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

You're No Good

"Thank you for your submission. It has been read but unfortunately it isn't what we are looking for at this time."

Early this week I received five letters. They were all very similar to the above and all from the same magazine, a well known publication that I've been trying to get my work into for over a year. I was naturally disappointed but I knew that I had more stories still out for consideration by this particular market. They might have rejected five but they had kept the other two. Maybe that meant that they intended to publish those.

Wrong. The missing pair of manuscripts arrived back on my door mat the next day complete with their own copies of the same thanks-but-no-thanks letter. Again, that was very disappointing. Very. But what am I to conclude from this wholesale  discarding of my writing? Am I doing a bad job of it? Am I simply a poor writer? Or had the editor recently published several other pieces in the same vein as those I'd sent in? Maybe they'd had a glut of stories and had been swamped by the sheer numbers? Or perhaps one or more of my stories was pretty close to what they wanted to print and with just a few minor tweaks would have been perfect.

That's the problem with such a generic response. "It isn't what we are looking for at this time." There's nothing that I can take from that apart from abject disappointment. It's not exactly constructive criticism but then again why should I expect an editor to provide a more detailed critique? Their job is to pick the best submissions that they think will please their readership, not to help me improve my writing skills. My job is to anticipate their requirements and follow the magazine's guidelines to the letter. Sometimes it might feel like I need ESP abilities to produce the work that they require but it has to be possible. Some people are able to do it - they get their writing published issue after issue.

So it's time for me to recommit to this work and produce the stories that they actually want to print, which is not necessarily the same as a story that I think is really good. I have to start with an original beginning though. Let's see…

'It was a dark and stormy night.'

© Shaun Finnie 2014

The Printer Must Die

I hate printers. I try not to hate too many things in life but for printers, I'll make an exception. I hate them with a passion, which is a bit of a blow as they're a necessary evil in my job like dealing with my tax return or non-paying editors. I've despised printers most of my adult life; certainly long before I got my tie stuck in one as an office junior.

It was way back in a year beginning with 19 and I was trying to change the dreaded toner cartridge on a huge old Hewlett Packard lazerjet. Anyone who had the misfortune to work with these behemoths back then will remember that this task was about as easy as performing dental surgery on a wide-awake and very hungry mountain lion, and twice as dangerous. It was also a filthy job so I, obviously, was wearing my best white work shirt.

As soon as I touched it the toner cart belched out a cloud of black dust, turning my shirt and any exposed areas of skin a dark grey colour. To make matters worse, as I leant in closer to dislodge the cartridge my tie got caught in the mechanism. The printer didn't try to pull me into its filthy depths (which even I could see would have been even funnier) but it refused to let go of my gaudy tie, surely the most useless piece of clothing known to man. What use are ties really, apart from for choking people with? The printer obviously agreed, as it kept a firm hold as I tried to pull myself out from its innards. So not only was my tie hideously miscoloured (even more than when I'd bought it), it was also mangled and, worst of all, the printer was trying to throttle me with it.

There's only so much of this kind of treatment that a man can take. I removed the tie from my neck and left it dangling like a severed line of entrails from the guts of the machine. It had clearly attacked me and I had an office full of witnesses, probably attracted by my vitriolic verbal outbursts. I quickly came to the obvious conclusion. There was nothing else for it.

The printer must die.

I know that the following will be a little difficult for some of you to believe but I swear that every word of it is true.

I picked the printer up. It was a hefty old lazerjet, about the size of a large microwave oven but several times heavier. And it was covered with disgusting toner dust. And it was still trying to digest my tie. It was more bulky than heavy but I managed to lift it to chest height and with a mighty roar hurled it, shot putt fashion, across the room.

At least, that was my intention. Unfortunately it was still cabled up and the cables were, even more unfortunately, securely fastened under the desk on which it stood. It didn't so much fly as plummet, hitting the table top with a dull thud. I'd hoped for it to shatter on the floor several metres away, spraying lethal dusty shards in all directions. Sadly all that happened was that there was a small and entirely non-serious crack in one of its paper trays. That's it. Apart from that, and having a tie mulched in its workings, the printer was entirely unscathed. I'd completely failed in my first task as a printer assassin.

So you'll understand that I was somewhat miffed this week when my own home office printer completely failed to print a manuscript that I sent to it. I have to concede that it made an effort, pulling in the paper and moving the print head backwards and forwards with the required chugging sound, but it made no attempt whatsoever to darken the sheet with its presence. The paper cane out as clean and white as it had gone in, totally unsullied by my words and ideas.

Seeing as my office is in the attic I knew that I could do a lot more damage to my own printer than I had with my employers' all those years ago. Sadly I also knew that it would be me who would have to clean the resulting carnage from my path if I flung it out of the window so instead I did the sensible thing.

I emailed the document to my Beloved. She printed it on our second in-house printer.

Safer. Cheaper. Less dangerous.

But I still hate printers.

© Shaun Finnie 2014

Home Away From Home

Like I've said regularly in recent blogs, I write because I have to. I write for my income, yes, but I'd do it even if I didn't get paid. For many years that's precisely what I did. My work wasn't read much back then either but it didn't matter because I had to write. I write because it's part of me and it has to come out.

This week I've been on holiday up in the Lake District. More accurately, I've been to Center Parcs near Penrith. To some it's a place where you can get access to nature while still retaining central heating and other home comforts. To others it's little more than Butlins for eco-warriors. Whatever, I love it there. It's calming for me, a place to slow down and reflect. And it's also a brilliant place to write.

What's not to love? Log (style) cabins, no cars, clean air. And lots of trees, birds an furry creatures to lower the heart rate and increase the word count. Bliss. I find that this kind of atmosphere is excellent for writing, for freeing my mind from the cares and worries of 'normal' life and allowing my muse to take me where it will. But probably more importantly, it's the best place that I've found for editing my work (and sometimes that of others too). The calmness of it all somehow frees me to improve a manuscript and make every word count.

It's the process of cleaning, correcting and tightening the work until it's the very best that I can make it, like polishing a newly-completed piece of furniture, that I find much easier in this kind of atmosphere. I can write almost anywhere if I have to and don't mind telling people to give me a minute on my own to scribble an elusive thought into my notebook but editing and rewriting are entirely different beasts, needing much more concentration. I think that's why the proverbial cabin in the woods is such a good location for it.

So that's what I'm doing - tidying the first draft of my next novel in preparation for more serious rewrites later. As holidays go, I've had worse.