We've Only Gone and Done it, Rodders!

Yesterday's Writer Networking Event was a great success. Let's not beat around the bush: it was brilliant!

Imagine 45 writers in one space, the atmosphere thick with anticipation, creativity and a just a hint of competitiveness. Add to mix Cyprus Well Director, Tracey Guiry, who partnered with me to make it happen, plus author Sarah Duncan, and Dorothy Lumley from the Dorian Literary Agency. Simmer gently serve over the course of a day.

The event has been a long time coming, and without the input of Cyprus Well would never have got off the ground. I can say that categorically because I'd been flapping my arms around for at least a year before Cyprus Well came on board.

And what did we learn, on the day?

Sarah talked about her experience as an author and the realities of earning a living as a writer. She also led a pitching exercise. Dorothy talked about approaching an agent and some of the attendees had the opportunity to make a public pitch for their prized project. She also went through everyone's first page - all 45 of them - and added a few comments to think about.

However, for me, it was the personal touches that made a difference. Sarah and Dorothy made time for people, listening to them and offering advice and experience. Many developing writers have little access to those who have signed a contract and gone on to develop their craft commercially. And as for agents, most writers I know tend to feel that they are akin to unicorns - a lovely, mythical idea of something no one has ever seen.

There seemed to be a real appetite for an ongoing writing community, which we're hoping to provide through Cyprus Well's website. As for me, it proved that with the right people, the right location (and special thanks to Truro Community Library and the team for making us so welcome), the funding in place and some steely determination, great things are possible. Even in this economic climate!

Here's to the next project!

The Big Question

“Mummy, why doesn’t Uncle Malcolm ever stay to dinner?”

“Well darling, Malcolm is something called a vegetarian.”

“Is that a sort of religion?”

(Frowns.) “No dear, not exactly. Uncle Malcolm has certain beliefs about what he eats.”

“Like what?”

“Well… like not eating animals.”

“You mean tigers and lions and giraffes and elephants?

“No dear, no one eats those. I’m talking about cows and sheep and pigs and chickens.”

“I’ve got those in my farm set at home, haven’t I, mummy?”

“Yes darling. So that’s all cleared up then.”

(After a millisecond pause.) “But why doesn’t he want to eat them?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe it’s because they have legs.”

“So does Uncle Malcolm eat fishes then?”

“Erm, no dear, he doesn’t.”

“So is it because they have eyes then?”

“Perhaps that’s it; let’s talk about something else.”

“But mummy, didn’t you tell me that potatoes have eyes. Does Uncle Malcolm eat potatoes?”

(Heavy sigh.) “Yes he does. And potatoes do have eyes, but it’s not the same thing.”

“So what’s different about a potato’s eyes? Are they on the back of its head?”

“A potato doesn’t have a head.”

“Then where does it keep its eyes?”

(Heavier sigh.) “Eat up; your dinner will be getting cold.”

“So… about the potatoes. Does Uncle Malcolm eat them because they’re a vegetable and he’s a vegetarian?”

“Yes dear, how clever you are to have worked all that out by yourself. Why don’t we have a little rest from our conversation now?”

(Pause for two bites of food.) “Do potatoes have noses as well?”

“Now you’re just being silly, when have you ever seen a vegetable nose?”

(Narrows eyes.) “When we had a snowman, he had a carrot nose.”

(Casts eyes to the floor.) “Yes, I suppose we did, but that was different.”

“Because the snowman wasn’t a vegetable?”

“I expect so, dear.”

“About Uncle Malcolm, mummy; why doesn’t he eat animals then?”

“I don’t know dear, why don’t you ask him next time we see him?”

“But you said we weren’t to discuss it and you told Uncle Malcolm he wasn’t allowed to say anything to upset me.”

“Did I? Oh well, that must be right then.”

“Do animals eat other animals?”

“Yes, sometimes.”

“And do animals eat vegetables?”

“Yes, sometimes they do.”

“But animals don’t eat crinkly chips, do they mummy?”

“No darling, not crinkly chips.”

“Except our dog Jambo – he likes chips.”

“Yes, except Jambo.”

“And Jambo likes meat from a can as well.”

(Pats child on head to alleviate desire to scream.) “Yes dear.”

“And do vegetables eat other vegetables?”

“Why don’t you tell me what you think?”

“Erm… I don’t know. But potatoes could see the other vegetables, only they don’t have any teeth.”

“So that would be a ‘no’ then?”

“Do fish eat vegetables?”

“I imagine some do, yes.”

“Is that why we eat fish and chips together?”

(Gazes at ceiling for inspiration and divine intervention.) “Probably.”

“But I still don’t see why Uncle Malcolm only eats vegetables.”

“Alright, you win, I’ll try and explain. He doesn’t want to cause suffering, directly or indirectly, to another living thing. Does that help you?”

“Thank you mummy.” (Two bites later.) “But aren’t vegetables alive?”

“Sort of, but it’s not the same.”

“So they are alive?”

“Everything is alive, sweetheart.”

“Even the television?”

“That’s just being silly.”

“But you said everything. And what about rocks and rivers and… and… mushrooms?”

“Rocks – no; rivers – no; mushrooms – yes.”

“So why does Uncle Malcolm eat vegetables if they’re alive?”

“Because Uncle Malcolm has to live too, otherwise he couldn’t visit us on Saturdays and bring you nice presents.”

(A long silence.) “I think I might become a vegetarian when I’m older.”

“That’s lovely dinner; now finish up your burger because your fries are getting cold.”

THE END

Back to the Feature

I've been glancing up at the cardboard folder on the top shelf above the screen for, oh, I don't know how long (well, I do now, but work with me on this). It's the one marked 'clippings' and stems from the time when I was a project manager and gathering ideas for my future outpourings of journalistic gold.

A brief delve into the wad of yellowing newsprint tells me that my interest was piqued by:

- Religious pieces about the real Noah's Ark, the real Mount Sinai, a Muslim husband with a Jewish wife (Oy!) and the Vatican's list of approved angels.

- Green technology, local currencies, ethical shopping, downshifting and investing in woodland.

- The new face of feminism and a female gladiator.

- A woman whose 12hr flight took three and a half days because the airline 'lost track of her'.

- A man who became an artist after a stroke.

- Allergy testing, depression and death.

- Corporate gamesmanship, cyber security and surveillance.

- The EU's (and John Prescott's) regionalisation of England.

- Recommended building societies (hey, it was a few years ago) and planning for a secure retirement (ditto).

- Ebooks and a publishing phenomenon (no, not her this time - someone else).

- The insurance firm that offered everyone a fun-sized Mars bar when it gave them redundancy news individually.

The interesting thing, from my perspective, is that I'd happily write something inspired by any one of those subjects today. Perhaps I see more springboards to fiction now, but even so, the trails are still warm. What surprises me is the earnestness with which I collected them and the recognition that I wrote very little with any direct link.

Green Living, Creative Writing, Human Interest and Politics all remain staple interests of mine. But as I've progressed on my writing journey, I've learned not to write pieces on spec unless I have free time and a burning passion. Far better to organise my ideas and put draft proposals together.

The other thing I discovered in the folder was a collection of headlines that would not seem out of place of BBC Radio 4's News Quiz or BBC1's Have I Got News For You. See image above.

Altogether, it's a little like a 10 year-old time capsule from a millennial me to the 2011 version. I'd like to send a message back: YES, I'M WRITING. THANKS FOR ASKING.

Lost and Found in a photograph

I've spent a little time this week scanning in photographs for blogs-to-come and as memory joggers for Scars & Stripes. Following feedback from Anne, Susie and Monika, I've decided (I think) that S&S works best when it's 1st person and more honest than the first draft appears to be. Warren was definitely right that 3rd person opens the book up, but having recently read Michael Wright's C'est La Folie, I'm thinking about approaching the book from a different angle.

The picture here is almost certainly from West Runton campsite in Norfolk. The car - as most of you will know - is a Morris Traveller and that special hound on the left is Tess. David is the one holding the football. Mum is probably making tea and dad is taking the photo. I'd forgotten this picture existed - there aren't many of Tess.

The photo is a nexus point for so many different streams of thought and recall. The pennants were from the camping club of Great Britain and Northern Ireland - they mainly showed all the places mum and dad camped before we came along. The Morris Traveller was one of a succession of cars, all smelling of vinyl and dog (ours).

I remember car sickness, the way my bare legs would stick to the vinyl in the heat, the handles for the windows and those jumpers that mum knitted for us. I remember the feel of the deckchairs and how they'd topple over at the slightest provocation. I can still hear the sound of the aluminium pots and pans, and the way the table legs used to screw in.

And those trails that lead off into their future and my past. I remember years later, meeting Carl Nunn while climbing the oak tree on the site and the first words I said to him, "Oi, Tarzan, want any nougat (which we pronounced nugget back then)?" He came from Cambridge and had a collie dog and a penknife with a rabbit's foot at the end.

I remember being 11 when Tess died and not knowing how to cope with the grief. And then at 13, we went camping in Somerset and it felt like the end of a chapter of my life.

So many points of reference from one photograph, all of them bathed in emotion and significance. And that's what I'm aiming for now in Scars & Stripes.

Make Believe for Grown Ups

Creative thinking and the use of the imagination are often hailed as two of the secrets to productivity, originality and a whole bunch of other 'alities' (except banality). Most people can remember a time when, as children, we would play as characters from TV, the cinema or books, or even from our own imaginings.

I'm sure I'm not alone (it would be interesting to do a poll) in still remembering some of those characters even now, as an older child in my forties. I may have been a little unusual though in also having subsidiary characters and subplots as well.

One of the highlights of corporate project meetings, for me, was during the Ideas phase when we would brainstorm scenarios (before brainstorming became thought showers and after it had reverted, last I'd heard). Apart from the endless pleasure of calling out the first thing that came into my head - knowing that the scribe was duty bound to record everything, no matter how seemingly nonsensical - there was also the opportunity to try on different viewpoints and approaches. One way of achieving that by playing a part - designer, engineer, user, marketeer, customer, etc.

Of course, however much we may invent a character - whether it's in writing or for a specific function (first date, interview, new identity), there is always an element of us in there somewhere. And that element reveals something about us. In the case of some project meetings, it probably revealed my desire to do something different. Persona non gratis, you might say (unless you had a classical education).

I was thumbing through an old notebook recently and discovered a monologue, written from an invented character's viewpoint. Like the very best of first draft material, it was written at a gallop, with very little filtering going on - just a voice and its ideas rampaging across the page. It never made it to a second draft because I couldn't find a use for it, in anything I was working on at the time. What comes to mind now is a surly patriarch, trying to instil wisdom while his apprentice struggles to grasp what he's really talking about.

The tyranny of time is the tyranny of the mind. Its currency is certainty and inflexibility. Blinded desire is its ally. To be free we must free ourselves, purge our fixed expectations and let go of long held and cherished perspectives. Lose ouselves in the void to emerge cleansed, victorious and liberated.

Peace isn't merely the absence of conflict. It is the conditions in which confict is unable to flourish. Peace, like conflict, is a harvest. The ground must be prepared, tended and nurtured. The seeds must be planted long before the reaping and the crop attended to. And when the harvest has been gathered, what reminds must be ploughed back to resume the cycle.

Creativity requires us to make contact with that inspirational spark and to let its mystical flame engulf us. It is a process of connection and reception, and can be learned.

What we are each here to fulfil is the expression of our own essence. The courage to pur our souls into the cup of experience and drink it back in a banquet of becoming.

Everything you have felt, have known have dreamed - all lies within you. Ready to serve as your guide, your warning and your inspiration.

Lift yourself free from your burdens. Set the baggage of your past and the imagined future to one side. Rest at the roadside and wait. Is it yet too late to change your journey?

E is for ebook

When is a book not a book? Tom Uglow spoke at Port Eliot about the ways in which ebooks and the digital experience could be more interactive than a mere saddle-stitched paperback could ever dream of. Being by nature a bit of a Luddite, I'd yet to fully embrace the virtual book, but I could see that my expectations of what an ebook is (or will be) were very wide of the mark.

I saw it as little more than a PDF of a 'real' book. Another helping of humble pie. please.

There is a wide range of ebook devices and platforms, so many that it's easier for me to provide you with a link than attempt to sound knowledgeable.

Cue Wiki:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Comparison_of_e-book_formats

As you may recall, I put together my own ebook as an experiment and a way of commoditising some comedy sketches. (And yes, I did use the word 'commoditising' to goad you!)

http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/75117

Mark Coker has created a fantastic tool, enabling any writer to upload a formatted Word doc and hey presto (actual process takes a few more steps) your ebook is born. He has also put together a list of artists who will produce an affordable book cover to your requirements.

So, why am I such a convert to ebooks all of a sudden?

The image above is a bit of a clue and more will be revealed around October 14th.

Port Eliot - one more thing

Okay, just this one and then I'll shut up about it. As you'll have gathered, we enjoyed Port Eliot a great deal - all the photos are Anne's, by the way. There's such a range of authors and performers that there'll always be something to inspire, entertain or crush you (because the person speaking is just so damned GOOD at what they do). A special mention has to go to The Idler Academy tent, which managed to combine an engaging programme of speakers with an atmosphere all of its own. Think Tom Brown's Schooldays meets a student revue and you're halfway there.

Altogether, we saw James Attlee, Simon Day (twice, in my case), Dr Mark Vernon, Simon Munnery, John Cooper Clarke, Tom Uglow, Jackie Juno, Ed Harcourt, RSVP (where we learned to dance Bhangra style) and Sea of Bees. We saw two films at the open air Cinena Paradiso- North by Northwest (where the mozzies did their own biplane tribute by attacking us) and The Red Shoes, while indoors at the Paradiso Piccolo we watched The Barley Mow. Peter Gordon's cooking demonstration was very good, as was the tour of the house and nipping out of the venue and around the corner to see the church at St German's with its Burne-Jones stained glass windows.

I never expected...

- Wheelbarrows as the preferred mode of transport for small children.

- To see so many pregnant women - it was like something out of Dr Who. Or Alien.

- To see Suggs from Madness, sitting in an audience.

- To find Bob the Builder nappies dumped on the floor of a chemical toilet cubicle.

- To hear people laughing at Homer - the Greek one, not from The Simpsons.

- To see a performance poet I met on a comedy writing course two years ago.

- To meet someone from a yoga class ten years ago.

- To see vandalism.

- To hear that some locals were determined to get in without paying - and had.

- To hear the music through my sternum. At two in the morning.

- So much litter on the last morning - bottles, plastic glasses and Ocado receipts.

Port Eliot - Observations

Notes jotted down from Port Eliot:

1. The literary scene is an exclusive club made up of people who went to Oxford or Cambridge and / or who have an MA in Creative Writing. There are other clubs, however.

2. It's de rigeur to have at least one friend named Harriet, Chloe, Marcel, Rudyard or Parsifal. I once adopted a cat and named him Einstein, but I don't think that counts.

3. By sheer coincidence, the children of authors, agents and editors have a tendency to become authors, agents and editors. This is either the result of osmosis or having parents who can bear the brunt of the unfunded internship.

4. Embittered, unpublished writers often can't see the wood for the trees - which is a pity as there are some beautiful trees at Port Eliot.

5. An unofficial creche system is in operation, whereby wayward parents leave their wayward children to roam about all day (and much of the night), relying on the kindness and patience of strangers. On the plus side, it was probably one of those children who dropped the fiver that I found in a field.

6. Perception is like the weather. Give it a few minutes and everything changes.

A Lovable* Rogue at the Halfway Point

It's that time of the year when many writers see one of their seasonal offerings thrust out into the world. I'm talking of course about today, June 30th, being the halfway point in the calendar year.

It's a good opportunity to pause and reflect and, as every ex project manager knows, it pays to review your progress at regular stages and see where the hell you are in relation to where you'd planned to be.

The latest good news is that a classic sci-fi story of mine called Rogue is included in Beyond the Horizon, published by Alasdair Firth's Bamboccioni Books at the end of July. This brings my 'ISBN by association' tally to three this year (the others being The Wanderer and Coffee Shop Chronicles Vol 1). So far so good. I've also put together my first ebook - a drama resource of comedy sketches for non-profit use. A good friend of mine is, as we speak, combing through the collection of 30 or so sketches and probably weeding out the ones that relate to religion, sex and drugs. I haven't quite figured out where it will be sold, but I have heard good things about Smashwords so that's a possibility.

Longer term business clients have been crossing my path with e-silver, which is always gratifying. Meanwhile, my novels Covenant, Standpoint and Line of Sight continue to circulate through the letterboxes of agents and publishers, which I consider a bit of a no-score draw. As all writers know, submission is very much a waiting game with occasional pauses. But, in the spirit of the midpoint, I have chased up three contacts today to find out about my other submissions (you didn't think that was ALL I was working on, surely!).

There have been one or two casualties along the way. I achieved my goal of a magazine column then promptly lost it upon the altar of economics. It was fun while it lasted although fun and well paid would have made for a more enjoyable experience. Still, one can't have everything. And I've already mentioned the client who thought my working for two hours gratis would be an excellent way to demonstrate my ghostwriting skills. Gone but not forgotten.

My all-seeing spreadsheet tells me I have:

6 books collectively awaiting 11 responses

7 short stories collectively awaiting 11 responses

33 magazine submissions, pitches and queries awaiting a response

Anyway, I can't sit here yapping all day - I have a deadline to meet. Here's to the next six months!

* Spelling approved by my trusty copy of Guardian Style.