Laurie Graham's Blog, page 28

      Writing is a funny business. Even a laugh-a-minute guy like Joseph Conrad would probably have agreed. I don’t mean the daily grind of turning up at the desk, although that sure beats any other job I ever had. What I mean when I call it a funny business is the way it’s perceived by others. Like it isn’t a proper job. You can tell by the things people say to you.

Quite often I avoid the subject of what I do for a living. I’m now of a certain age and appearance such that strangers might safely assume I’m retired. That’s fine with me. I’d honestly prefer to find out about other people’s lives than talk about my own. But sometimes, if I’m accompanied, my companion blabs. My husband does it all the time. And then, having confirmed that I’m not J K Rowling, I have to give an account of myself. This is pure torture for me. My view on writing fame is as follows: if you have heard of me, I’m delighted and abjectly grateful. If you haven’t, I don’t want to press my case. Having been charmed by my winning personality you might feel compelled to rush to a bookshop and buy up its entire Laurie Graham stock, but no pressure from me. Truly.

I was in one of those, ‘Would I have heard of you?’ situations recently, after Mr F opened his great big mouth. Then the enquirer followed through with, ‘I should do more writing myself.’  She said it with a sigh and a faraway look in her eyes.  And the only reply that came to my mind was, ‘Why?’ I can understand people think they should exercise more, or call their mother more frequently. But write? No, no. There’s already far too much of it going on. Do something useful instead. Learn CPR.

This week someone asked me, ‘So what are you up to these days? Any more books in the pipeline?’

Actually, I rather liked that image. Hey, it’s been more than a year since we had a new Laurie Graham. Yeah…. airlock in the pipeline. They hope to have it fixed by October.

But my point is, this pipeline woman wasn’t a stranger. She knows I have to pay the rent. What the feck did she think I was up to these days? Lying on a couch eating Maltesers?

So here’s the bottom line. Yes, I’m still writing. Will be till they screw the lid down on my box. But no, I don’t think writing is a particularly noble or enviable profession that everyone and their Uncle Ernie should aim to join. I realise it has its rewards. Also its setbacks and disappointments. And I know I do it because I am otherwise unemployable. Maybe I should learn CPR.

I have two publishing events coming up over the next few months. The mass market edition of A Humble Companion will be released on August 29th and then on October 10th my new novel, The Liar’s Daughter.

Last year I ventured into the world of social media and did what writers are now nagged to do: I put myself about. Was it worth the effort? Probably not. Did I learn anything from it? Certainly. I learned that it’s very easy to make a nuisance of yourself out there. I hope I wasn’t guilty of it and I’m pretty sure I wasn’t, but there are a lot of writers who now use the slightest flicker of interest as an excuse to yell at you about their new book. It’s rude, and it’s surely counter-productive.

So now I’m starting to think about ways to mark my own pub days, not for myself  -  that’s a no-brainer easily solved by Messrs Moet et Chandon  – but for my loyal readers. What do you like?  Virtual parties? Meet the Author events? Competitions? A polite reminder that there’s a new book out followed by respectful silence? Please write and tell me. I shall not lift a finger until I get some informed advice.

       I love a bit of wordplay.  My friend Mim and I indulge in it all the time. Writing being our day job we like to rip off our corsets (so to speak) when we’ve punched out for the day. I pray there’s no posthumous publication of the Collected Emails of Laurie and Mim. ‘Good grief’, readers would say. ‘Published writers! And they thought the past participle of ‘arrive’ is ‘arrove? Why didn’t somebody tell them?’

But you see, when words are the nuts and bolts of your trade, playing with them can be very refreshing. Dialects too, and individuals’ verbal quirks. We love them all. Mim is particularly strong on archaic usages. M’learned friend knows St Giles’s Greek and all sorts of equally useless but entertaining oddities.  Typos are my favourites. For me they’re the writer’s equivalent of a cool shower and a brisk rubdown. Something inadvertently funny that makes a writer reach for her biro and think, ‘That’d make a great book title.’

This past week has been a bumper one for collectable typos. It began with Vlad the Impala, for which thanks to my fellow History Girl, Mary Hoffmann, who wasn’t its author but who generously shared it. The next day I spotted The Enema Within, the handiwork of a crap copy-editor, I’m sure, but how much duller our lives would be without them. Two corkers in as many days. Could I make it a hat-trick? Yes, siree Bob! Yesterday I found  -  and I think this is my favourite, by a whisker  -  Death, Where is Thy String? I’m protecting the source of that one. Anyone can make a mistake. We’re none of us prefect.

A rather belated report on the two brief runs of The Dress Circle for which I must apologise, particularly considering the song and dance I made about it before it opened.  It was a mixed experience but the mix contained far more good than bad. I handed the script over to the director last year, and to the actress who was to perform it earlier this year. Then I walked away. My work was done. So on the opening night in London I had no idea what I was going to see.

My nerves, jitters, fears, doubts and uncertainties disappeared within fifteen minutes. They had done a great job and the script worked. Well, most of it did. There were a few jokes that always fell flat, so they were excised before we transferred to Brighton. The most surprising thing for me was the moment when I was moved to tears. ‘How can this be?’ I thought. ‘I wrote the damned line.’ Well, that’s theatre for you.

And the negatives? I think the Q&A panel after one of the shows was a mistake. When a play is over the audience don’t want a discussion, they want dinner. Also, with the exception of one full house we played to very small audiences. I don’t know how actors do it. It must be so dispiriting to come out onto the stage and see just your Aunt Gladys and a man who’s come in out of the rain. I had the option  -  though I never exercised it  –  of slipping away and going to the pub, but Sian Hawthorn couldn’t. Whatever the turnout she gave it her all. I take my hat off to her.

You can hear a brief and extremely impromptu after-show interview with the pair of us .

   The trouble with being self-employed is that when sickness strikes there isn’t anyone to deputise. Having wagged off for what was effectively two weeks, escorting my play on its travels, I really needed to come home and get stuck in. I had a few things on my list.

1. Complete construction of pantomime cow’s head.

2. Bottle blackberry whiskey.

3. Write new novel.

Then on Thursday two things happened. My editor informed me that the Bonus Features for the mass market edition of A Humble Companion were required immediately, if not sooner. And I caught a bug that forced me to spend more time in the bathroom than at my desk.

What to do? A production schedule doesn’t have elastic sides. ’Buck up’ was always my Mum’s advice to the sick. Between slugs of flat Coca Cola and half hour stretches whimpering in a darkened room, I knocked out the Bonus Features in 200 word stints. I don’t think it shows. But if it does, you’ll know why.

So that’s put to bed, and so is the hardback of The Liar’s Daughter, which means I now have absolutely no excuse for not getting on with the new book. Except for my blogging obligations and indulging in potential theatrical fantasies. Yes, I’m hooked. Working with other people is so much more fun than being Cubicle Woman.

A brief pit-stop between the London debut of Dress Circle and its opening at the Brighton Fringe this Thursday, May 9th at The Old Court Room.

So, Laurie Graham, how was it for you?

It was gut-churning, nail-biting and also the most enormous fun. Friends and family turned out for me, and so did some amazing fans. Pam Redrup did a great job of directing. Sian Hawthorn carried off a 55 minute tour de force.   Can you imagine being alone on stage for nearly an hour? Worse still, can you imagine being able to see the whites of your audience’s eyes? Baron’s Court was an… ahem, intimate space. Sian could probably see people’s dandruff.

I sat through all six performances. You need to really, to note which lines always get a laugh and which lines never do. Then I went back to my hotel room and carried out a bit of surgery  -  nothing radical, just the theatrical equivalent of removing a skin tag or two. Anyone who saw the play in London and then sees it in Brighton, i.e. my poor husband, will find that ‘collecting Toby jugs’ has been replaced by ‘breeding budgies’.  No-one knows what Toby jugs are any more. They had to go.

Also Alvechurch has become Bromsgrove. Alvechurch is one of those words that gets swallowed. It sounded like ‘Our Church’, which made no sense at all. But anyway, only a play’s mother would notice these little tweaks.

I’m looking forward to Brighton.  I now know that the script works, I now know it’s in very safe hands, and the worst that can happen is an empty auditorium. Offset that against sea air, good fish and chips, and some granny-time with one of my little granddaughters. Life is good.

Five words a playwright hopes never to hear:  ticket sales disappointing so far. 

I’m not a total stranger to this kind of announcement. Usually it contains the word ‘book’ rather than ‘ticket’. Nevertheless, it still strikes a chill. After all, this isn’t the London Palladium I’m trying to fill.

Next Thursday’s performance at the Baron’s Court Theatre is gratifyingly sold out, thanks in no small way to the efforts of that diligent and dutiful uber-networker, my son, Alastair. Every other show is looking threadbare.

It happens. I remember being in a single-figure matinee audience at the Coventry Criterion and watching Joe ‘Mr Piano Henderson’ plinking manfully on, into the void. If it bothered him he didn’t show it.

Actually, my main problem this week isn’t gloom from the box office. It’s impotence. A week to go till the opening. The actress still has a job to do, and so does the director, but my role ended the day I signed off on the script. And that is probably why, so far today, I’ve emptied the toaster crumb tray and cleaned two pairs of my husband’s shoes. Occupational therapy.

It isn’t working.

The way production schedules work it always seems

that just as I’m getting into a new book I have to double back and copy-edit the one I’ve supposedly finished. Copy-editing is important, as you’ll know if you’ve ever read a self-published book full of typos and bloopers, but it’s a drag. It is to book production what weeding is to landscape gardening.

Writers and copy editors never meet. Theirs is a distant and impersonal relationship, though it may be resumed every year or so. It’s quite usual for the same person to be asked to copy-edit successive books by an author. Copy editors are hawk-eyed. They catch mistakes and may save a writer much pillow-biting embarrassment. They also remember all the particulars of a publisher’s house style and so, for instance, know the preferred format for expressing dates. So far so good.

Sometimes they go a step further and when they do I feel I detect the touch of a would-be writer. I’m experiencing a little bit of that this week.

This para could be cut without loss said one margin note. Oh yes? Ha! Says you!

It’s very simple. Editing is all done on the computer these days. I simply hit the Reject button and the threatened para stays in.

Suggest using a less arcane word here said another note. Well now. First of all I don’t feel any obligation to pre-chew what I give my readers. I know they’re intelligent because I meet them and correspond with them. And if I happen to use a word they never heard before, sure don’t they have dictionaries? When A Humble Companion was being edited I remember having quite a tussle over ‘powder magazine’.

‘People won’t know what that is,’ they said to me.

‘Perhaps,’ I replied. ‘But let’s give them the opportunity to learn.’

The most egregious intrusion, as far as I’m concerned, is when a copy editor adds a clunking explanatory clause, something like, Lucretia stepped lightly into the waiting sandolo, a Venetian rowing boat smaller than a gondola…

I had to deal with one such this morning. If I’d had a blue pencil to hand I’d have broken it over my knee in fury. So, if you’re thinking of reading The Liar’s Daughter when it finally sees the light of day, you’ll need to know what a sutler is. Also the medical use of the word ‘rigor’.

You have been warned.

All of a sudden I’m back in business. My publisher offered me another contract and it’s all systems go. The world looks like getting two more Laurie Graham novels, like it or lump it.

I can’t tell you how energising it is to be told you’re still wanted. Well actually I can. It’s like someone just brought in a Dyson Animal and declagged my brain. All the ideas, all the plans that have been on hold now have a possible future. Or not.  In the green glow of the Go light some projects don’t make the final cut.

Here’s what happens next. I don’t start writing. Probably not for a couple of months. I have to do a lot of reading and thinking first. However this doesn’t delay one of my early rituals when I’m getting to work on a new book: choosing a font. I find changing fonts dilutes the boredom factor. A Humble Companion, for instance, was written in Georgia 12 point, which means, attractive as it is, I don’t want to see that typeface again for a very long time. At the moment it’s a toss up between Century Gothic and Lucida Sans. Don’t know why. Pure whimsy.

The other preparatory act is setting up  new research shelves on the bookcase in my office and I here I must confess I’ve been a bit sloppy of late.   Instead of having a good clear out when a book has been put to bed I’ve just squeezed new stuff into any gap I could find. This morning, in a fit of ruthless thoroughness, I’ve removed reference books that go back into the primeval mists of my writing career. Tsk, tsk. Our local charity shop may expect a big delivery of books on Liberace, the Kennedys and the Windsors any day soon.

So that’s my weekend. The housekeeping side of writing. Remember the start of a school year when you brought your pristine books home and covered them with brown paper? And then maybe copied out your new timetable with a 10-colour biro? You get the picture.

Good thing I got a head start on those origami Easter bunnies.

People often ask me for advice about the writing process. I believe I disappoint them with how little I have to say.

‘I’ve got this great idea for a book,’ someone will say to me. ‘But I just can’t seem to get started.’

I can empathise with that. Except that quite often I don’t have a great idea for a book. I just have a mental ragbag of possibilities which I take out every so often, rummage through it despairingly and then go for a walk.

I do a lot of walking. When Mr F and I went to live in Venice  fourteen years ago our need for a car disappeared. When we moved to Ireland three years ago our means of affording a car had disappeared. So we became walkers. Well, I did. My husband became a devotee of radio cabs. But anyway, walking is one of my most important aids to creativity. I find it a good way of shaking loose a knotty problem.

Then there’s the wastepaper basket.  The older I get, the longer I’m in the writing business, the greater the volume of stuff that goes swiftly from pen to   bin, sometimes to the cane one I keep within tossing distance of my desk, more often to the little virtual one on my computer screen.  And if, in spite of niggling doubts, I hang on to something of questionable merit, you know what? Eventually I end up dumping it anyway. So, if you’re just starting out as a writer I’d recommend you to embrace your trash can. It is your friend.

Then there are deliberate acts of not-writing. I’m a big fan of those. We all need periods of rest and refreshment and  writers can be susceptible to professional constipation, especially those who take themselves very seriously. I prescribe a daily dose of whimsy. Get out of that chair, dammit, and walk away from your desk for an hour. Use a different part of your brain. The world can wait for your masterpiece, trust me.

My current play-time activities are:  making origami hares for my Easter lunch table.

Also, trying to play, without fluffing, Yevtushenko’s lovely Morning Song, composed for the soundtrack of The Last Station.

Advice from the coalface of fiction writing.  You are very welcome.