This is Not The End

I've written many thousands of words over the years. It might even run into the millions. I wouldn't know; I'm a writer not a mathematician. But among all those words there are two that give me greater pleasure to write than any others.

"The End"

Whenever I write or type that then it means that my story's not far from done. Sure, I may need to do a lot more tidying up, to knuckle down to the hard work of being an author and fill in a load of gaps but when I've committed those words then at least I know in my heart that the bare bones of the story hold together. Once I've  got to that point then I've broken the back of it and sooner or later (and it's usually sooner) then the work will be ready for someone else to read.

I know that most novels and short stories that you read don't actually finish with those two words at the bottom of the printed page but that doesn't stop me typing them in these, my working copies. Some authors don't bother. Many only write these final words when they've written and rewritten and polished their work until it's the best that they can make it. For me it's a placeholder, a marker like an Epilogue or a Prologue. A  specific  place  in  the  tale. When I get to "The End" then all my loose ends should  be  tidied  up, my bad guy should be locked away in a cell or perhaps even dead and my hero should have solved the mystery, cleared his name and kissed the girl. This week I came to the conclusion that I'd done all of these things, or at least my characters had, so it was with great satisfaction that I typed a T, then a H…  you can guess the other five keystrokes.

I've completed the (very) rough first draft of my next novel. For those who have read and enjoyed 'The Happiest Workplace on Earth' then you'll be pleased to know that the new one is a sequel, tentatively titled 'The Storm Over  the  Bay'. If you've yet to sample the delights of 'The Happiest Workplace on Earth' then you have plenty of time to catch up. The new one's still a few months away from publication but it's good to know that I've reached another milestone in the book's life. It's getting pretty close to showing someone else. That's going to be my first proof-reader, my Beloved.

When it get's  to that stage then it starts to slip through my fingers. However many changes I make after that, even if there are none at all, it ceases to be entirely my work. Each book is a   collaboration between the minds of the writer and the reader. The author does their bit and then passes it on to the reader who fills in the gaps between the words with their imagination.

"The End" is really just a new beginning.

Do I Not Like That

How fortunate are you to live where you do?

Maybe your home is close to the countryside like mine? Or maybe you live in a city close to amenities and entertainment centres?

I don't know where you are in the world but given what I know about my readership I'd say that it's a pretty good bet that you're in Europe or America. Perhaps even Hong Kong or Australia. Even if you live in a really rough neighbourhood the chances are that you can walk the streets in relative safety without the threat of being kidnapped by terrorists or detained by the military. We're fortunate to live where we do. We have freedom to say or write pretty much anything that we want to without reprisal. Unless, that is, someone takes exception to our words.

I'm fat, grey and ugly. That's not an insult; it's a statement of fact. I haven't taken any offense at those words or asked the person who wrote them to unfriend me on Facebook. I especially haven't posted any anonymous personal threats. Partly because  it was me who wrote it but mostly because I'm not that kind of guy. If someone says something about me that I don't like I simply stop listening. I don't ask them to repeat it and I certainly don't read any more of what they might post about me on social media sites. But others might have. And others might have called the police, saying that someone was spreading defamatory statements about them online. These days that seems to be the crime of the age.

We do indeed live in a society that is pretty much without censorship but we still have taboos. So-called hate crimes are climbing up that list of subjects that we can't mention. So it's alright for me to say that I'm fat, grey and ugly but if anyone else says it then I'll…

The rest of this blog is censored in case someone, somewhere takes offence.

© Shaun Finnie 2014

Out of the Mouths of Nephews

Cars can be dangerous.

So, I've just found out, can ten year old nephews.

It started out as such a lovely day, bright and sunny, just me and the Nephew on a boy's day out. The plan was for him and me to do a bit of walking and birdwatching in the countryside and then to meet up with his sister and the Beloved for a coffee later in the day.

We drove out through the fields and lanes as planned - well, technically I drove as his booster seat stops him reaching the pedals - and all went well until we reached our destination. The car park was unexpectedly bursting at the seams with vehicles occupying all the parking spaces and much of the surrounding road area too. Who knew so many people would be out on a sunny school holiday? Luckily someone was just backing their Mercedes out of a space as I arrived. I waited for them to move but soon realised that there was no room for them to get past us due to the illegally parked cars down one side of the road.

Being well brought up I did the decent thing and reversed out of the way to allow the other car room to get out. I squeezed my little Fiesta as far as I could up to the kerb but it still wasn't good enough. I'd have to do a little off-roading. I backed the car on to the little grass verge, leaving ample room for the Mercedes to get through. Sadly though I think I may have been a little over-enthusiastic in my reversing.

No driver likes to hear an unexpected crunch and I'm no exception. I applied the handbrake and screwed my eyes tight for a moment as I composed myself. When I opened them I saw the Nephew staring at me in surprise, his mouth open almost as wide as his eyes. We looked at each other for a moment before he broke the silence. with a phrase that only a young boy could get away with in the circumstances.

'Uncle Shaun,' he said as a massive grin spread over his face. 'You are in SO much trouble!'

As tension breakers go it was a good one. We hurried around the back of the car to see what damage I'd done and miraculously found that the car had escaped with just the tiniest scratch to its bumper. However the same couldn't be said for the wooden fence that I'd completely flattened. As s standard wooden fence it was clearly no longer fit for purpose, though it now had a new function as a very small boardwalk.

Of course I reported it but to be honest the owner was much less concerned than I was. 'Ah, it was falling down anyway, don't worry.' So I didn't worry, just considered myself fortunate that the situation hadn't been worse.

The whole thing was clearly the highlight of the Nephew's week, if not month and he couldn't wait to see the Beloved. As soon as we arrived at the deli where we'd arranged to meet he ran up to her and announced in a voice loud enough to cause everyone there to splutter into their cappuccinos, 'Guess what, Auntie? Uncle Shaun killed a fence. It was BRILLIANT!'

And as days go, I think it probably was.

 

© Shaun Finnie 2014

Half A Job

If you're a plumber, accountant or shop assistant then you have a useful occupation. You provide a service that somebody wants, even if that somebody is just your boss telling you what they want you to do. Someone wants you to do a task, you do it and you get paid. Assuming that it's a regular job then that pattern continues indefinitely. Or until you tell your boss what you really think about them after one too many tequila slammers at the Christmas party.

An artist (and I consider authors in that category) doesn't do a useful job. Their work is not a basic human requirement. We are 'extras' in life's drama, and we don't have the luxury of a (more or less) guaranteed income. Sure, some of our work is done to commission and if you're at the very top of your game then you may be given a long-term contract to produce a certain amount of work but for most of us at the bottom of this particular business heap that's not the case. We're effectively living in a permanent artistic Dragon's Den, pitching our work and, much of the time, hearing a version of "I'm out" in reply. That's if we hear anything at all. Far too many times the only reply I get from commissioning editors and agents is a deafening silence.

Struggling artists don't only have to do the work but they have to promote it too. We lock ourselves away in our garrets, rehearsal rooms or studios and hone our craft until it's the best that we can make it, but that's only the starting point to getting it in front of an audience and receiving even the tiniest financial reward. There also has to be countless letters, manuscripts, emails, meetings. This is the side that nobody talks about, the process of selling your work. And this is the part of my business at which I'm particularly bad. Spectacularly so to the point where my letterbox is used even less frequently than my bank paying-in book.

I've seen advice from "experts" suggesting that an artist should spent 65% of their time creating their work and the other 35% promoting it. That goes against every instinct that I have. At the moment the ratio is probably more like 100% vs zero for me. I write because I have to, because it's in my soul. If I wanted a proper job working in sales then I'd have applied for one. As things are then I still may have to someday soon but that's beside the point.

It's time that I got more comfortable with this promoting my business business and the best way I know to become comfortable with something is just go out and do it.

So…

BUY MY BOOKS!   TELL ALL YOUR FRIENDS!

How was that? Am I a salesman yet?

© Shaun Finnie 2014

An Error of Comedies

When I was a teenager I wrote some comedy radio sketches for a local radio station. They were kind enough to broadcast them (though not kind enough to pay me) and, after years of dreaming, I began to realise that there might be something in this writing lark after all. I wrote some parodies for a few magazines which were also published, though I still got no cash. I guess it could have been the start of a beautiful career but, to tell the truth, my heart wasn't in it.

Don't get me wrong, I love writing comedy and it's great to hear people laugh at something I've created but it's just not for me in the long run. For one thing I was never going to be a stand-up comedian. I could never appear on stage with nothing but my wit to hide behind. I have nothing but respect for those who do it, especially those who get particularly bad crowd responses yet still plug on regardless. That must take a particular kind of bravery. Or stupidity in repeating the same mistakes night after night.

But the main reason that I don't particularly fancy a career writing comedy is that it's so divisive. Like Marmite, Margaret Thatcher or Manchester United, people tend to either love a particular style of comedy or hate it with a passion. It's not like other fields of writing where readers either like your work or simply ignore it, dismissing it as 'not for me'. It's the same with music. You may dislike someone's musical output but you're unlikely to berate someone else simply for liking them.

But comedy seems to be different. I've been to see three comedy shows recently, all of which were quite dissimilar to the others. In each instance when I've told friends that I've been going I've had some of them smile and say that they wished they were going too. And also in each case I've had others say that they don't like the particular act in question. Fair enough. But their objections have ranged from the mild ("what do you want to go and see them for, they're rubbish?") to the frankly offensive, as if I were somehow implicit in their dislike of the artists in question.

Writing for a living is a thankless enough task as it is, with the letterbox bringing many more rejection letters than cheques. I certainly don't want to get into a section of the business where even your successes are met with catcalls.

With that in mind I think it's probably safer to continue writing novels that nobody reads.

© Shaun Finnie 2014

Remember the Flashing Neon

I've invited a guest blogger to contribute to this edition of 'Dammit, I'm A Writer'. He's an old friend and… well, I'll let him speak for himself.

Remember the flashing neon

Hello, I’m James Hallsworth, a thirty-something father of two living in the glorious city of Sheffield.  I’m publishing my first children’s picture book and embarking on an adventure which could completely transform my life.  I’m here to tell you just a little (but important) bit about it…

I’ve learnt a lot of things in my nearly-forty years on this planet - most of which are only useful in pub quizzes – but the one thing I’ve learned recently is not to give up on your dreams.  It sounds twee I know - don’t click that ‘x’ button - let me explain.

The trick of course, is to know what your dreams are in the first place.  Some lucky people seem to be born with an innate and powerful sense of what they want to do and how to do it (these people don’t need to read any further); I, on the other hand, had to wait more than thirty years until I finally figured it out. 

When I decided to make a stab at writing for a living, the ubiquitous advisory warning was “it’s extremely difficult to get published”.  This is certainly true, but the best and truest mentors always add “…but do not give up” - this should be signposted in flashing neon and given to every writer, or indeed anyone who is trying to make a living from doing something that they enjoy.

Like all un-published authors I have accumulated a substantial collection of soul-destroyingly impersonal rejection letters and experienced the long, dark tea time of the soul writing in an isolated bubble without meaningful feedback, while also trying to hold down an unfulfilling day job.  But, just I was losing faith, I got lucky; I found someone willing to help me to achieve my dream, and offer expertise, contacts and a metaphorical arm around the shoulder.  Now, although I’m still not officially published, I know how close I came to giving up on my hopes and I’m infinitely wiser having stared into the abyss.

Ask yourself, why do you do what you do?  Is it to make money or because you enjoy it?  If it’s the latter, then you’re better off than those doing the former.  Please don’t give up and keep reminding yourself of why you’re doing it every time you have a bad day or disappointment. Your dream just might be around the corner, just as mine was…

...remember the flashing neon.

Big thanks to Shaun for inviting me to guest on his site, and for his sage advice.

My latest children’s picture book (illustrated by the wonderful Helen Braid) is called Mrs Vyle and is available to order now for £6.99 via www.britainsnextbestseller.co.uk/index_php/book/index/Mrs Vyle. 

Mrs Vyle is a deliciously disgusting tale full of slobber, smells and funny noises that adults will enjoy reading as much as children will love listening to.

You can follow me and catch up on latest news about Mrs Vyle at:

Facebook: www.facebook.com/jameshallsworthchildrensauthor

Twitter: @james_h1975

Web: jamesh1975writer.wordpress.com

Taboo You

Are there any subjects that you wouldn't write about, or want your favourite authors to write about?

I ask because I've recently read a story that started out as a 'normal' (whatever that means) soap opera-style family drama but took a dramatic twist halfway through. It was a very dark twist that I felt very uncomfortable reading and certainly won't be discussing on my own website. You never know what keywords Google is searching for. Suffice to say that it involved the very unpleasant demise of a minor. Now I know that horror stories involving children have been around for generations, certainly since the days of Wilkie Collins and his unforgettable, brilliant 'Turn of the Screw', but this particular story has lodged itself in my brain and keeps popping back into my consciousness to disturb me anew. This is, I guess, a kind of compliment to the author. I could never write something as affective as that. Of course I could also never write something like 'Fifty Shades of Grey' or anything in the formulaic style of D*n Br*wn but this was different. The writing was excellent for starters and the characters were engaging to the point where I was actually upset when the bad things happened to them. I'd love to write with that kind of intensity and conviction and yet I could no more create a story containing that kind of medically graphic horror than I could convincingly write about…

Well, I don't know really. I try to tell myself that no subject is off limits to a good author, that they should be able to turn their hand to any writing style - especially if the pay is good enough. I don't like to pretend. I write because I love it, certainly, but also I do it to pay the bills (or at least as many of them as it allows me to). I could even discover a hitherto deeply hidden love of tennis, Lancashire or D*n Br*wn if you put enough noughts on the cheque to make me write about these things.

That's the beauty of being a writer. Our imaginations allow us to visit situations as diverse as euphoria and death without ever having to actually experience them. Assuming that we've done our research well enough - and that means more than a quick scan through Wikipedia - then we could theoretically commit any crime ever invented. We could even, if we're good enough, create a completely fresh original sin. We're confined only by the strength of the voices in our heads and the way we react to them. How closely do we want to sail towards the boundaries of our society's taboos?

But we're also guided by our readers. We can write whatever dark fantasies we desire but if the people who normally read our work are used to us producing happy tales of fluffy bunnies and unicorns then we'll turn them away in droves. Or, in my case, tens. Whether we like it or not, writing is a business like any other. We have to stay within our target audience's tolerances.

And for me, the guy whose book I recently read crossed the line. Although it was an excellent book, I won't be back for the sequel.

And one final thing. Please don't ask what the novel that kick-started this blog was. I'm trying to forget it.

© Shaun Finnie 2014