Removing the scaffolding

There’s a lot of clanging and smashing and banging going on in my laptop right now. Metaphorically speaking. I’m in the throes of removing my scaffolding. Peeling away the bridges and links and downright waffle I layer in to help me grow my story.

I can’t remember which well-known author coined the idea of the scaffolding phase of editing, but it’s stuck with me. The process of revising a first draft – for me – is just that, akin to taking the scaffolding down after a big build job, ready to unveil the result.

And it’s got me thinking, what constitutes scaffolding and why is it useful? 

What is it? Well, for me it might often include…

• the tell not show; the intent of a character or dramatic action to get you to the next point of the story
• the overtelling – more information about motivation or emotion than the reader needs to know, but you need to remember
• ‘the other’ – the other path or reaction your character could have taken, but didn’t
• a character who is no longer necessary – a conduit for the narrative whose purpose is now defunct (sorry, Conor)
• too many words – a focus on driving through with story rather than being mindful of language

And why is it useful? Why not trim as I go, take each page and paint and polish it before moving on? For me, I find creation is a process I have to lean into or else it might not happen. It never appears from the first page, but slowly emerges. So while it might be a strategy to work more precisely and carefully and edit as I go (a simple ladder rather than full on poles and planks), I do fear the idea might not then fully form. My focus might get distracted by presentation and prose and curtail the process of story making. 

So I heave up the scaffolding from the first chapter, obscuring the true look and feel of the story beneath its clumsy façade. But heck, it makes me love the moment when it comes off – when I can start to see the final work, the big reveal when the props are taken away.

As to the scaffolding, I keep every bit. My mantra in life, it might come back in fashion, is also applied to my writing; I dread throwing anything away. So I keep a 'scaffolding' document that often, quite alarmingly, ends up being as long as the manuscript itself. Small parts of it can come in useful, once in a blue moon (similarly, the fashion comeback; ahem, flares are back).

The scary thing, of course, is you often have no idea what the end result will look like until all the scaffolding is off. Until you can stand back and read the story in full again. It is a risk. Especially if your deadline is in three weeks’ time. But fingers crossed for something like... (😉)

Alex Cotter’s middle-grade novels THE HOUSE ON THE EDGE and THE MERMAID CALL are published with Nosy Crow. She has also previously published YA novels as Alex Campbell. Find her at www.alexcotter.co.uk or on Twitter: @AlexFCotter

Trust in the process

I hit a writing wall a few weeks ago. A tall, solid, Gandalf-You-shall-not-pass, wall. It's due to the writing of my current MG novel, with a deadline that seemed far away a month ago - and lately has begun to loom like a gigantic shadow monster. I thought I knew where I was going with the story after some careful plotting over summer, and then: Gandalf. 

A timely night out with a good friend, where I was desperately bemoaning my brick-wall predicament, and she reminded me of some wise words - which have since seen me through: "Just trust in the process".

Oh, how I needed this reminder. I find I can all too quickly feel "A failure!" and "Doomed to mediocrity!" when I become suddenly stuck in my narrative; if I can't unlock the what-needs-to-happen-next to achieve the story that's clear in my head yet refuses to be put down on paper. "That's it" I will dramatically wail, "I'm not good enough to write it!" 

Unlocking the next

To remember there is a process - and one that sometimes can't be hurried yet is often integral to storytelling - was just what I needed to hear ... to become unstuck.

To trust in the process - and gradually over time and with work, hopefully doors will become unlocked and walls will come down and the narrative will flow again. 

To enable the process - and it will almost certainly and naturally evolve the story in your head onto the what's next. 

On reflection, my trusting in the process has included:

• Plotting

Return to the beginning and brainstorm the structural ideas again. Even if you're going over old ground, get it down on paper again; draw diagrams, pictures, maps. Relook at your blueprint for your novel and if there are other, stronger ideas that need to be generated, they might begin to emerge through this process.

• Writing

Plotting is all well and good, but often the real magic starts when you write, when you're inhabiting the minds and lives of your characters. Facing the story as they face it will gradually enable a process of ideas and pathways that are still yet to show themselves.

• Editing

Like weeding an overgrown garden, as you go through the book turfing out ideas that clutter and clog the story arc, you can see more clearly the ideas that do work and give them space to shine.

• Time out

Taking time to step away from the story can be part of the process too. Reading other books - all kinds of books - for inspiration; walking, talking, dancing - life outside of the laptop. I often find I become unstuck if I just have a swim, or a cheeky night out...

I suppose, as life in itself is a process, our brains need this time to consider and evaluate, the space to assemble and revise choices, an evolution to recognise the raw truth of the story. And by trusting in the natural creative process - rather than headless chicken panicking - last week I finally managed to bypass Gandalf and his staff for sunnier open meadows and - for now - I think I know where my narrative is going. Still doesn't stop that deadline looming though...!

Alex Cotter’s middle-grade novels THE HOUSE ON THE EDGE and THE MERMAID CALL are published with Nosy Crow. She has also previously published YA novels as Alex Campbell. Find her at www.alexcotter.co.uk or on Twitter: @AlexFCotter

Writing: The Next Generation - Ciaran Murtagh

This month I was lucky enough to head up to Manchester with my family to watch an episode of Crackerjack being filmed. I've written quite a few sketches for this show and it was a real thrill to see them performed in front of a studio audience. One of the sketches featured past presenters - Stu Francis, Don MacLean, Bernie Clifton, Basil Brush and Jan Hunt. The idea of the sketch was for them to pass the baton onto new presenters Sam and Mark and it was quite moving watching these performers I had grown up with paying it forward in that way.

Stu Francis was the Crackerjack presenter I grew up with. He's partly responsible for me doing the job I do now. I never thought I'd ever end up writing for him, but this remarkable career sometimes throws up those moments. I was writing silly jokes for the man who made me appreciate the value of silly jokes in the first place.

Writers are often connected to generations past and present in a very tangible way. We spend time in schools learning from the writers of the future and we spend time with books learning from the writers of the past. There is a continuum to our craft and to our work that transcends the time and place in which it was written.

Sitting in the Crackerjack studio, 30 years later than perhaps would have been ideal for my 8 year old self, it struck me how much I had been inspired by it as a child.

It's not just the show itself though, the people making it have also paid it forward. The first bit of TV I ever wrote featured Sam and Mark, they now present the show. The first bit of TV I ever wrote was commissioned on spec by Steve Ryde, he's now executive producer of Crackerjack. He took a risk on me, gave me some of his time and expertise, and now I have a career in a business I knew nothing about a decade ago.

This week I got nominated for a writing Bafta. If Steve Ryde hadn't taken that chance, if Crackerjack hadn't made me appreciate the value of a pun, I might never have been in this position. I don't forget that, which is why it's important when someone reaches out for advice or mentorship I do my best to help. Most of our careers are a hotch potch of lucky breaks, hard work and the occasional helping hand.  It's our duty to find the time to pay it forward whenever we can.

Thoughts on author websites before I take the plunge – by Rowena House

Researching WW1 for The Goose Road led me to many fantastic websites, among my favourites of which was author Lydia Syson’s, with its incredible wealth of links related to her insightful & powerful tale of the 1871 Paris Commune, Liberty’s Fire.

There’s so much knowledge there – from eye-witness accounts of the blood spilt to tantalizing ideas about the connection between the Commune and werewolves & zombie movies – that finding it almost brought my own story to a halt as I became drawn deeper and deeper into these extraordinary events.

Lydia’s site (www.lydiasyson.com) also set an extremely high benchmark for the depth of research and breadth of resources that can be found on the very best children’s author websites. I can’t hope to match her scholarship, but I can admire it from afar.

The more I’ve looked at author websites for inspiration for my own new site – searches which tend to be biased towards young people’s historical fiction, given my subject – the clearer it has become just how generous many authors are with their knowledge.

There are reading lists, lesson plans and activity packs, photograph galleries and collections of historical maps, museums to visit and games to play, and, and, and...

I know it’s unfair to single out anyone in a crowded field of excellence, but I particularly love Ally Sherrick’s classroom resources linked to her Black Powder story about the gunpowder plot (https://allysherrick.com/resources-2/).

Sadly, the smorgasbord that is Michael Morpurgo’s website overwhelmed rural Devon’s lethargic broadband, which at the time of writing, post-Storm Aileen, has all-but ground to a halt. I had time to make tea before his home page finished loading, and the download of one (of fifteen) teaching packs listed among his resources seized up my connection at 27%.

This experience of waiting raised an important issue for me: when designing my own site, should I assume that readers/schools/librarians/bookshops will have sufficient broadband capacity to support the latest apps and videos etc. or should I “Keep It Simple, Stupid” which always seems like good advice in almost every situation.

Some of the great writers have Kept It Simple. Margaret Atwood’s home page appears almost plain, but is subtly sophisticated with tumbling cubes of her covers that load quickly even at the end of more than a mile of copper wire.

This speed was in marked contrast to some older-fashioned sites, even some created by writers I know to be tech-savvy. One, for example, became stuck for more than a minute uploading a logo and struggled with pictures embedded in her (excellent) blog.

It seems that keeping up-to-date is essential, without going over the top.

Another thing I’ve learnt on the slow journey to publication is that return-on-advertising investment is long-term at best, non-existent at worst. So I won’t splash out on a webpage design service unless and until I can afford it. In the meanwhile, since web design isn’t rocket science, I’m going to have a go at do-it-yourself.

There is, of course, a very high probability I will fall on my face quite a lot in this process, and may well end up screaming for help. I’ve already attracted the unwanted attention of web-services providers just by buying a domain name, hence spam filters are even now being upgraded. Also, I wouldn’t risk starting out without support from my husband and son.

But as with almost everything to do with this writing business, there is an enormous amount of free design advice out there from good PR firms, and trust-worthy writing consultants who are also good at PR, as well as free software (I’m going with WordPress) and endless examples of best practice.

I’m also deeply grateful that SCBWI-BI is holding another marketing boot camp for debut authors this month, run by the inestimable Candy Gourlay, Sara Grant & Mo O’Hara, an event which got rave reviews last year. I’m sure that all of us who’ve been lucky enough to get a place on this course will come away from it buzzing.

Meanwhile, if any seasoned website-hosting authors have advice to offer a newbie on pitfalls to avoid or time-saving tips that are well-worth the effort, or anyone has thoughts to share or questions on content & design, I’d love to hear from you.

Twitter @HouseRowena

Rowena House FB author page

Website Coming Soon!

PS If you’re a professional web designer, don’t get in touch. I’ll only block/ignore you. Soz.

 

 

Why I trust my trusted readers, even when they don’t agree - Lari Don

Over the years, I've been incredibly lucky to find a small team of readers whose opinions I trust and respect, so when deadlines allow, I ask them to look at nearly finished manuscripts. I think some writers call this group their ‘beta readers’ but I’ve always called them my trusted readers.

Sending out half a dozen copies of a manuscript is easy. Reading the notes when they come back is not so easy. I spent last week reading through all the notes from all my trusted readers on the second book in my Spellchasers trilogy (rather an odd thing to do while also promoting the first book, which is launched next week, but authors often have to write one book and talk about another book at the same time.)

My trusted reader team are all friends or family: my husband, my mum, my best friend, but also a university friend who is now also writing kids’ books, a storyteller, a poet. And I have young trusted readers too: one of my daughters, one of my nephews.

And what do they do?

They tell me what they think. They point out typos, factual errors, sloppy punctuation (particularly my mum and my daughter.) They comment on my use of language (that’s my mum again, and the incredibly perceptive poet.)

They make very specific comments and suggestions, from the reader’s perspective. In the first Spellchasers book, I used the word ‘tattie’ a lot (tattie field, tattie digging, tattie howking - it’s set on a witch’s farm) and two of my trusted readers pointed out that’s all very well for readers who speak Scots, but potentially confusing for anyone else. So they both suggested that I use the word ‘potato’ early on, to introduce the vegetable. I did.

And some readers get very attached to particular characters and can be very good at analysing the story from that specific point of view. (Someone got very upset at the team's unfair treatment of the sphinx in this current manuscript, so I'm considering going back in to sort that out.)

They tell me what lines and scenes they like or think work particularly well. And they tell me what paragraphs or scenes they think are unnecessary, incomprehensible, too long...

The only problem is: they don’t always agree. They very often contradict each other. My trusted readers’ opinions are often 180 degrees opposed to each other. This time I had one reader absolutely adamant that a line of dialogue was appalling, he hated it and it had to go. (They don’t mince their words, my trusted readers!) And another reader said it was one of her favourite bits of the book.

So, what do I do?

I have to make up my own mind. It’s my story. I know what happens, I can see it happening in my head. The manuscript is me trying to find my way towards the right words to share that story. I am unbelievably grateful for other people’s thoughts because they often enable me to find much stronger and more vivid ways to tell the story. But in the end it is my story.

So if two readers disagree, I am the referee and I decide.

Though I don’t always do what my trusted readers suggest, even if a couple of them agree. If for example four readers don’t comment on a scene, and two readers say they don’t like it and why, I will consider those comments, then I might change the scene, though possibly not in the way they suggested, or I might decide to stick with what I had.

Other peoples’ comments, whether I agree with them and follow their suggestions or not, force me to question my story, my writing style, my word choice. That questioning is always good for me and for my story, but it might not result in a change. I might agree that this line is shocking and dark, but realise that I want to shock the reader there, so I’ll keep it. I might agree this line of dialogue is a bit cheesy, but decide that it reflects how the character is feeling at that point, so I’ll keep it.

My trusted readers improve my books, one line at a time. But they are also improving me as a writer, by challenging me to consider why I make the writing decisions I do, and why I stick by them even when I’m questioned or criticised.

Books need writers. But they need readers too!

Reading these notes is draining and exhausting. Not quite as viciously painful as reading my editor’s notes, because these trusted readers, love them through I do, have no actual power over the final printed words. Reading the notes is tough, because I’ve asked them to be honest, I trust them to be honest, and honesty is not always easy to read. So when I spend a week reading a different trusted reader’s notes each day, by the end of the week, I feel like my story and I have been sliced up and stitched back together several times.

But afterwards the story is stronger and I am more certain of it. And that's why I trust my trusted readers.

 Lari Don is the award-winning author of more than 20 books for all ages, including fantasy novels for 8 – 12s, picture books, retellings of traditional tales, a teen thriller and novellas for reluctant readers. 

Lari’s website 

Lari’s own blog

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On Becoming That Person - Liz Kessler

Here’s a story. It’s set in early 1985. A girl is in her first year at university. Lots of things are changing around her. Politically, times are volatile. Margaret Thatcher is barely halfway through her time as Prime Minister. The miners’ strike is going strong. Clause 28 and the Poll Tax are only a few years away.

Inwardly, things are just as volatile for our protagonist. She’s been feeling confused about herself recently. Feeling things that she can’t quite put into words – or maybe she can, but she’s scared to.

She’s tried dropping hints to a couple of her friends about what she’s going through – but where to start? And does she dare? Sharing her theories about herself feels like a big risk to take on such new friendships.

And then she meets someone new, and the theory becomes reality. She meets a girl, and falls in love. Nothing has ever felt so right – but nothing has ever felt so scary either. The girls sneak around as secretly as they can, hiding their kisses, whispering their feelings, hoping that no one will guess. Of course, people do. Some are understanding. Others – like the girlfriend’s housemate who pours a pint over the girl’s head in the student bar and calls her disgusting – not so much.

The girl feels alone. Who can she turn to? She’s not ready to publicly walk through a door with a big ‘GAYSOC’ label on it yet. So she turns to books. It’s pre-internet, though, remember, so this isn’t an easy task, and involves building up the courage to go to the ‘Lesbian and Gay’ section of the women’s bookshop she’s heard about in London. But she does it. And there, she finds Rubyfruit Jungle, The Well of Loneliness, Patience and Sarah and a few others.

These books might be dated. They might be worlds away from what she’s going through. But at last, she is reading the words of someone who has trodden the path she is trying to navigate. Finally, she is not on her own.

You might have guessed by now, or you might not. (Which, incidentally, is a line from my first book, The Tail of Emily Windsnap, which my brother has always maintained is an allegory for coming out as gay, but which – well, if it is, it was purely accidental on my part.) The girl is me. Was me. The ‘was’ is important because of how different those times were. At least, in many ways they were different, and thank goodness for that.

If you spend a lot of time in certain circles, mixing with crowds who are cool, up-to-date, politically aware, cosmopolitan, you might be forgiven for thinking that we’ve advanced to a point where sexuality is no longer an issue. But that’s not the whole story.

In these advanced times, ‘That’s so gay’ is still commonly used as a derogatory term. In these advanced times, LGBT students and young adults still have one of the highest rates of suicide attempts. In these advanced times, a leading Cardinal in the Vatican feels able to go on record advising parents not to let their children have anything to do with ‘wrong’‘evil’ and ‘intrinsically disordered’ gay people.

So no, we are not there yet. But we're on our way. And I might be biased but I happen to believe that literature - and particularly Young Adult literature - is leading the way. 

Think back to the girl in her hall of residence, hoping no one had seen her come out of her friend’s room late at night, secretly reading books with lesbian characters and hiding them at the back of a drawer, hoping no one shouted insults as she drank in the union bar. Think about what she got from the books she found. The worlds they opened, the strength they gave her. The knowledge passed down from the generation that went before her.

And now think about this. I am that person. I’m not just the girl being called ‘disgusting’ by her girlfriend’s roommate. I am the person ahead of her too, the one further down the path, helping to light the way for the next generation. Because society has changed as much as it has, because my publisher wanted to be part of that change, not just watch it take place outside - my YA novel Read Me Like A Book was published. This month it came out in paperback.

I can hardly even put into words how much it means to that student back in the 1980s. In fact, I can, because I am her. It means the world. And I use that word on purpose. Because I am proud to be part of the world that has made these changes. And I hope to be part of the world that strives to make more, until a girl struggling to come to terms with her sexuality is such a non-issue that the idea of writing a book about it doesn't even make sense.

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How the Light Gets In - Liz Kessler

In the past couple of months, I've had kidney failure, liver failure, an unnamed tropical disease, another disease that is hard to diagnose because the symptoms are very much like a cold; I've cracked a rib from sneezing too much, my blood pressure has gone so high that I have spontaneously combusted, oh, and I've gone blind from glancing at the solar eclipse.

Have you guessed yet that I might not really (as in, actually, in real life) have had all (or any) of these diseases? Well, no, as far as I know, I have simply had a cold, a prickly heat rash, a bit of anxiety and a lovely walk along the coast path during the solar eclipse.

The main thing I suffer from is too much imagination.

A good writer buddy and I used to call this "Writer's Brain Tumour". The thinking is that when a writer gets a headache – which to normal people is described as a headache – we immediately fear the worst and think we have a brain tumour. Since my partner had a – benign, thank God – brain tumour a couple of years ago, I tend not to call it this any more. Nowadays I call it (cue dramatic 'dum dum derrrrrrrrer' music)....

The curse of the writer.

While you chew on that thought, let's take a quick commercial break. I was pretty much brought up on an album called You Don't Have to be Jewish, which I have had a soft spot for ever since. There is a sketch called The Diamond, and if I ever use the word 'curse', I can't help thinking of it. It has the best pronunciation of this word ever in the world. I've managed to track down a video of the sketch. Do yourself a favour and watch this before you go any further.

OK, now that's out of the way, let's get back to the issue in hand. And also, can I briefly apologise if I've talked about this before. I probably have. It doesn't go away.

You see, as writers it is our job to spend our days delving into our imaginations, exploring in the realms of 'What if this?' and 'What about that?' and 'How about?' and 'Could this possibly...?' So it's no wonder we do that with our own lives – and often our own bodies – too.

Our day jobs involve us thinking about the least likely scenarios, not the every day events. We deal in the dramatic and our fare is the furthest reaches of our imaginations. How many of us have been told by editors and agents to 'raise the stakes'?

I've spent fifteen years working as a writer. That's fifteen years training my mind to raise the stakes. Luckily, I love to do it in my books. The feeling I get from exploring a story, an idea, a character – and yes, a highly unlikely scenario – is possibly as good for me as the adrenaline rush of scoring a goal is for a footballer. The issue is, how do we switch it off?

When children ask me for my top writing tips, one that I nearly always tell them is to carry a notebook around with you because you never know when you'll get an idea. 

I tell them that ideas are like butterflies and your notebook is a big net in which you can catch them safely and take them home with you so you can work on them later when you have more time.

At the heart of this advice is the fact that our stories and our imaginations don't clock on and off between nine and five. And therein lies the problem. 

If we're not writing, the imagination doesn't instantly switch off. It's like one of those cartoon characters who keeps running, even though the top of the cliff is way behind them. It takes a moment for them to realise they are pumping their legs in mid air – before they fall to the ground. 

So how do we get our imaginations to notice that we are approaching the edge of a cliff and calmly come back from the precipice until it is time to go to work again tomorrow?

It simply doesn't work like that.

Maybe we just have to accept, like Mrs Plotnick (have you watched the sketch yet?) that along with our beautiful gift, there's a curse. We can't change it, we can't get rid of it. Perhaps we can try to wrap it up and put it in a nice box on our desks at the end of the day and hope it won't follow us out of the office when we close the door behind us and get on with the rest of our lives. But it will probably follow us down the stairs – because it isn't just part of our job, it is part of ourselves.

Perhaps the only way to get rid of the curse is to change our language and call it something different. We're good at words - we've already established that – so it could work. 

Yes, I can sometimes (OK, often) exaggerate my physical symptoms and worry about what they might mean. Yes I do feel my blood pressure go up and my anxiety levels rise when my imagination is getting more involved in my backache/headache/slight feeling of tiredness than it should be. But I don't spend my entire life doing this. In reality, it is a small portion of the time – and a small price to pay for the opportunity to spend my days staring into space making up stories about mermaids and fairies and time travel and pirate dogs (and teenagers coming out as gay - subliminal ad for Read Me Like A Book. In all good bookshops from next month.) 

In other words, the curse is in fact part of the gift, and the best way to deal with it is to stop fighting against it and accept it as the imperfection that makes the gift perfect.

Or as Leonard Cohen puts it so beautifully:

"Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack, a crack in everything
That's how the light gets in."

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