If Only I Could Remember My Name

When I write factual pieces – magazine articles, web pages and the like – I invariably use the name Shaun Finnie. It’s convenient, and it’s mine.

Fiction writing is a different matter though. I’ve published stories (and let’s be honest, that’s what a fiction writer does all day: tells lies) under several different noms de plume, depending on the tale and its market.  For example a rough and ready ‘lads mag’ story might be sent to the magazine under the name of Lee Barker. If the market I’m writing for is aimed more at the upper class Englishman then I’d probably submit work as Simon Harper; it just seems more suitable for that field. Simon’s sister Gemma Harper has made several appearances when I’ve been writing for the women’s magazine market where it’s more difficult to be accepted as a male writer, or occasionally I’ve used the more ambiguous name of Chris Daniels for them too.

My point is that, just as I tailor my work to my market, so do I adapt the author’s name. It really doesn’t matter to me; the cheque gets made out to S P Finnie whatever.

When preparing a piece recently for an Irish magazine I decided to make my name sound even more Irish than it already does. I’m always getting mail addressed to ‘Sean Finney’ so I thought I’d try that pseudonym to see if it fit the piece better. If I’m using a pen name I always do a quick check to see that there isn’t already a working writer using that name. I wouldn’t want to tread on anybody’s toes, or for them to get my payment by mistake! 

All of the names I’ve used above are all mine, I don’t know of anyone else that writes under those. But a slightly altered version of my own name, the one I’ve had to live with for over forty years since my parents decided against calling me ‘Carl’ at the last minute? Yes, there’s an American poet doing very nicely publishing as Sean Finney.

So here’s today’s question: Should I (or any other writer for that matter) have to change my name to fit my writing style and the demands of the market? Or should I stick proudly to my birthright even though it would probably lose me some commissions?

What would you do?

© Shaun Finnie 2011

Moan, Moan, Moan

I’ve been away this week. The exact location is a closely guarded secret for nature security reasons, but it was to a lovely cabin in the woods ‘up north’. I planned to have a relaxing week in a completely different atmosphere, perfect for writing. And as a bonus, the hut in which we stayed is famous for having stripy-nosed visitors most nights.

It was my ninth annual badger-watch week.

I unpacked my notebooks and pens as soon as we arrived and immediately started making some new story notes. This was an excellent start but the surroundings were so beautiful that it wasn’t long before the wild began to call. Pretty soon my Beloved and I were squealing like delighted children as we noticed birds that we don’t see at home and most amazingly some absolutely gorgeous red squirrels.

Back at the lodge we settled down to an evening of badgery entertainment. Believe me, there’s nothing like lying on the floor close to the patio windows with a family of real live wild badgers doing their thing just inches away on the other side of the glass.

Our days pretty quickly fell into a pattern: We’d get up, eat a breakfast that was far too large and unhealthy (but who cares, holiday calories don’t count) and then go for a walk. Then come back to the cabin and think about writing for a while, before our evening meal and a night of badger spotting.

The problem was that all of that laying flat on my belly didn’t do my historically-fragile back any good at all. And all the walking caused rubbing on my delicate tootsies; specifically the areas where I’ve recently lost a few toenails. So for a change one day we went to a golf driving range and hit a few balls. But this was the first time in years that I’d picked up a golf bat in anger, so my shoulders ached pretty badly afterwards. I know, all this moaning makes me sound like a great big Jessie. That’s probably because I’m a great big Jessie. In fact my Beloved was pointing this out to me when I fell over.
I was trying to justify my grumbling instead of looking where I was going and simply didn’t realise how uneven the path at the golf range was. Before you could say ‘where there’s blame there’s a claim’ I was down. If it wasn’t for that fact that I was wearing brand new glasses I’d have landed face first, but luckily my natural aversion to spending cash overcame my fear of pain and I twisted in mid-air, cat-like, to land on my shoulder. Actually I’m not that agile. I didn’t quite make it all the way around to the shoulder so landed heavily on my elbow instead. At least my glasses were safe.

So with all the bruising, aches and pains, wildlife watching and drinking (did I forget to mention that bit?), the idea of my little holiday being a writing retreat sort of took a back seat.

Perhaps I should stay at home next week, it’ll be safer.


© Shaun Finnie 2011

Room at the Top

Every author needs a calm workspace, a place that he or she can relax and let the creative juices flow. For me this has been my dining room table, my front doorstep and even a lovely glade in the woods but as I’m moving more towards full-time writing I’ve realised that I need somewhere more permanent. Sharing a spare bedroom / office with my Beloved’s eBay business is becoming something of a problem now that I’m claiming more time in there, so I’ve been shunted off to the attic.

This isn’t as bad as it might seem as it’s bright and airy (but not as much as it was before I got the roof replaced) and absolutely huge up there. It’s by far the biggest room we have, running the entire length of the house. She hasn’t allowed me to have it all to myself of course, but if I face in a certain direction I can avoid seeing the jumble of Christmas ornaments, bags of old clothes and piles of eBay stock that won’t sell no matter how low she prices it.

Being so far from our main broadband hub is a little troublesome though. When I initially set the roof space up as my workplace, I found that the connection was intermittent. Sometimes it happily logged on. Sometimes it cruelly didn’t. And sometimes, out of pure malice, it waited until I was in the middle of sending some huge and important document before dropping out. But I soon developed a cunning work-around for this problem. If I picked my laptop up and leaned over the steep attic stairs, balancing the computer precariously in one hand and clinging on to the banister with the other, then the signal came through nice and strong. I could still claim to be totally within my own workspace but it was only on a technicality. I tried this a few times and it worked a treat, but one day last week I leaned a little further than usual and heard a nasty crack. I didn’t feel any pain, so either I’m a lot tougher than I look or the banister’s had it. To give you a clue I’ll say that one of us has suddenly developed a nasty wobble.

So it was time to move my desk setup. I’m now seated directly at the top of the stairwell, with only a thin sheet of plywood between me and a case of fatal plummety death. It’s not the best desk placement in the world, especially with the large dormer window directly at my back creating a huge glare on the screen with a Shaun-shaped shadow in the centre, but at least I have an excellent internet connection from here.

Which means that, on those occasions when writer’s block strikes, playing Angry Birds is a whole lot easier. 

© Shaun Finnie 2011

The Real and the Counterfeit

Douglas Adams is dead. Long live Douglas Adams. 

So too Virginia Andrews and Robert Ludlum. Yet they apparently continue to write, as their characters refuse to die alongside them. Just like Ian Fleming’s James Bond and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes. All dead, yet still alive in endless time, endless art.

This week’s blog questions the validity or otherwise of certain continuations compared against our expectations. For example, if we didn’t know that a book in a well-loved series was by an author other it’s original creator, could we tell? And would it matter? Clive Cussler freely admits to having collaborated with other authors on many of his novels. How many ‘name’ writers have done the same but less openly?

Taking a sideways step, comedians often complain that while one television appearance can expose them to millions of potential new fans, it can also use up material that it might have taken them years to accumulate. Once we’ve heard a funny tale, it’s gone; they can never tell that joke again. But why should this be? Why is it that we want a stand-up to tell us new jokes every time he stands up? For example, Billy Connelly still occasionally does his act in front of packed houses, but would the crowds still turn out if he were to begin his show with, ‘Here’s a story you might remember from my 1978 tour…’

Yet it’s completely the opposite with musicians. How many times have you heard people return from a live gig and say, ‘it was brilliant, they played all the old stuff’? Sure, we expect them to play a couple of new tracks so that we have time to go to the bar, but it’s the old favourites that we all turn out to hear, the songs that made us fall in love with them in the first place. So why not comedians?

The same argument can be applied to stage plays. Can you imagine going to see Shakespeare’s ‘Hamlet’, only to find that the classic ‘To be or not to be’ soliloquy had been removed because the director thought we’d have had enough of the stuff that was written around 1600? We still want to hear the words that we know and love.
 
Musicians may be forgiven for living off former glories, but they’re much less likely to survive multiple line-up changes. If Paul McCartney and Ringo Starr were to announce a tour as ‘The Beatles (featuring a couple of new recruits on guitars)’, there would be howls of outrage. We want to hear our aging heroes playing the songs that they’re famous for, but not if it means that only half of the group are involved. Please play ‘Yesterday’ at your solo gigs Paul, and we’d go crazy if Ringo turned up too, but don’t try to use the precious band name. And heaven forbid that you should allow anyone else to perform under that name. That way lawsuits lie.

Yet if a football fan goes to see Manchester United playing at Old Trafford it would be unthinkable for them to moan that George Best or Bobby Charlton weren’t pulling on the famous red shirt. There are no complaints to the Office of Fair Trading after every match; we expect the next generation of players to continue Best and Charlton’s legacy. Why is it acceptable for sports teams to dabble in the transfer market but not rock bands or authors?

Are we, the paying public, not guilty of double standards in these things?

Tribute acts are another judgemental minefield. Going to see a band like Bjorn Again may be seen as a fairly cheap and fun night out, but as the ‘real’ ABBA aren’t likely to tour again anytime soon, are the ‘fake’ versions not only the best that we have, but actually a valid version of the real thing in their own right?

And what is the London Philharmonic Orchestra if not a huge covers band? They play old music that we know and love, and they’re the best that’s available because the guys who originally wrote and performed these classics are no longer around to play them. How does that differ from an Elvis imitator?

So do we honestly want art for art’s sake or simply to relive former glories?

Next time you read a novel in a long-running series ask yourself; what have you really paid your money for?

©  Shaun Finnie 2011

Can You Trust A Writer?

They say that writers and poets observe life more intensely than ‘normal’ people. Well I’m no poet, and I’m certainly not normal, but I guess it’s true that I do mentally store away more little observations than most. Everything interesting that I notice in the pub, while waiting in line at the supermarket or driving on the motorway, it all gets file away in the back of my mind.

Much of this stuff resurfaces later in my writing. Sure, I change things around and fictionalise events but scratch deeply enough and you’ll find the seed of truth in there. A lot of scenarios that I place my characters in are taken from my own life – they’re the strongest experiences that I have to draw upon – but others are taken from things that I see. And as I see my friends and family more than I see total strangers then it stands to reason that their experiences are used more than most.

For example a friend who felt that her day wasn’t complete without at least an hour’s exercise was written into a tale of addiction. What would she have thought if she’d been able to recognise herself as the inspiration behind my character? She’s a lovely woman but the person that she became in the story was less than nice, as he lost his job, home and wife to his obsession.

I have many other examples but, as some of my sources may read this, I’ll not be giving them away.

It works the other way around too. On reading my work some people have asked, “Is that supposed to be me?”  No, it’s supposed to be a believable character in a short story, but it’s interesting that sometimes people see links where there were none intended.

So today’s question to you is – how would you feel if you recognised yourself in my writing?

©  Shaun Finnie 2011