The Jigsaw Man

The Jigsaw Man I’ve just finished reading this book and oh boy can Paul Britton put pieces together. It’s no wonder his book is called The Jigsaw Man! This chap, who hails from the Midlands, is a psychologist and offender profiler who over the years has given – free of charge, I might add – a fair chunk of his time to help police solve crime.

When I pulled open the first page of the book I was expecting it to be about an American, for some reason. Aren’t all decent crime stories from the US? Well, no actually. I found myself visualising Paul Britton at work in Leicester, the city where I lived for a couple of years, and visiting places I know relatively well. He started from humbled beginnings but worked his arse off to become a very talented psychologist, helping police track killers and kidnappers, offering interview techniques and piecing together the pieces of some horrific crime scenes.

Britton’s path crosses some horrible events – Fred and Rosemary West’s appalling killing spree in Gloucester; the distressing murder of toddler Jamie Bulger by two 10-year-old boys; the violent and sexual murder of a young woman and her small child; the brutal slaying of Rachel Nickell on Wimbledon Common and the abduction of baby Abbie Humphries; and he meets the man who killed his own wife and made up an elaborate tale of kidnap and gangs to cover it up.

In his autobiography, forensic psychologist Paul Britton asks himself four questions when faced with a crime: what has happened; who is the victim; how was it done; and why? Only when he has the answers to these questions can he address the fifth: who is responsible? While the book is a tad slow to start for my liking – but only because I like the blood and the gore – I soon found myself glued to the pages and the interesting police cases he was consulted on.

While clearly a very talented man in his field, an area which isn’t supported by everyone, Britton admits that with each case he left a little piece of himself at the scene. So why did he do it when he found it so harrowing? Why pore over crime scene photos into the early hours while his family slept? Because he knew if he could help put one more evil person behind bars, the streets would be a safer place. And that’s what drove him. Each time he promised to hang up his offender profile hat, a new and intriguing case would come along and he just couldn’t say no.

What’s also interesting is how he can’t meet people now without finding out all sorts of information about them that he’d rather not know. The way people dress, act, speak and carry themselves all give off not so subtle signals about the sort of person they are or how easy a victim they’d would make – and Paul Britton finds it tricky to ignore these signals even during a casual conversation.

While his profiling has clearly eaten away at him over the years, he has assisted the police in more than 100 cases, helping them to identify and understand the nature of the perpetrator. It’s a good book and not only a detective story, but an insight into what makes the criminal mind tick. It sure gets a thumbs up from me, and if you enjoy real crime stories then this is for you.

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

Time for the second draft

To write a whole novel is an achievement in itself, so pat on the back for me. But that’s not the half of it. While I was on holiday I read the whole thing, from start to finish, for the first time since penning “The End” a few weeks back.

And I’m happy with the overall idea, but it still needs a whole lotta work, so here comes second draft time. A couple of buddies, one a fellow writer, have read it through too and now’s the time to cobble together all that feedback and get cracking on making is super duper. I also have a bonus reader whose feedback is coming shortly.

While it’s very easy to pick up on the old typos and sentences that don’t make sense – and there are a few of those – it’s harder to see the bigger picture. What I do know is that I need to do more showing rather than telling, add sub-character motivations – why are they in the book? – add more “rapist wit” and make my main character Ronnie a bit more likeable. At the moment I think she’s perhaps a tad unemotional and a bit arrogant. She’s no push over but it does need to hurt a bit more when guys kick her to the kerb.

And I also need to decide which city to set it in, am torn between two, as well as bring more of Ronnie’s background into the foreground. I also need to decide whether to spell a character’s name Millie or Milly. Sooo many inconsistencies to sweep up.

Oh, if you haven’t guessed I’m writing chick lit. I’ve read a lot of this genre over he last couple of months – all in the name of research, crime is more my bag – and my aim is to be a bit different. I’m not sure if I’ve quite succeeded in that in the first draft but the second will be better.

Every chick lit book I’ve read, without exception, has finished with a happy, loved up ending when the girl gets her guy. And you can usually tell which guy that’ll be from the first chapter. Predicatble, snore, snore. There’s no happy ending in my book. That’s not to say it’s a miserable ending either but I’ll say no more about it.

Also, upon my research, I haven’t found a book that really makes me laugh. Bridget Jones had me rocking in my seat and the only other book that made me chuckle because of the author’s blunt observation of world is 50 Ways To Find a Lover by Lucy Ann Holmes. So I want to make my readers (if I ever have the pleasure of getting any, it’s a way off yet) laugh out loud. Now, I’m no comedienne so this will need work on my part but you can’t beat a good belly-rumbling laugh, the kind that makes your ribs sore, and that’s what I want to achieve.

Looks like I’ve got my work cut out for me, eh? Second draft here I come…

The end?

On Friday I had the great pleasure of writing “The End” after penning, or rather typing, almost 80,00 words of my first novel. I can’t tell you how pleasing it was to write those two words. I’ve written a whole book!

But it isn’t really the end, that much I do know. This is really just the beginning. While writing the book was in fact easier than trying to print it off on both sides of A4 paper and in order – an intelligence test I almost failed – I know there is plenty more hard work to come.

My friend and I will be reading my book while holidaying in Spain – with a critical eye – and another writing buddy has it on her bedside table while I’m away. Once I’ve collected enough feedback it will be onto draft number two and no doubt some radical changes, there’s a lot of work to be done. For example, I’m pretty sure my main character – her name is Ronnie – is aged 27 at the start of the book and after only a year has her 29th birthday. Now that’s just not possible.

Despite knowing I have a long way to go before my book’s ready to send out to agents, I am semi-fulfilled in the knowledge I’ve written a whole novel and that, having printed it out, finally, I can hold it in my hands with pride. It’s a good feeling.

The aim is to get my second draft and then a third and final draft done by October and then start pitching. Fingers crossed someone will take the bait.

Sorry this blog post is late…

Cripes, I haven’t written a blog post for a couple of weeks! I’ve just been reminded of this fact by my mother who is a regular reader; it means we don’t need to speak on the phone much  ‘cos she already knows what I’ve been up to. So, if there’s anyone else out there wanting to avoid their folks – start a blog is my advice.

Anyhoo, I’ve been swamped with work and writing and I’m still struggling with my sleeping pattern so want to snooze in the middle of the day and don’t feel an eency weeency bit tired at bedtime.  And that’s why I’ve been a bit lax on the blogging front. That said, I’ve penned 70,000 words now and with another weekend writing session pencilled in at the end of this week, my first draft should be ready by the end of the month, hoorah.

It’s now only 17 sleeps until my hollibops in Spain and I am very much in need of a break, some proper sunshine and a chance to re-establish some kind of normal sleeping pattern.

The main reason I want to finish the first draft of my book by July is so that my buddy AJ can read it while we’re away. That way I she can give me instant feedback and I’ll be able to hear her laugh – or not as the case may be – at the funny bits. A few select others have been chosen to cast their eye over it too, my mother not being one of them. She read one of my short stories recently and the only thing she could say about it was that it wasn’t double spaced. Give me strength. Him mum, by the way! (I know she’ll be reading this)

Anyhoo, back to the book. I’m at the stage where I really need to print the damn thing off and read it on paper. My eyes are glazing over with the amount of time I spend at the screen and I want to physically hold my book in my hands so it feels more real. This will in no way be the finished article, but I’ll be the best part of the way there, at least.

So, what else am I gonna do in Spain? Very little, to be honest. I plan on spending the days being horizontal, soaking up the sunshine and occasionally dipping my toe – maybe even my ankles – into the sea. (Obviously I won’t be horizontal for that bit). I am going to set a holiday reading record and try and plough my way through five books in seven days and I may partake in the odd logic problem too.

The evenings will be spent tucking into salted seabass, paella or steak tartare, washed down with white wine spritzers. There may be a few mojitos consumed at Nikki Beach and a spot of shopping in Puerto Banus and that’s just about it. Me and AJ have our little holiday routine and I’m looking forward to starting it. Relaxation is the name of the game and as tempted as I am to take my Macbook Pro with me, the mean machine will be staying at home. No internet? For a whole week? Nooooo.

What do David Cameron, Cherie Blair and a writers’ retreat in the Cotswolds have in common? Me!

Okay peoples, it’s been a manic week or so. So, should you care, here’s where I’m at:

Writers’ retreat

Me and three writer buddies spent the Bank Holiday weekend holed up in a cute cottage in the Cotswolds, a friendly mouse included, so we could crack on with our books. We’re all writing novels (two of them are on their second, the show offs) and genres include urban teenage fiction, sci-fi for teens, chick lit and literary fiction with an element of erotica. All good stuff. We critiqued each others’ work over a pub lunch, swapped ideas and spent much of the weekend glued to our laptops, save for lunches in the sunshine and a walk to the local pub. Brilliant. Feel totally inspired and motivated to get the first draft of my book finished by the end of June. And then a chosen few can read it. Writing a book tends to play havoc with my sleeping patterns so just to warn everyone, I am likely to be very tired from now until July.

David Cameron

I’d not long got back from my writers’ retreat on the Bank Holiday Monday and made the mistake of checking my work email. Actually, it’s a good job I did ‘cos I ended up going into the office at 7pm to fiddle with some stuff. Why? ‘Cos Tory Leader David Cameron came into work on Tuesday morning to deliver a keynote speech – not only a great honour to host the potential new Prime Minister but also a chance to showcase The Open University’s use of social media, in particular the website I co-edit, Platform. It was a manic but fulfillng day and you can read all about it here or check out my student blog here.

Cherie Blair

I barely know what day of the week it is, thanks to the Bank Holiday which has thrown me out of sync. But on Friday I will be heading to London, no, not to buy Heat magazine, but to interview Cherie Blair, AKA Cherie Booth QC. This means I will have done the Blair double as I interviewed el Tonio back in 2001 when he was Prime Minister and delivering a speech in the Shropshire town of Newport, where I was chief reporter. All good stuff.

Other stuff

Other stuff to note is that my gruelling fitness campaign has been forced to take a back seat because life has gotten in the way. This will get back on track after the weekend and my attempt to run the Race for Life on Saturday – please sponsor me!

Where’s my mojo?

I think I’ve lost my writing mojo, has anyone seen it? I’ve really lost momentum on this novel I’m meant to be knocking out and can’t see the wood for the trees.

My aim is to produce a first draft by the summer so I can spend time in the sun editing, re-editing and getting friends to proof read the flaming thing. So, I’ve been avoiding going  back and tweaking, concentrating on getting the story written. But over the weekend I started to read some of it, from the beginning, and my heart sank. It was a bit pants.

I’ve made quite a few changes to it now and feel a bit better but the enjoyment I get from writing is starting to slowly seep away and the pressure is starting to smother me.

Add to that the fact I’m quite behind – and a bit bored of – my writing course, I feel like giving up. I won’t, of course, ‘cos I ain’t no quitter, and I am determined to put all this material I’ve gleaned over the years to good use, namely a £ multi-million book deal. Yeah, right.

Anyhoo, on Saturday I will be attending a literary masterclass in the big smoke and I’m hoping this will re-inspire me to write my socks off. I’m 33,000 words in now and there’s a lot more to be done. A brainstorming session with a couple of mates on Monday didn’t help much either, save for coming up with a sexy golfing character called Woody. Hmmm.

I always find London inspiring anyway, in a smoggy kinda way. I think it would strangle me if I were to live there but regular trips make me realise there’s a whole world of opportunity out there.

That said, and I digress a little here, my night out in Holborn on Saturday did little to inspire me, more rob me of my faculties and ability to stand up straight. Actually, that could have been the copious amounts of wine I consumed, but needless to say Sunday was spent in regret… and mostly in the toilet. I woke up at 10am on my mate’s sofa, still wearing last night’s going out clothes and I didn’t take them off until 6pm on Sunday when I finally felt well enough to stand up straight and have a shower. Eurgh.

So, back to the writing… a trip to the London Book Fair event, and the end of my writing course in early May, should spur me on a bit. While my course is teaching me new things about writing it’s also suffocating my creative juices and I’m in desperate need of rehydration. There’s only so much juice to go round and I want to save it for my book. I also want to pass my my final assignment but that might have to be a skin of the teeth job.

Wish me luck people…

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!