eventually became Human Resources. The writing, when I’ve been able to get down to it, has been steady.

Of course it may be that hindsight shows me for a fool. But, at present, I am oddly well-disposed to the beast. No matter that I’ve had to fight for time, that I’ve yet to find my flow, I feel good about the project. It will be done; no matter how long it takes or where it takes me, I believe in it.

And that’s a little odd, because I have no real basis for my belief. When I wrote Oneiromancer I had the real sense that I was making words good: that I had ‘levelled up’ and was creating something that I couldn’t have done before. I don’t have this feeling now. What I do feel is that I’ve got a little more weight of experience both as a writer and a reader, a little more self-awareness and – yes – maybe I have got a little more skilled at setting down the words.

But this is a first draft, and the real skill is in the editing. When I finally get this stage complete and I turn to look at myself in the mirror, that’s when ‘quality of writing’ can be measured. All I have at the moment is the vaguest of feelings, almost an itch, that gives the sense that this is worth doing.

That and the plot I have in mind, which still interests me even as I spin it from the air. If book one was about creating the world, and book two (Our Kind of Bastard) was about almost malevolent glee in misdirection, book three is about… what? About cruelty and indifference, I guess. It’s leaner, hungrier and more desperate than its predecessors, I think.

I’m talking in vague terms, I know; descriptions that are almost worthless on their own. Feelings rather than fragments. I could talk at length about what happens in the story; or maybe I should just shut up and finish the damn thing, only open up about it then.

What I’m trying to say is that I’m still here, still writing. And maybe – just maybe – it’s actually worth the effort.

Coasting

There’s a lot of fretting in writing. Or, at least, there’s a lot of fretting in the way I do writing. Worrying about submissions, worrying I’m not reading enough, or the right sort of books; worrying about making progress, about using the time well; worrying about editing and falling foul of tropes and, when you get right down to it, that I’m simply not good enough of that.

Balls to all that. I have a fairly clear period at the moment (which might end at any moment, if editorial work is despatched in my direction, but still) and I’m just going to coast.

 I have three novels I could be working on – the trilogy that begins with Oneiromancer could all do with some time spent on them – and, at the moment, I am perhaps foolishly choosing to work on the last: Breathing Fire. This is first drafting, and it’s gritty, attritional going.

Nothing comes free, and nothing comes easy. I am struggling to get into the flow of writing, and there are many slips between the brain and the fingers and what appears on the screen. The deletion key is getting worn away.

But I am not worrying about this. I am making progress, and that’s what matters. Word by word I assemble something that might be mistaken for a story from a distance. This novel has already taken an eternity to write; what’s a few more interruptions between friends?

I am trying to get back into that state of actively, positively enjoying what I’m doing. Everything recently has been contingency, emergency, short-notice work. This is the first spell of 2022 where I don’t have pressure or deadlines and I can simply take my time. And I want to make the most of it.

If this means I don’t get as much done as I would if I had the hounds of hell breathing down my neck – well, that’s okay. No-one cares what I do in the privacy of my own Editorium anyway. It’s time to embrace that fact and Make Writing Pleasurable Again.

It won’t last. Nothing ever does. I’ll be depressed by my failures before too long. I’ll have more deadlines arriving. I’ll have rejections to accept and I’ll feel like giving up many times over.

Despite this – because of this – I’m determined to just take it easy and enjoy myself and accept my shortcomings whilst I’m in a positive enough frame of mind to make the most of my time. And that’s not always measured in word count.

*             *             *

As I was writing the final words above an email pinged into my inbox. Another editorial job has arrived, bringing with it deadlines and a need for focus and other adultatious responsibilities. And so the holiday is over, and I must snap back into ultra-disciplined mode.

So it goes, the writer’s life. So it goes.

On hindsight

The best thing about writing a sequel before the first book is published is that it’s much easier to return to part one and fix errors in continuity before a work is out there in the public domain. And by errors in continuity I mean areas where you’ve subtly changed your mind or re-placed emphasis rather than big plot-holes or the like. Those should have long-since been closed by now.

I’m currently retooling Oneiromancer with the expectation of an imminent submission. I had been working on book three but have had to temporarily (again) shelve this, what with life and priorities and all that. But I find that, now, going back to book one in the series feels subtly different. I know what’s going to happen to these (surviving) characters in two books’ time. And some things just don’t quite mesh.

It’s little things. Giving one character a fake East End accent is now unnecessary and slightly at odds with what I’ll explain to be his background (there is room for the accent – I could justify it – but it’s a layer of explanation and backstory that’s just not necessary). It’s having my ‘magical’ character able to do things that she’s never going to do again – again, slightly at odds with how the rest of the series pans out.

Nothing I’m seeing now is actually wrong, or clunky, or inappropriate. It’s just that I’ve seen these characters’ futures and can better mould them to the labours ahead.

The best thing about getting a book published before writing the sequel is that certain things are set in stone and cannot be simply fixed. They become part of the mythos and must be accounted for in any subsequent works.

Why is this a good thing? Well, for a start it rules out the possibility of second-guessing. You have to move forwards, you cannot look back and endlessly tinker. What’s done is done.

Secondly, limitations are good for the imagination. Giving yourself a problem forces yourself to think logically. My stray accent, say, might be explained in the second book, which, if done well, might actually make you look like some long-term strategic thinker rather than just some desperate blunderer. My miracle-worker might realise she can no longer do what she initially did – and that might be a whole plot-thread in itself.

Plus you’d have a damn book out. I dream of getting this bloody thing into print. Don’t seem no closer now to when I was first-drafting it.

As an aside, Our Kind of Bastard owes a fair bit to a friend/beta-reader who pointed out that I missed an opportunity to save a character’s life. I took the idea she suggested – a road not taken rather than a plot-hole – and incorporated it into the survivors’ psyche; a sense of guilt to sharpen the loss. Going back was an option (and, I guess, one that any future editor may still desire) but it would have so radically affected Oneiromancer that I chose to fold the failure into the sequels.

I guess I always think that moving forwards is the best option. But they say it’s always much easier to write the beginning once you’ve got to the end. My failures to get the damn thing published means I can continue to make the novel sharper, leaner and hungrier.

Crumbs of comfort, I guess, as my failures also make it harder to get published in the first place. But I still believe. I do. Honest.

Onwards!

50 shades of doubt

Last week I wrote about the gyp I was getting from synopsis and elevator pitch. It has subsequently come to my attention that I should probably look at the actual writing that gets attached to a submission, not merely the flashy, fleshy bits on the side.

The piece I’m submitting here is Oneiromancer, and for the life of me I can’t remember when I actually wrote the damn thing. It was definitely two houses ago, back when I occupied an entirely different world. I know I submitted it to Flame Tree Press at the same time as I submitted Night Shift. It’s been a while, at least, through various drafts. And I’ve not really examined my submission package for at least three years.

Good thing is that the writing pretty much stands up. Or at least the first half-chapter does; for this I took to my writing group last week. There are improvements to be made, but, by and large, things make sense. The voice mostly works, the characters are graspable and all that. Changes I’ll have to make are relatively small, the swearing I have to perform only of a moderate nature.

But a writer never stops fretting. I read a chunk that’s in only a single voice, but this is a polyfocal novel with a lot of ‘stars’: the writers’ group don’t know that I’m about to change to someone else’s POV for the next section.

I worry about this. I worry about introducing to many names too soon. I worry about not giving the audience time to properly ‘bed in’ to the novel before switching things around.

You may be saying to yourself ‘well if you fret so much, and you can see the potential problems, why don’t you just do something about it?’ To which I respond with a sigh as long and deep as the great spot of Jupiter.

It’s not that easy. I wanted to write a multiple-POV novel. I like this kind of story. It’s kind of got fixed over the years. To rewrite this would be to rewrite the whole sorry tale, and I’d rather walk my own path right now, pending agentory/editorial demands. I personally happen to think that the damn thing works.

And that last thing, that’s what it really comes down to. I doubt, gods know I doubt. But I have something, some shred of ability to string words and ideas together in a form that I believe in. May just be self-delusion, I guess – but then I have persuaded people to give me money for words, so it can’t be just me. Can it?

I console myself with the writers’-grouperly thumbs-up. Now I need to gird my metaphoricals and take the next section to a meeting soon. I have only three weeks before my target open-submission period closes. I have very little time to waste.

No time for doubting. Needs must and all that.

Back to basics

A few weeks ago I wrote about how a binary decision would go to shape my year; about how I was awaiting a simple yes/no decision that would define 2022 for me. Well, things have changed, as these things are wont to do. The offer has been (amicably) rescinded. I must return to traditional submission techniques – the last resort of the desperate and hungry.

This means I am returning to my traditional haunts: the worlds of synopsis, covering letter and elevator pitch. And instead of a single known person deciding my future, I am returning to the lands of faceless committees and anonymised readers.

At the moment I have three different versions of the synopsis – one short, one long, one nearly-as-long-as-the-long-one – I need to either choose between or merge. I have a covering letter that I think isn’t bad but has been rejected by most agents. And I’m entirely lacking a suitable elevator pitch.

There is an open-submissions period coming up with a great SFF publisher, so the clock is ticking. I need to get these right, and in any case it’s probably the elevator pitch – the handful of words (precise counts differ) that you’d use to seduce some high-powered exec were you to find yourself in a lift together – that gives me most concern. Quite aside from the fact that I’m British and would just stare at my feet for the entire time confined with said theoretical executive, I just don’t know how to go about it.

At the moment I have version that are entirely the wrong length, thus:

Insomniac miracle-worker Saira accidentally gives form to a being from another reality. Now she must prevent the sadistic Dashwood from flooding London with monsters from the Dreamland.

Slightly longer:

Saira, a seamstress in a London sink-estate, can draw matter from the very air around her and shape it to her will. But when Dashwood, a racist thug from a 1930s novel, slips into this world through her dreams and takes the role as a police inspector, Saira must band together with a rag-tag band of allies to stop him – before Dashwood can flood the city with monsters.

Are they any good? Well I have no idea. I might reinforce whichever I choose with my old fallback: Monsters Inc as written by Stephen King. Problem with this, of course, is that it doesn’t really convey much information. And I’ve not really read enough SK to make a meaningful comparison; I’m too much of a wimp to read horror.

So what else is there to say? I must go back to basics, pausing the long-suffering WIP (it’s already on pause, to be honest, as I have more proofreading to do) in order to revisit past infamies.

Hope. I still have hope. And, at the end of the day, it’s the hope that kills you.

Onwards!

On 2022

I’ve had a book on submission with a publisher for eleven months now. That’s a long time – by no means a record, but a long time nevertheless. In the meantime I’ve got halfway through the (second) sequel, as well as doing a hell of a lot of commercial editing, so I’ve hardly been sitting on my hands. But I’ve not been submitting. I have been waiting.

This is how 2022 is going to go for me. This book is either going to be accepted for publication or I’ll be rejected. If the latter I’ll be very disappointed but, y’know, life and all that. I’ll then have to consider whether I go on trying to place it commercially – all the hells themselves won’t know where, mind – or if I’m going to take all the lessons learnt from New Gods and self-publish.

If it’s accepted – well, it probably won’t be published before 2023 and there’s all the rounds of editation it’ll need to go through, but I’ll know what I’m doing. I can get on with first-drafting Breathing Fire, and editing Our Kind of Bastard, and I’ll keep the hope of being some kind of ‘success’ alive.

Of course I’ll do all that writing and editing anyway because it is, at the end of the day, what I do.

2022 is to be determined, for me, by a binary choice made by someone else. This is not a good way to be and I don’t advocate it – which is, of course, why I,’m trying to carry on as if that’s not happening. I am still keeping my eyes open for other submission opportunities – I’m not beholden to anyone – but I’ve already been rejected by all agents and, for this trilogy, this seems like my last chance.

So how optimistic am I about the year to come? I have no idea. Not very? Somewhat? I always try to expect rejection because that way it doesn’t hurt as much when it happens. I guess, though, this time I am afraid because I can’t see a road ahead with a no.

And that’s what I really fear. Not the rejection itself, but the feeling of helplessness that is likely to accompany this one. This is a good book. It’s levelling up on my past work – or at least that’s how I feel anyway. I just won’t know what to do next if the thumbs turn down.

2021 can get in the bin. It was not a good year for me. 2022? Well, we shall just have to see.

Breathing fire

I am doing some writing.

I know, I know. I’m every bit as surprised as you are. But it‘s true. I’ve finally got a bit of leeway in my schedule (I think – I’m always terribly worried that I’ve either forgotten something or that the jobs I have on my plate will take longer than anticipated) and I’m using it to create.

Breathing Fire is the third in the modern fantasy series that began with Oneiromancer and continued with Our Kind of Bastard. It’s an absolutely pointless thing to write as I have no home, nor even a hope of a home, for the first two books; I should be doing something unique and entirely standalone rather than revisiting old characters.

Well, tish and pshaw to that. This is the book I want to write. And now I’m a self-publishing veteran (if not an earner) there is always that option.

I don’t want to say too much about the story yet, but it revolves around cursed books, grief, terminal (?) insomnia and evil industrialists-cum-venture-capitalists. It’s set in the environs of Bradford, which is where I grew up. I’m fed up of the London-centricness of British novels, which is rich seeing as Oneiromancer was set there. Still: London, Brittany, Bradford – I’m moving things around, at least.

And that’s really all I’ve got to say for now. I’m first drafting, and doubtless what I’m producing is pretty terrible. A first draft is all about getting the story down on paper; of finding steps and mis-steps and of trying not to get too bogged down in a morass of one’s own making.

But it’s fun, and exciting, and though it’s a slog it’s my slog.

*             *             *

For those what missed it I did an interview with the wonderful Runalong Womble the other week. If you want to read about New Gods, about my influences, the problems of writing sci-fi, and my book recommendation for the world, head along here – and check out all of Womble’s other interviews whilst you’re at it.

Oh, and maybe buy and/or review New Gods? Cheers. You’re the best.

Sack the juggler

And… breathe.

It’s busy times again and I must work on working on: I must find myself time to write. Recently I’ve been somewhat swamped with the dirt and diesel of modern life. Only now can I take stock and see what I’ve been missing.

I’ve barely presented any new writing at my weekly group meetings because I’ve been so buried in self-publishing, and in proofreading and copyediting that, though I have virgin writing to share, I’ve not had time to actually go over it and do the inevitable rewrites.

I’ve managed to carve little half-hours, here and there, and I’ve been inching on with my very brandish-new project (not the thing I’ve been editing; that’s Our Kind of Bastard. This is the as-yet-untitled sequel to that and Oneiromancer) but that’s slow, painful going, not helped by the piecemeal approach.

I’m juggling these things but sadly not very well. It’s more just waving balls around rather than a jaw-dropping transcendent many-limbed performance.

Sack the juggler.*

I’ve just handed in another editorial assignment and, though I do have another project checked in, things currently look a little calmer out in front of me. The self-publishing is done (bar any possible far-too-late edits, should any typos have crept through, and possible promotion opportunities). So it’s time for me to get back to what I do best I’m here to talk about.

I have to get better at balancing my time. I need to reprioritise and maybe say no to things sometimes. Because I’m not doing the fundamentals right now. For good reasons, maybe, but still, I’m failing.

I’m also eager to get back to it. I miss creating and picking away at a novel; as I said, it’s what I’m here to talk about and for too long I’ve not really been doing it.

So let’s get to it. No time for this! Whose idea was it to write a stupid blog anyway?

*How do you kill a circus? Go for the juggler

Letting go

I’m a bit frustrated at the moment. I’m working all out – by which I mean I’m sitting on my hands, waiting – on self-publishing (New Gods still planned for an October 26th release, all you people desperate to pre-order) and beyond that…

And that’s the question: what next?

After New Gods, all I have in the bank are the three novels (one complete, one in the factory for a refit, one a fifth of the way written) in the series that begins with Oneiromancer. I’m proud of these books. I think they’re either good or have the potential to be good. Thing is that I’ve already been rejected by all the sci-fi/urban fantasy agents in the country (and some beyond). So I have no idea how I’m going to go about getting them published.

Yes, yes, self-publishing and all that. I know I have that option. But I’m reluctant to go down that route. New Gods is a special case; the finale to a series that I simply want to get out because I’m proud of it and know that no other publisher with the situation as it is.

I am by no means negative about self-publishing. But that’s not how I envisioned my career as going, and I don’t know how to adapt my thinking to make myself embrace that future. I will, of course, if I can’t see any other way forwards – which I can’t at present – because I am, as I said, proud of my work and the books deserve readers.

I don’t believe I’m capable of drumming up those readers. Not on my own.

It’s times like this that ambition gets in the way of productivity. One can spend so much time worrying about whether one will ‘make it’ and less about getting not only this product ready, but that there’s a continued flow of product for the future.

Maybe the best option is simply to let go. To abandon the work I’ve put into this particular stack of world-building and move on to something entirely new. An agent can be tempted to any project, and then they might be interested in promoting a back catalogue too.

But I’m not ready for that yet. I’ve not even finished my trilogy.

No, perhaps I need to abandon my plans for being a successful (however that be defined) author. I can’t see myself ever being an award-winner, like I am in my dreams, and I’m getting too old and too envious – in a benevolent way – of the breakthrough authors I see on Twitter.

What, after all, is success but a false form of happiness? Change my paradigm, let go of dreams that will never come true and work on the things within my control; that’s what I should do.

But letting go is always hard.