0 Twig by Twig

 My desk is near the window. I would probably get a lot more done if it weren’t, especially at this time of year. And right now I have such a deadline that I shouldn’t be looking anywhere but at the screen.

I have a garden. It’s not a particularly nice garden because I’m better with words than with plants. Mostly, since I stopped being a cat owner, my garden seems to be a bird feeding station.

I love watching birds. Recently I’ve been watching them gather the materials for their nests. Carrying maybe one twig at a time. One very large twig, often longer than the bird itself. In their tiny beaks. It takes them ages to lift it, and even longer to fly with it to where they want to go. It must be, for us, like hawking a huge tree trunk round in our teeth.

When I see a tiny sparrow with a twig I wish I could build the nest for it. The task looks impossible. It looks even harder than the book I am struggling with right now, the one that seemed like a good idea when I signed the contract, and now seems impossible to get done in the tiny amount of time left. Much easier to look out at the birds. How are they going to get enough twigs?  How are they going to know what to do with them? How are they going to be able to put them all together and make a nest and then lay their eggs?

It exhausts me to think about it and there is so much that can go wrong.

When I first moved to this small village in County Down, a pair of housemartins built their odd, mud-hutlike nest in the apex of the side gable of the house. They were charming, if a little bit annoying – noisy beggars, and I was forever cleaning their poo off the roof of the car. But I loved seeing them wheel around and hearing the tiny squeaks of their chicks.

Their nest was a preposterous thing – a sort of mud coconut-shell affair clinging upside down, held on by hope. Then one day I found it smashed on the driveway, the dead chicks spilt over the gravel. The parent birds wheeled and wheeled in shrill distress. I could do nothing. It was unbearable.

A few days later I saw them with bits of mud in their beaks. They rebuilt. They raised another brood of chicks. They, or their descendants, return every year. Their upside-down mud hut clings on. 

I still haven’t finished this book and I don’t quite know how it is going to end. I’ve been asked to write about the Easter Rising of 1916, and right now it feels too big for me, and much too scary. And I should be working on it right now, instead of looking at birds flying round with twigs in their beaks.

I don’t know how they do it. I wish I had the instinct for this story that they have for their collecting, and carrying and flying and building and rebuilding. But I will do it. Twig by twig.

Detail: Twig by Twig

0 What makes you write, or stops you? - Linda Strachan

This is not really about writers' block, although perhaps in some cases it could be, but I was thinking about how often I hear my writer friends talking about all the things that come between us and getting the words written.

How difficult can it be?  You love writing and you desperately want to write that story that is buzzing in your head but for some reason other things get in the way and it is the writing that is often pushed to the end of the queue.

In the comments on a blog here recently Susan Price said ' I think many people see authors as something like hobbits, living cosy, stress-free, comfortable lives making up fun little stories. And getting paid!'
 
I wish!

I recall, before I was published and even in the first few years, I was scribbling away or tapping on my laptop whenever there was a spare moment  -  weekends, holidays, late at night and first thing in the morning. Writing was new, shiny and stress-free with no obligations.  After a few years of tight deadlines and starting to write full time, an expansion of the things that come with being published and part of the writing community meant that I needed some time to recharge, to do other things because writing had become my job. So I was less likely to write at weekends or on holiday, or at least not all the time.

While thinking about writing this blog I did a quick mindmap of some of the things that help and hinder my writing.

Many things help, like having a deadline, that is the one that works best for me.  I have very rarely, if ever, missed a deadline, even if it means very late nights; working on holiday or pretty much anywhere I can.

Personally I find that self-imposed deadlines don't work so well for me unless I declare them to family or even better, to a small group of writing friends who truly understand.  I am part of a small, closed and trusted group, who only meet over email, for support and encouragement but also commiseration when things are not going so well. All professional writers, we help each other keep writing and it is a real lifeline for a solitary writer.

Looking at the mindmap above I see things I have missed out such as -
Meetings - I am on a couple of committees related to writing because I feel that it is important to give something back to the writing community for all the support I have had over the years, but these do take time and energy. Also meeting up with friends, particularly writing friends, for the 'office' chat which is essential for self employed and solitary workers to fine out what is going on, and to share ideas and enthusiasm. Meeting with publishers, agents, others who are offering potential sources of writing work.

Networking - going to book launches and get-togethers with other people in the business. It is  so important to keep up to date with what is going on around and for opportunities that arise from chance encounters.

Preparation - for talks, school visits and writing workshops.  This can take up a lot of time.

Social Media -  is a very mixed blessing. It can be very useful for making contacts, getting to know other writers and readers, but it is also incredibly time consuming and addictive.

Having a space to write, uncluttered, if at all possible, but if you are like me it soon becomes a clutter!
Having a special place to write, whether in a coffee shop, library or a shed, a space that helps close out the world and allows time to concentrate on that thing we love - writing.

I don't think I am alone in this, it is one of the reasons why writing retreats are so much of a writer's dream. Somewhere that family, responsibilities and other day to day things cannot get between you and the story.

I wrote Block as sometimes a story can halt, or feel that writing is just impossible and that is when we all need some time away, space to think and find out why we are not pushing on past it. The reason might be physical or emotional stress.

I find it is often that the story has lost its way, taken a wrong turn, or not being true to the characters.
Distraction, such as going for a walk or doing some routine task, when the mind can wander without pressure often allows for that 'light bulb moment' and opens the flow of thought again.  After that all we need is to make time for the writing!

What is it that makes you write, or stops you from writing?

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Linda Strachan is the author of over 60 books for all ages from picture books to teenage novels and the writing handbook Writing For Children.

Linda's latest YA novel is Don't Judge Me . 
She is Patron of Reading to Liberton High School, Edinburgh.

Her best selling series Hamish McHaggis is illustrated by Sally J. Collins who also illustrated Linda's retelling of Greyfriars Bobby.

website:  www.lindastrachan.com
blog:  Bookwords 

Detail: What makes you write, or stops you? - Linda Strachan

0 The Best-Laid Plans, or Down, Characters, Down!

I’ve always been a planner; the idea of starting a novel and ‘seeing where the story took me’ was anathema to me. After all, I was the writer; I was in charge.

Despite this, my last novel, Still Falling, out in February 2015, was a mettlesome beast, running to nine drafts before I and my editor were happy. But I’d begun it without a contract, shelved it for nine months to write a commission (Too Many Ponies), and besides, the subject matter took me into darker psychological places than I’d ever gone before – so maybe it was natural that it shouldn’t bend to my will as easily as previous books.

the best-laid plans

The work-in-progress, Street Song, would be completely different. Because my agent wanted a full outline for this year’s London Book Fair, I’d thought through the story and knewexactly where it would go. It was a simpler story than Still Falling and for once I hadn’t had to struggle with the main female character – I’ve always found boys easier to write – as she’s very like me as an eighteen-year-old.

I’d promised the couple of interested publishers that the novel would be ready by the end of the year. Challenging, but not impossible. I set a tight schedule – 80,000 words in three months, July to September. I knew I’d over-write – I always do in a first draft; but I told myself I wouldn’t over-write much this time, because of my great outline. By 30^th September the first draft would be done; I could fit in something else in October, and get back to it with plenty of time to redraft.

What could possibly go wrong?

On the first page the male protagonist, Cal, announced he was a recovering addict. Unexpected, but it went well with the story, so that was OK. In fact, it made some of his later choices much easier to justify. I don’t tend to get fanciful about the creative process, but it really was as if I hadn’t made that fact up; it was part of the character’s history that he hadn’t been able to tell me until I actually let him speak.

As for Toni, my female MC – what a cow. If I really was as smug as that as an eighteen-year-old, it’s a wonder I had any friends. Her epiphany is meant to be the moment she realises that she doesn’t want to go to Oxford; it was her mum’s dream rather than hers. When I found Cal telling her that it was her dream, she was just scared of failure, I was annoyed at his cheek. I was the writer; he was simply a not-very-perceptive boy (and a made-up one): who was he to tell Toni what she was thinking when even I hadn’t known that?

But he was right.

Listen, guys -- I'm kind of in charge here...

my low-tech approach to word count

As July moved into August, and September loomed, the word count grew. At first it was all about hitting those magical targets. Then, on a week’s retreat to finish the draft, just before the climax, another unexpected thing happened. A minor character, meant to be just a random girl in a bar, turned out to be something more. She needed to be rescued by Cal. He won’t be up to the task, I thought: and anyway, I hadn’t planned this. Maybe I should just delete her? After all, I was now at 85,000 and no end in sight. But you know what? She was right too. I’d underestimated Cal, and in fact the ending (when I get there) will be improved by his actions.

It’s all just a bit… inconvenient. My characters are behaving like – well, like people.

And now my meticulously-planned 80,000 word draft is a huge messy long thing well over 100,000 (I’ve stopped checking). I’m two weeks late in starting my next project for which the deadline is – well, it’s too scary to type here but SOON.

have stopped checking the scary word count

But you know what? Every surprise, though tiresome, has made for a better story in the end. Like an unexpected but essentially welcome visitor. She might throw your routines out, and need a bit of looking after, but it’s so much fun to have her in the house.

And if the book has outstayed its welcome in my carefully-worked-out life, well, maybe that’s taught me something important about the creative process too.

Though I do need to finish it TODAY.

Detail: The Best-Laid Plans, or Down, Characters, Down!