Call yourself a writer?

Inspired by this blog post, here’s a few ramblings about writing…

Which words do you use too much in your writing?

Cripes, I have no idea. I guess my biggest fault is that I find it hard to write formal stuff these days. Thanks to the introduction of blogging and the old citizen journalism I find it much easier to inject my own personality into my writing. Serious interviews don’t interest me that much these days and I find it hard to not to be a bit of a joker when I write. I do abbreviate words quite a lot, like kinda and gonna, and I guess this may be a tad irritating. What am I trying to be, like a 14-year-old? Like totally? For real? Whatever!

Which words do you consider overused in stuff you read?

I don’t think it’s which words, it’s how many words. There’s a lot of over-writing out there and a lot of folk think good writing is flowery, wordy and intense. It isn’t. Good writing, for me anyway, gets to the point using as few words as possible and is written in a way which engages the reader and makes them visualise what they’re reading about. Why say dwelling when you mean house, facility when you mean toilet or receptacle when you mean a glass? Keep it simple and your writing will be accessible to everyone.

What’s your favourite piece of writing by you?

I’m way too over critical to be able to name one. I much prefer reading my stuff after a few years have passed, when it’s a totally fresh read because I’ve forgotten all about it. Re-reading this blog post, for example, and I’ll think it’s pants. As a writer I’m not sure you can ever be 100 per cent happy with what you’ve written, I guess it’s how others perceive it. A few months ago I took a trip back to the Newport Advertiser, where I was chief reporter aged 20, and I skimmed some of the back editions which was great fun and reminded me that hey, perhaps I could write after all. It wasn’t bad stuff, even if I do say so myself. Worst case scenario, I guess some of my published work would make very good bog roll (apart from the online stuff, of course).

Regrets, do you have any? Is there anything you wish you hadn’t written?

It’s better to regret something you have done, rather than something you haven’t – I live and I’ll die by that statement. As for writing, I probably wish I hadn’t written the headline “Man found hanged” on a story about a man who actually gassed himself in his garage – he didn’t hang himself at all.  I don’t know what I was thinking but I read the reporter’s story, picked up on the suicide and out came that headline, which fit perfectly into whatever column inches I’d left for it. It was a front page story and, amazingly, no one picked up on it. Not the reporters who proofed the page, not my editor, not the printers, and not one of the paper’s 30,000 readers. Amazing! I was somewhat let off the hook by the fact that in that same week my editor wrote the headline “Grass cunting” when she should have written “grass cutting”. It was a dull two par-filler made less dull by the headline typo, and so all attention was taken away from my suicide headline and focused on the very rude word that had found it’s way into our paper – and later FHM magazine.

How has your writing made a difference? What do you consider your most important piece of writing?

I really doubt that my writing has made a difference to anyone, to be honest. I got into journalism because I wanted to write, not because I wanted to help people, (selfish, but true) although I’ve had a fair few boxes of chocolates and thank you letters along the way, so some folk must have been pleased with what I’ve bashed out. When I was assistant editor on the North Shropshire Chronicle we picked up an award for Campaigning Newspaper of the Year for our Sink or Swim Campaign – to save a local swimming pool from closure. It’s small town news really, but was a big issue for the locals, and thanks to out campaign putting pressure on local government, the pool stayed open. That was pretty heart-warming and we got a fair few pats on the back for that.

Name three favourite words

By. Robyn. Slingsby. (my fourth word would be exclusive)

And three words you’re not so keen on

By. Staff. Reporter.

Do you have a writing mentor, role model or inspiration?

I tend to be inspired by places, rather than people, especially places where there are no distractions like household chores, ringing phones and people to talk to. I’m inspired by scenery, beautiful places, buzzing places and even simple places like coffee shops where I can people watch. As for mentor, my former editor John Butterworth played a huge role in pushing my career on, handing me challenge after challenge and new job title after new job title each time I got bored. And that happened a lot. If he hadn’t encouraged me I doubt I’d have had the confidence or the skills to be  series editor at 26.

What’s your writing ambition?

To have my first novel published. I’m currently working on the second draft of my first novel, pure unadulterated chick lit. It’s a tough slog and there’s plenty of work to be done yet but if I can bag myself an agent and get the damn thing published I’ll be a very happy girly. Journalism is easier – it’s reporting the facts (for the most part, at least) but writing fiction is a different ball game and one that’s challenging me along the way.

Plug alert! List any work you would like to tell people about?

Well, er… keep an eye out for my novel which may be published in the next five years, and even then only if I’m very, very lucky. In the meantime, most of my work is published on the website I work for – Platform.

Tag alert

Here are some fellow journos who may wish to blog in a similar manner…

Tracy Buchanan

Jane Matthews

Lorna Rutter

Review: Single White Failure

I’ve recently read Single White Failure, a novel by GJH Sibson. It’s about a 20-something guy embarking on a series of dates in London, the kinda girl equivalent of Bridget Jones I think, although I’m doubtful he wears big knickers and he’s nowhere near as funny.

The book’s by a chap called Gareth Sibson who was one of the guest speakers at a literary masterclass in London. He’s obviously had a lot of success from his book, which he chose to self publish because agencies/publishers felt that while it was a great idea, it wasn’t marketable.

While I really warmed to the other published authors, Kate Mosse and Lola Jaye, I found Gareth’s arrogance a tad off-putting. While Lola, bless her cottons, told of the trials and tribulations of becoming a published author – sleep deprivation and downright desperation included – Gareth seemed above all this and tells us he knew better than the publishers’ marketeers as he too worked in marketing and, to quote, “I think I know more about  it than them”.  He may well have been right, his book, although self published, seems to be doing well. But it didn’t make me warm to him, and I don’t suppose he cares.

The book is about a guy called Max who finishes with his long-term girlfriend and embarks on a dating adventure with his two single mates. The opening chapter is brilliant, I really get pulled in, but from there it goes downhill. I may have warmed to Max a bit more if I didn’t know he was based on the author. I’m not a fan of the author so I’m not a fan of Max. How much more would I have enjoyed this book if I knew nothing of its origins?

It’s a great concept though – book shops are full to bursting with chick lit but what about guy lit? What about men’s trouble and strife as they enter the dating scene in their bid to find Mrs Right? In that sense, it’s a good read although a tad contradictory. Max slates a potential internet date who at 5ft 11ins herself wants to know his height before they meet. He thinks this is vain, I think this is an important issue. Max thinks it’s okay to bin off the not-so-slim girls and choose those with long, flowing, golden blonde hair, but when a girl asks his height he gets all offended.

There are some funny stories in there though, and I have no doubt that they’re true – there are some psycho girls out there – and it goes half way to proving that men and women really have very little in common. It’s no wonder dating is a miserable journey when men and women seek different things, feel different things and see things from a totally different perspective.

I was very nearly disappointed by the ending and almost to the point of throwing the book in a fire and watching it burn. Happy, soppy endings are so yesterday, in my view, and the way he thinks he’s found the love of his life the moment he sets eyes on her is just not realistic. But the ending turns out okay. Ish.

What does surprise me throughout the book is the spelling and punctuation. It’s bad, and I mean really bad.

Now I don’t know the process involved in self publishing but one assumes a great deal of editing and proofing still goes into it before it hits the presses. Of course, odd errors sneak into all books, we’re only human after all, but there are a lot of things that smack you in the face in this one.

Firstly, the use of apostrophes or lack thereof. The author can’t use them and the editors fail to notice; it’s a tad annoying. Secondly, any letter with an accute accent above it seems to be in a different font to the rest of the body text, and also in bold like it’s a really important letter. It’s not.

And then there’s the way the tenses are all mixed up and some blindingly obvious errors. One chapter opens with the words “It’s August”. Two sentences later and “the capital is in its first hot spell of the year. That essential three week period that manifests just after Easter each year.” Spot the obvious mistake? August, under any circumstances, isn’t just after Easter.

In the words of The Evening Standard reviewer “if you’ve lost your faith in men, he may just restore it”. Well, he doesn’t. It’s not the best read I’ve ever had although perhaps, knowing it’s self published, I read it with more of a critical eye. Still, it’s all good research for my own work-in-progress novel and for that I’m grateful.

A literary boost

Okay, so I went to a literary masterclass at the London Book Fair on Saturday with two of my writer buddies, and it’s possibly given me the kick I needed to get on and spend some quality time with the laptop. And get my damn book finished, the first draft anyway.

The panel consisted of publishing gods Bill Swainson and Simon Trewin and authors Lola Jaye, Gareth Sibson and Kate Mosse, who each handed out their own shreds of  invaluable advice. It was mostly a question and answers session really but I was a little uncomfortable by some of the things pouring out of wannabe authors’ mouths. For example:

• I’ve written a book for a niche market. Should I approach a large or small publisher. Which niche market? Give the guys a clue.
• How many books do you have to sell to break even? How many grains of sand are there on a beach?

And, when we were specifically instructed to keep questions succinct and to the point so we could get more out of the two-hour session…

• I’d just like to take the time to thank the panel for giving up their time on a Saturday morning to help us. Just ask your damn question..
• I’ve had many manuscripts sent back without being read, is this bumble bumble bumble, manuscripts over the years, normal practice, bumble bumble, is that always the case? I repeat, just ask the damn question.

And then when there’s time for one final question a woman waves her hand vigourously in front of me..

• Erm, well, basically i’d like to ask the same question as the man before me (buy phrased differently). Give me strength.

Apart from the dogy questions it was nice to see what my fellow writers looked like. What does a writer/potential author wear, we asked ourselves as we headed to the Earls Court Conference Centre. Pretty much anything goes, it seems. Interesting to note was that the large majority of the 500-strong audience was female and most were over 50.

Anyway, what did I take away from this session? Here are the best bits summarised:

• Passion and enthusiasm for your writing are key
• Always remain optimistic but not unrealistic
• It takes time, be prepared to put in the elbow grease
• Do your research
• Writing for five minutes a day is better than not writing at all. The more you write the better you’ll get so don’t put it off if you think you don’t have time
• Just because you read one genre doesn’t mean you can write that genre. Stick with what you write best, don’t force it
• Keep submission letters short
• Learn from your rejection letters

Common sense stuff really, don’t you think? Anyway, I found it useful and inspiring and the boozy lunch we had in South Kensington afterwards was perfect for literary brainstorming with my writer buddies, one of whom has already bagged herself an agent. Lucky cow. And out literary convos have possibly conjured up an ending to my book. Hoorah!

So, action points from Saturday’s sesh are:

• Dedicate more time to writing, even if it’s in short bursts
• Find somewhere cool and comfy to go and write, too many distractions at home
• Organise a writers’ retreat for me and three girl pals in an isolated cottage somewhere pretty
• Order more books to read for inspiration and research
• Research potential agents interested in my genre of writing – contemporary women’s literature, AKA chick lit

Sink your teeth into these short stories…

Whoo hoo, I got 82 per cent in my first TMA. That’s a tutor-marked assignment for those of you who don’t know. And if you still don’t know what I’m harping on about, I’m undertaking a three month course with The Open University called Start Writing Fiction.

This assignment required me to write three lots of 500 words, the first in the voice of a child, the second to portray a character and an emotion, and the third something based on what you hear when you turn the radio on.

Here are my attempts, constructive criticism welcome…. What I am discovering on this course is the fact I find it tricky to write anything other than chick lit. It’s what I know, although oddly, not what I read.

See what you think peeps…

Just a bad dream?

We were heading towards school and I remember it well ‘cos I didn’t want to go. It was PE day, and I hated PE, always the last to get picked and always looking silly in front of everyone.

Mum was pulling me by the hand ‘cos we were late. We both hated being late, mum because it meant she got told off at work and me because I’d get watched by everyone when I walked into class.

“Come on love,” she said. “The sooner you get to school the sooner the day will be over and it’ll be time to come home again.”

This wasn’t strictly true, although I didn’t really know why. It was the sort of thing mum said a lot to make try and make me feel better. It never really worked.

“I can’t walk any faster, my legs aren’t as long as yours remember,” I replied, as I ran a couple of paces to release the tension in my extended arm. I was being dragged to school!

We were just about to cross the road, the school gates within eyesight now, when it happened. A huge noise erupted from the nearby tube station and suddenly it was smoky and I started coughing. I remember coughing ‘cos mum was doing the same and I remember wishing I had some cough sweets.

At this point I think mum had forgotten about getting to school, she just stood there on the pavement. It was like time was standing still or something.

And then came the screams, lots of them, and I felt scared. I didn’t know where the noises were coming from and I didn’t know where to look. It felt like I was in danger and mum was just standing there, her hair and coat flapping in he commotion but her body as still as a statue.

Then came movement, people running from the tube station entrance, screaming, crying and shouting for help. They didn’t look like the normal business people I saw using the tube, these people were dirty, their clothes torn or scuffed, their bags abandoned and some of them were hurt. I remember that some of them were bleeding ‘cos I hate the sight of blood and that’s when I started to feel sick. And then I started to cry.

“Muuuum,” I bellowed, “Muuuum, do something.”

I felt an arm around me and opened my eyes to see mum’s concerned face staring down at me, her eyes a little bit wet in the corners. I saw my school uniform hanging on the door, my magazines on the carpet and my Britney Spears quilt cover ruffled around my feet. I was in my bed, at home.

“Hey sweetheart, you just had a bad dream, that’s all. Everything’s okay, I’m here. Try and go back to sleep.”
As I closed my eyes again I remembered having that dream before, how real it felt, like I was right there when it happened. Dad died in a tube bombing three months ago and I’d been having that horrible dream ever since.

Desperately seeking something…

It’s nearly 8pm on a Saturday night and she’s curled up on the cool leather sofa, tub of Ben and Jerry’s in hand and watching The X Factor. If she was 13 this would probably be okay. But she’s 28; rapidly approaching 29, in fact.

Roxy always feels like a bit of a failure when she spends a Friday or Saturday night in front of the TV, ‘cos surely she should be straightening her brunette bob, applying lashings of eyeliner to her hazel eyes and pulling her size 12 frame into a slinky party outfit? Surely she should be partying with mates, out to dinner with a guy or running a romantic bath for her boyfriend?

Well, Roxy doesn’t have a boyfriend, or a date, and she’s too tired for partying with mates; it’s been a hellish week in the newsroom – and that wasn’t ever on the agenda this weekend – plus she got drunk last night. Feeling too old to flush her system with alcohol two nights in a row, she wasn’t keen on throwing her Sundays out the window all in the name of recovery. Hangover hell was increasing year on year.

So, Roxy’s staying in tonight. Just her, the widescreen TV which set her back a small fortune, and some calorific snacks. It’s not like she can’t afford to go out either, although the rent on her swanky apartment is crippling. Thank goodness for daddy’s allowance. It’s a proper bachelorette pad too, carrying off the minimalist look – modern furniture, clean lines and low lighting. So romantic, or at least it would be if she didn’t have only herself to woo. It’s doubtful she’d even turn herself on this evening.

She shuffles further into the settee to get comfy, tipping the remote control over the arm and onto the bright white carpet, showcasing every drop of spilled wine, every fallen flake of make-up, every meal that escaped from the plate. Roxy’s grateful it didn’t fall into the glass of squash sitting idly nearby. That would have been a disaster.

In fact, the whole evening was a disaster. The girly outfit from last night had been banished for slippers, trackie bums, a hoodie and her Clark Kent-style glasses. Not a stitch of make-up – not even a smudge of the everyday eyeliner – adorns her face and her skin’s elephant grey and dehydrated from yesterday’s booze binge.

Aren’t you supposed to stop getting spots at my age too, she wonders? Roxy looks terrible but knows there will be no knocks at the door – she’s uncomfortable with unexpected visitors – and should there be the odd text or unlikely phone call, looking good’s not required or expected.

Roxy knows there’s no place she’d rather be tonight than in the warmth of her trendy apartment, the lakeside view waving to her through the floor to ceiling window, and the comfort of her double bed just two rooms away. But she still thinks and feels that she should be somewhere else, anywhere else, living life and creating new memories. Tonight’s only memory is that the wrong person got voted off The X Factor. Gotta love Simon Cowell though, she grins.

A bad date

It’s Saturday morning and I was determined to go to the gym, work off some of those mid-week stresses that had built up in my shoulders. I pulled back the covers and sprung out of bed like a child on Christmas Day. The sun was shining as I flicked on the radio.

Instead of being greeted with Lady Gaga pumping from the speakers, it was a stream of adverts. I must have flicked stations when I snoozed the alarm earlier. Oh God, there’s that advert again…the one about that dating website, guaranteed to find you that special someone or give you your money back. And they say romance isn’t dead? Pah!

The whole single/couple debate riles me. I’d love nothing more than to curl into the arms of a loving man every evening but honestly, finding one is no mean feat. And dating is so exhausting.

I did have a date lined up for tonight but I cancelled it, reeling off some horrible lie about a sick relative. The truth is, I’m just not into him and would rather chill at home than make polite but forced conversation with a guy I know wants to jump my bones at every opportunity.

I’ve had three dates with this guy and that was two too many. He’s alright, but there’s no spark. Physically, there’s nowt much wrong with him, but his personality…well…I couldn’t really tell if he had one.

He knows nothing about me, because he hasn’t asked anything; he only knows what I’ve told him. But he’s quite content to slide his hands up my top and dribble all round my face. He doesn’t kiss the way I like either and despite trying to move my mouth in such a way as to hint to him I want to kiss slower, he continues to slobber over my lips like a dog with a bone. Yuk.

Our last date, dinner at his new-build semi, was painful. He can cook, I’ll give him that, but conversation was stinted, he’s not funny, and he kept interrupting me.
I was perched on the edge of his hard leather sofa trying not to touch his looming frame, dodging eye contact for fear he’d dive in for a snog like an Olympic swimmer competing for a medal. My eyes were drawn to things that only irritated me further – the carpet strewn with bits of fluff, the bright lighting, the pile of unopened mail on the Ikea sideboard, and the lack of a mirror in the bathroom, not that I needed to check my lippy.

I made my excuses and left early, side stepping along his hallway as he stalked me to the front door, that hungry glint in his eyes. Well, he wasn’t feasting on me, that was for sure. I slid away from him like a burglar trying to avoid torchlight, his body looming closer as the door – and my great escape – crept slowly nearer. It was a painful exit and I walked away shaking my head like freshly bathed dog, tongue hanging out in semi disapproval. The click of his front door signalled closure for me, the realisation and relief that the date was over.

Write on dude!

It’s been noted that I’ve been neglecting my blog a bit lately. Note to self: must do better. The reason for this is the lack of hours in the day, time flying when you’re having fun and all that.

Not only am I attempting to write a book – spurred on by the success and enthusiasm of my matey Rhubarb Ruby – I’m also doing a “start writing fiction” course.

Now, I have to confess to being a bad student and skimming parts of the content in order to get through it quicker. This will no doubt have a detrimental affect on my work and my assignments as I’m not taking the right stuff in – or the write stuff if you want to be clever about it.

And while this course is teaching me different approaches to my writing and new techniques, I’m not overly convinced.

I struggle with the whole writing thing. Things in my life are very black and white, not much room for the grey stuff, and I tend to think there’s either good writing or bad writing. So if my tutor tells me to use to word “so” instead of “sooo” (for emphasis)  in my writing, why is that right? I’m not saying that isn’t right, I just don’t know. Surely there is no right or wrong in writing? And surely it’s for each individual reader to decide?

One thing I have discovered is that I can’t write just any old thing, I can only write what I know. I have a library of good material stored in my brain, gleaned over years of just..well…living really.

I have no end of amusing/serious/shocking stories in my head – all based on truths – and I want to get them down on paper. So writing a story from a child’s point of view based on something that happens on the street – one of my recent assignments – is tough for me. I don’t know how to do it. I don’t enjoy that sort of writing, I know my limits.

So, I guess my rant is this…how will I ever know if I’m a good writer or not? Some will read this blog and think it’s pants, others tune in every week. Some will read my manuscript (when it’s finished) and like it, others will think it’s simply fire fodder.

So, a question to mull over…can you teach someone to be a great writer or is it natural talent? Or both? Discuss…

The “write” career move?

Happy Monday folks! Apologies, I feel I’ve been neglecting this blog a little of late and posting pretty crappy content, but I’ve had my reasons. Apart from writing at work (it’s what I’m paid to do so I kinda have no choice there) I’ve been investing my spare time in writing…writing a book. Eek.

I’ve wanted to write a book for yonks, in fact I’ve started but not finished on many occasions. When I was clearing out files on my old PC over Christmas I came across something I’d started writing five years ago. I read it, having little memory of what it was all about and I thought: “You know, Robyn, this ain’t half bad.”

Writing is difficult and re-reading your own stuff over and over tends to mean you can’t see the wood for the trees. So skimming my own prose five whole years after writing it made me realise I can write and, actually, it was pretty funny stuff.

So, this year I enrolled on a Start Writing Course with The Open University to spur me on. In fact, what I write best isn’t actually fiction as such, more like real life stories and experiences gelled together, so this course will hopefully encourage me to focus on characterisation, plot and feed me some good writing tips.

Us journos write fact, fact, fact so it’s a bit hard to jump into fiction and knock out an award winning novel just like that. My friend Rhubarb Ruby has done just that though; I’m proud and jealous of her at the same time as her book is sitting in the laps of no less than three agents as we speak. Nice one.

So, I am 25,000 words into the first draft of my booksy and have another 50,000 to go I reckon. I’m not gonna tell you more than that, the rest’s a secret. Who knows if the finished product will even get read by anyone other that my journo/media mates but I have to at least give it a try.

So watch this space folks, will this be the next “write” move on my career ladder? Here’s hoping!