Heathcliff was a Vampire

Read any good books lately? Looked at the authors? Just bring that soapbox a little closer, please, I feel the need to waffle…

When we read an author who thinks as we do there is the understandable tendency to say to oneself “This writer’s on the money. Got it just right, beautiful characterisation. Must have a wealth of wisdom and understanding of the human condition. Well done, that person.”

Or something similar, because our yardstick is us and our own experiences.

Spotting a dud is also pretty straightforward but we sometimes let them go through to the keeper if we are happy to go along for the ride. ‘I’m chasing a bad guy, it’s night and he’s homicidal. Gee, this dark alley looks like it could be just the thing; I’ll nip down barehanded and see if he’s nearby.’

Too many groans and the book slides to the floor, joining the choir indivisible of novels.

Almost there, hang on a bit….

But then there are the books which some of us just love while the rest of humanity looks on askance. Que?

Particularly major characters.

Is it… drum roll while I duck for cover…something to do with the sex of the author?

Do males write ripping yarns which the blokes think are just spiffing while the gentler sex wonders when we lost our marbles.

And do the ladies stretch out a yarn with major characters to die for, with lots of chaps quite willing to help them on their way?

It could have something to do with our shared cultural experience and upbringing. Nature and nurture combining to make us a bit fat headed when it comes to writing a fully rounded character.

So blokes write one dimensional characters with bits of biffo and stern gazes; the wimmen have heroic pale youths with smouldering looks and flowing locks.

And if we like that sort of stuff then the story makes perfect sense. Of course, to the rest of the world the storyline, characterisation and plot all look a bit, well, naff.

Not saying, and let me make this perfectly clear, that all male writers churn out this stuff; nor am I saying that all female writers only populate their novels with heartfelt wusses.

What I am saying – put that rock down, please, madam – is that a writer must be very wary when constructing a character. A good writer – male or female – generates a real human being, someone that we can identify. Warts and all.

So when we are reading a novel which has received rave reviews but which we just don’t get – it may be because we are hamstrung by our own prejudices, our own expectations.

I was shamelessly eavesdropping on a conversation of my colleagues – a dreadful habit which it took me years to cultivate – and they were discussing the reaction of some of our pallid youth to a recent play. A well known play, it’s been around the block a few times, it’s got cred. Trust me on this.

Said juveniles were dismissing the main male character as being not right, wasn’t a major player, author got it all wrong. The actor was, of course, a cretin for playing the alpha male this way. When asked to expand upon their thesis (and I’m paraphrasing here, grunts and raised eyes were the norm) they said that the main character should be like Edward from Twilight.

‘Cause that’s what heroes look like/talk like/smell like/should be.

John Proctor should be a vampire.

There, I’ve said it.

You dunno whether to laugh or cry, but I shall fall back on some infallible advice once uttered by Neddy Seagoon – a man who’s take on life I have often admired.

“Right! It’s around the back for a quick brandy!”

I’m right behind you Ned.

Voice

 I have been dispensing my writing wisdom to the various strains of feckless youth who occasionally come my way seeking advice and inspiration. I’m very big on advice and inspiration, more advice actually. The inspiration generally involves a lowering of the brow and the issuing of the MEANINGFUL LOOK.

Do try to develop a Meaningful Look of your own, a few hours per day in front of a mirror does wonders. Few can stand before it.

Said feckless youth have been known to seek the odd sage word form moi – my local PR does very well. All smoke and mirrors, of course.

Thus I was employing the old ML on a callow young sprog as I uttered the following bit of literary wisdom, “You must find your voice, lad” I ses.

“What do you mean?” he asks.

This caused me a bit of a jolt, I can tell you. What does it mean? What does it mean?

I only passed it on because I listened to the odd lecture from writing authorities – publishers and editors and what not and it sounded pretty good.

Even read it in a book somewhere. Pretty sure I did.

Never thought to ask what it means. So the old noodle skipped a beat and I went into basic evasion101.

“What do you think it means?” slight pause, “son.” ML ML ML.

“Well, are you saying I need to write my stories in a particular style, keep a consistent form. Not leap about from light and frothy to hard edged and so on. Is that it?”

Sounded pretty good to me so I gave the wise nod. Scrabbling for more ideas – because I really thought he was on to something – I intoned “Possibly. Anything else?” Hooked I was, this was good stuff. I scrabbled for a pen thinking that I really should write it down.

“I see what you mean” he chirrups, “I have to find out how to put ME on the page. The reader has to sense the vitality I feel about the story. The voice is my passion, my soul…it’s me!”

I think I nodded off for a minute there and missed a bit. Anyway, he stood up and gazed at me with the old eyes brimm’d with gratitude and gargled “Thank you. Thank you very much. “

Unsure what words would be best, and since a grunt may have seemed out of place, I kept my mouth shut (another old charlatan’s trick). I stared at him a moment before uttering in deep, golden tones “Write with your heart, son. Find your voice.”

ML  ML  ML

Time, Where is Thy Sting?

Yeah, I know the title doesn’t quite have the same cachet as the original phrase but starting off a blog post with the title “Death, where is thy sting?” may seem a trifle harsh to my more gentler readers. 

Harsh it may have been, but perhaps closer to the nub. 

What on earth is he talking about? I hear you cry. Enquiring minds want to know. 

Okay, here’s the deal. Time…the clock…it’s a bit, well, unforgiving. To a writer. Probably to everyone but this blog’s all about writing. (Actually it’s all about MEEEEE!!!!!! – sorry, mild touch of hysteria coupled with a large dose of the PLOMS. You’ve never heard of the PLOMs? It stands for Poor Little Old Me). 

Anyway, back to whinging. (Is he going somewhere with this?) 

To be a writer means one has to, well, write. With me so far? Not going too fast for you in the back? 

And this means time. I cannot write in small bite size chunks of 15mins like some of my erstwhile colleagues. Even 30 mins is a bit of a stretch if there’s been a few days or a week’s break. I look at the last line of my current story and wonder what on earth is going on. 

After 30 mins I’m full of fire and brimstone and rarin’ to go – but it’s time to stop because that’s all the time I have (insert cuss word of own choice). 

At the moment I have a precious 90mins every week, I hoard it, cherish it, snarl at passers-by. Sometimes I bite.

 But once a week writing is pretty frustrating; I fear my inner muse has taken to drink from disappointment.

 Of course the alternative is not to write at all. Well, forget that – stand back, I’m an artiste!

 So the end result is an ongoing resentment over the clock, over other duties that take a writer away from writing. The sneaking suspicion that the novel is languishing. Of course it’s languishing, the poor little thing is starved.

 Thus it is that a writer’s life must be full of that eerie tug of war as the demands of the world constantly invade our time. There are no other reasons, we are not in a club dependent on other members to fulfil our artistic calling. Rain does not mean a cancellation of play to an author. Our only battle is with time.

 Ask not for whom the bell tolls, come in number 42, your time is up. (Never met a metaphor I didn’t like).

 Tick tock.

Me Jekyll, Him Hyde

There is that moment in a conversation when someone asks “What do you do?”

At this point we label ourselves by our job description. A good party is the place to trot out “I’m a Brain Surgeon – wanted to be a plumber but I was no good with my hands.”

This is a writer’s blog. There comes a time in every young author’s life when we must leave the nest, abandon the safety of our desk/kitchen/couch,  come out of the closet and announce to the world in a strong, assertive voice “I am a writer.”

Writer’s festivals are great places to do this, one is surrounded by like minded hopeless fools -  a bunch of attendees meeting for coffee is akin to an AA meeting. “Hello, my names Terry. I’m a writer. Been scribbling for about two years.” Mumbles of “’lo Terry”, “Keep the faith , brother”, plus a few slurred  scattering of  “Right on!’ from the early drinkers in the party.

Thus it was I came out of my literary closet one year ago.

Of course, the litmus test is the real world. While researching a story set in medieval times I sought help from a librarian about the correct search technique. In my student days I would, of course, have simply made it up and then went to the pub but us writers are driven by a higher moral calling.

If you would be so kind as to stop sniggering I shall continue. Yes, I’m talking to you in the back. The pompous git with the iPhone. Put down your latte and get out.

Said librarian fixed me with the gimlet eye, the clear gaze danced over her lowered glasses, she pursed her lips and asked me “Why?”

Now confronting a librarian may not be at the peak of the Extreme Sports pyramid but they have always had a strange and arcane power over me. I suspect it has to do with the time I was late returning a reader in grade 3; some things stick. Prison changes a man.

I fell back on the secret ritual pursued by men the world over, knowledge gained in ceremonies and passed on in whispers from father to son over midnight meetings. Heady stuff. Would the ladies please look away now.

Thrusting my hands into my pockets I clutched some loose change in my left hand and a set of car keys in my right. A quick clench of hands and buttocks completed the ritual and I was able to gaze fearlessly into the confronting eyes. Deep breath, slight bowel contraction and I gurgled “I’m a writer.”

Then came a meaningful pause, our eyes met, she saw my worth, gauged my mettle and weighed me in the furnace (which is actually quite tricky).

“Look in the 800s, love. Next, please.”

The world had not collapsed. Civilisation, as we know it, continued. Brief glances at folk nearby revealed no suppressed chuckles, not a sardonic grin in sight. There is an extreme possibility that no one noticed my coming out.

I briefly considered proclaiming my status in a loud, ringing voice to the denizens of the library, “I am a WRITER!” Conscience doth make cowards of us all. Plus a blessed moment of sanity stilled my wayward tongue.

But I had told another human being that I was a writer. The news was out. Ghent and Aix had got the news. Mafeking had been relieved. The genie was out of the bottle….Sorry, I’ll stop now.

So now I have two personalities (note title of post, smug smirk). During my normal working life I am a mild mannered worker bee.

But on week-ends, and sometimes late at night when the moon is full, I don my underpants on the outside and spring forth onto an unsuspecting world to shout “I AM A WRITER!”

Of course, that’s if anyone asks. A strangely rare occurrence.

You gotta know the territory!

Thank you, Professor Harold Hill.

And, of course, he’s quite right –whether it’s marching bands or books, you have to know how the system works.

That’s the accepted theory. It’s a good theory, I like it. It has shape, meaning, a certain je ne sais quoi – if that’s the right phrase – it lets us poor struggling authors know what’s what.

Yes, I’m a struggling author. I think. I could be an emerging writer. Possibly an aspiring novelist. Anyway, I’m one of them (not one of those).

Knowing the territory as a writer (struggling, aspiring or pathetically hopeless) means getting the low down on the publishing industry. Knowing what makes it tick. How it works. What ya gotta do to get yer name out there.

Yep, I’m getting to know the territory. And it’s a scary place, full of rifts, hidden valleys and the odd savage beast. Quicksand abounds. Dead ends are commonplace. Occasionally one comes across a bunch of feeble writers who have circled their word processors and are holding off  constant attacks from the various tribes indigent to the area. A brutal bunch from all accounts, only a few writers have made it back alive and sane – and easy on the sane.

Righto, here’s the two dollar tour of the badlands….

Query Letters, agents, editors, partials, publishers, vanity press, e-publishing, competitions, rejection, rejection, rejection (a lot of that), writing groups, manuscript assessors, reading fees, blogs (yes, I understand the irony) single space/double space/inner space/outer space (sorry, ignore those last two, low humour), writer’s festivals, seminars, workshops, masterclasses, how-to-do-it books (small avalanche), what-not-to-do books and articles and magazines (here be dragons). And the beast which overshadows all the others, our very own Mt Doom  - The WEB – oh, my! Lord Volderthingy would be having kittens!                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                              

This is the territory a writer must navigate in the quest to be published. Being precious and expecting your inner wonderfulness to shine out onto an awestruck world is magnificent arrogance.  Terrific stuff, hope it all works out for you. Just stay away from me, you nutcase.

Does it mean we love the territory? Heck, no; the place is a nightmare. No road maps, the compass is busted and I’ve run out of water – I may end up as yet another set of bleached bones along with every other writer who tried to be published and gave up.

But not yet, I’ve got some mates waving at me from the distance – they found a way through so I reckon I’ll keep plodding along.

Me and Harold Hill. Warm up those trombones, baby.

My Culture, right or wrong

I don’t watch trivial television shows, only deep and meaningful stuff (ouch!). Music – the same, only classical. I’m a highbrow.

Actually…no. I’m a receding brow. I watch junk, listen to blues and have low tastes. To quote Sir Les Patterson (Cultural Attache to the Court of King James) “I’m so low I could skydive out of a snake’s bottom….and still free fall!”

But on occasion I will watch a foreign film (subtitle, not dubbed. I have some standards). A bookstore browse will sometimes generate a story from another land, written by an author not of my culture. I have watched Monkee (without the ‘s’), Crouching Tiger, Hidden wassname; I have read translated texts, stories and what not.

Feeling dead clever, I am.

As do we all, I suspect, when we dip into a foreign culture. We are ‘expanding our horizons’, ‘becoming a more rounder human being’ (want fries with that book?), we are educating ourselves.

And this sensation of virtuousness is generated by the knowledge that we do not have to do it. We can stay in our own culture to romp and play to our heart’s content. Yip-de-do.

But other people are strange, not us. Think differently, have a variety of mores. They look at life from a different perspective. Not our sort, really.

So where are we most comfortable in our choice of literature and film? In those brain dead times when we just want something easy to read or watch because the world’s been a bit harsh and we’re feeling drained. Where do we go?

To our own culture. Because the other ones are not us.

And worse than that – following on from the previous post – we also limit ourselves to the culture from our current time. No books from more than 100 years ago, please; I’m on a diet.

A writer struggling with a plot theme, a scene, an anarchic character may search for a solution. And under stress that solution may be limited by the temporal and geographical boundaries of our culture. I suggest this may be a bit narrow.

Writers labour under cultural imperatives, many of which are so pervasive as to be invisible. Until someone else reads them.

Books written by a vigorous western culture (say, the US) and incorporating particular viewpoints (eg, white Anglo-Saxon males of a protestant bent) may seem to be the cat’s pajamas to many readers.

But sometimes they get right up my nose.

It’s Culture, Jim, but not as we know it.

I’ve been reading a copy of ASTOUNDING Stories of Super Science from the 1930s  and it’s proving to be an educational journey. Coupled with this I had the good sense (so rare in one so young) to read Graham Storr’s blog on Writing a la mode and be published.

As an aside, do yourself a favour and subscribe to Graham’s blog; the man has a brain and is able to articulate a point of view.

I’m more of your blather and run kinda blogger – more style than substance.

Back to the point at hand, ASTOUNDING stories. The setting of each yarn bears resemblance to any number of stories today- alien invasion, mysterious visitors from afar, that sort of thing (no, I’m not talking about the in-laws stopping by). But the style of writing has changed, the stories seem clunky and ungainly; characterization is limited to a few action words. Women are a no-show, unless they are in need of rescue.

Today we become embroiled in the same stories but they have a different slant; possibly a more obvious love interest, a teasing out of the protagonist’s inner turmoil or thoughts. Definitely a desire to make the characters real, someone we care about. Often our heroes are flawed, more human.

But the stories are the same. It’s just the telling of them that is different.

So, what does all this mean? I think it means we write stories we want to tell, but we write within a given cultural context. Yes, I know, nothing breathtaking here, but it serves to highlight the discordance we will experience whenever we read something from another era.

There will be a honeymoon period (especially in the TV world where we are blessed with reruns of old favourite sitcom. I saw an episode of Hogan’s Heroes recently, for goodness sake! What were they thinking?)

But after a time all of our stories will fade away.

Feeling a bit ill now, my fellow writers?

How about this then – how good does a story have to be for it to live past its original 50-100 years? We speak of classics yet no-one reads them. We make a mini-series rather than read the book. We get Brad to be Achilles ‘cause he looks so good in the nick.

But some books still get read, some live on. It’s 2009, has anyone read a book – written before 1909 – for sheer enjoyment ? Or just obligation. That’s a true classic.

Perhaps it’s not the stories that change at all. Perhaps we just tell the same ones over and over again, just re-written for whatever cultural milieu we inhabit.

And (taking a deep breath here) does that mean that the rules for good writing change with the culture?

Searching for a Story

I almost called this post “Extracting the Digit” but decided it may offend. So I didn’t…hang on, I may have made a faux pas here.

Ah, well….onwards and upwards.

The final title for this post comes from an inner dialogue over World of Warcraft.

Wait! Hear me out! Don’t touch that dial.

I have a friend who plays World of Warcraft – or WoW to the aficionados. The friend is not a simpering veil over my own identity, it is another human being , a wonderful resource for all things game related. And he showed me a magazine extolling the various intricacies of the latest patch for the game – Revenge of the Litch King. Having nothing better to read on the library (sorry, in the library) I flicked through the booklet and then began to ponder. As one does in these circumstances.

WoW has about 11 million players, probably about 5 mil in China. Anyone fancy that sort of readership?

Why aren’t they all out reading books! Our books! MY books! (dry heaving sob)Well, maybe they are. Maybe WOW and its competitors fill a need for story which once used to be filled by books.

A good yarn transports us somewhere else, we get to explore other ways of doing things, other ways of thinking; we can be presented with another person’s point of view. A skilful author can hold a mirror up to ourselves and show us other bits of the picture. It’s an adventure of discovery.

So is, I suspect, WoW. A story unfolds for the player but each story is tailored to suit the individual player (or reader). My friend and I have had many conversations and I admit to beginning the first of them with a somewhat patronising attitude. Fortunately my friend is patient and answered my questions with honesty and integrity. He allowed me to see the journey that a player takes as they level up, learn new skills, engage in PvP matches, and undergo raids with other team members. I watched over his shoulder as he battled a bunch of weird things while in the company of lots of other weird things. During that session he spoke of his teammates, he could describe their characteristics, their honesty, and their ability to cooperate. He spoke of engaging in dialogue with many other people in order to satisfy a quest.

He was engaged in his story. Deeply engaged.

Why should he want to read a book? He gets to go inside one!

Fortunately my friend (aw, shaddup, it isn’t me!) is also a prolific reader of text so he can understand my veiled insinuations about derivative plots and stereotype characters. And he ignores me.

Probably wise.

Perhaps the future of the book is not under threat from kindle, failing publishing houses or copyright protection. Perhaps people are discovering alternative ways of exploring a story.

Just we writers needed, a bit more pressure.

And as an aside, thank you for the readers who are following this blog, I see where I am a newcomer to Jonathan Crossfield’s Top 50 Aussie blog sites.

At number 104. You gotta laugh.

Loss

There is a terrible crassness which sometimes pervades the inner life of a writer. Okay, I need to explain that a little.

Our inner life involves a dialogue, an on-going internal about what we say, think and do. Bit like an “extra” on a DVD – the director’s commentary. We all do it to a certain extent; it takes a bit of growing to ignore those voices which denigrate our self esteem but we grow and learn to identify the false voices. We are, after all, our worst critics. Part of growing up involves being able to shut down a lot of this inner commentary and be able to reflect with some consideration on our actions. Stay with me, almost there….

I suspect I’m not alone in the writing community when I say that I shelve every incident of emotional impact, store it away for when I need to express a sentiment on paper. It may be why some teenage writers struggle to convince when they write from the POV of an elderly, crotchety old man.  Like me. And why us males often get it wrong when writing for the female market. We don’t have that in-depth knowledge. Yes, I see you in the back…you’re in touch with your feminine side. Well done, that man.

So when an emotional event hits a writer we run a little internal dialogue where we analyse the feelings for later.

And I don’t like it. Here’s why:

The last month or so has been hard for me and the community, we lost someone special – two someones – and we’ve been dealing with a community wide grief.  And grief  is a journey we all travel in our own way,  it’s a bus ride we would rather do without; you go somewhere, get off the bus to look around and realise that you’re somewhere different, somewhere strange. Grief is the journey and you can’t get off that bus until the journey is done. My inner writer has watched and noted what I went through, what a lot of folk went through (several thousand, such was the impact of these two marvelous people).

And I don’t like me very much for doing it, grief is personal; for me it’s a private journey but – and this is going to sound just silly – every time I turn around there I am, the inner me is watching and I want him to give me a bit of privacy.

But I don’t think writers get that privacy. Anyway, my journey’s about done, I’m about ready to get off that bus. Just not that happy about missing a friend.

Vale, Alan and Kari.

District 9 and SF for thinkers

District 9 is a movie which certainly fits the science fiction genre. Spaceship, aliens, advanced weaponry and other technological tricks.

Yep, it’s all there. Big guns, messy bits flying from bodies, people in turmoil.

And yet, it’s not about these things at all. In fact, no sci fi story is really about the shiny bits. Even if they eat us.

A good SF yarn is about us, not about them. It’s about how we behave under certain conditions, under stresses. Weary Dunlop, a great Australian, once said that “we can never know ourselves until we are at full stretch.” And he should know, the guy has serious cred. (I’m a fan)

Strip away the exotic locations and fantastic gadgets and we should see real people struggling with real issues – our issues. In fact those people become us and we get to explore, and in some cases discover, feelings and beliefs we never knew we had.

Like Harper Lee did for us when she wrote “To Kill a Mockingbird.” Yes, I heard that groan -wassamatta, don’t like a bit of work?

District 9 is a good movie, it’s message is a little hamfisted and laboured but it is worth a watch; if only to see something out of the ordinary (or Hollywood, same dif). Nothing cuddly or cute here, even the child alien is pretty yucky;  no real heroes, just a lot of filth and dirt. But a small ray of hope at the end.

I still remember reading – about a hundred years ago – Eric Frank Russel’s collection of short stories “With a Strange Device” – my first foray into SF. Doors in my mind opened, doors I didn’t even know were there let alone that they were closed. Still have that book, poor thing’s begging to be retired but I reckon there’s another read or two in it yet.

Any good story in any genre should be entertaining. But a great story makes us think; SF has an ocean of dud yarns but rising from their midst are the mountains of fantastic books which have provoked thought.

And my guess is that we each have different mountains.

Anyone fancy a climb?