Wednesday's Inspiring Books

I'm feeling good today. I stayed up last night and got all my writing deadlines fulfilled, so technically I can spend a lot of today doing writing writing. Work should probably happen as well, though. England in three days! Exciting stuff.

Today's inspiring book is a special one. I think it might actually be the the most inspiring book I read as a kid, and the one that has changed my writing aspirations, writing style, and world view the most.

Skellig, by David Almond (also, here), has already been (rightly) recognised as a ground breaking, long lasting classic. His prose is sparse, poetic and philosophical and the story is an understated exploration of what life is for a young kid, what magic is, what miracles mean,  and how people work. It's more than that, too. You should read it.

My own writing is very deliberately influenced by Almond's style. I think as a stylist, he's a master, and as a story teller he's unique even still amongst British authors. He won the  Hans Christian Anderson Award in 2010, the highest international children's book award there is. What more to say?

When I first read Skellig my expectations of what a book was were turned on their head. From the brief chapters to the minimalist language to the ending and the ambiguity Almond loves, I was drawn in and my eyes really were opened to the possibilities beyond my own limited definition of Good Book. That's what drives me now - wanting to write something that will have that exact effect on another reader, another kid somewhere who picks up EREN and gets all the way to the end.

I only picked up Skellig because of the cover. Pretty cool, isn't it? But that act changed my life and, hopefully, my career as I work my way to being an author.

Five Things I'd Tell Young Me About Writing

Progression and growth are, of course, part of being a writer. You get better at what you do. Every story, every new word, every crossed out and discarded line of crappy, terrible dialogue makes you better. At the very least it makes you different, which isn't always the same, but it's something.

So, looking back at some of your very first work might be cringe worthy and embarrassing (good grief, did I really write that?!), but it can be encouraging as well. You wrote that? Well now you write this! See how you fly! It's a Good Thing.

So what would you say to a young yourself if you could? If letters in a bottle floated backwards through time and you had a chance to give advice - specifically about writing - to your Young You?

Well, I, for one, might say this.

1. Young Me, finish the damn book. Stop reading about others' successes and imagining agents seeking you from afar and (ye gads!) designing covers, and write the book. Seriously. Buy The Writers' and Artists' Yearbook, and don't look at it until the book is done.
2. You know the plot? The thing that's meant to tie the whole story together? At least know how it goes roughly before you start typing away. You don't have to plot every chapter out in exquisite detail if you don't want to, but come on - at least know what happens before the characters do. Know why? It makes everything better. You get to play with foreshadowing and irony and character development and hidden meaning and all those other literary tools that are really just reward badges for talented writers who know how to earn them. It's great.
3. Seek out other writers. It doesn't matter if you're young, or even if you're crap. Other writers will help you - with contacts, with industry knowledge, and with style and voice and art. Try - please, just try - not to take criticism as an attack on your genius. It's what you need to get so much better.
4. Write a few short stories. Live a little. Try genres you don't really know and styles you're not a fan of. 1500 words is enough. Shouldn't take you more than a couple of days. It's like weight lifting or driving lessons. It's not necessarily always fun, but hey, it works. 
5. Get out and about, Young Me. Have adventures. You get to decide what that means. You'll be a better writer if you've seen other places and know other people. Let the computer be the place you write about your experiences, not how you experience the world.

Also, buy shares in Google. It's gonna be big.

What would you say? Feel free to let me know!

The Fate of Your Rejection Letters

I recently went back to the Writers' and Artists' Yearbook website. The Yearbook, for those who don't know, is the UK equivalent of Writer's Market. I'd had a long hiatus. Yes, hiatus. I can use that word. I'm a writer, after all...

I bought my first ever copy of the Yearbook a long time ago in a shop that, sadly, has gone the way of many independent bookshops nowadays. I remember feeling very official and professional now that I owned this one book - this one book with all the agents and publishers and writers' advice and the correct way to write a letter, and so many other things. I've bought several other copies over the years, and recently had it confirmed by the W&A Twitter monkey that this May/June they're launching an online version, giving me access once more without buying a big heavy book from abroad once a year. Great!

So, I went back on the site. It's changed almost completely since I last visited, and now has a pretty awesome 'Community' space, to share work, ask questions, and build connections, I guess.

And one of the user questions got me thinking. 'What do you do with old rejection letters?'

Great question, right?

Save 'em? Discard them and move on? Keep them ready to burn joyfully when you're published? Remember the names, for your great 'A HA! You see?!' moment when riches and fame come calling?

Some thoughts:

Rejection letters (physical letters) are a strange thing for writers. One the one hand they represent your communication with real, genuine publishing professionals. You're not just dreaming of being a writer, or of one day, maybe, writing a book - you're doing it. On the other, they do represent a failure by the Establishment (grr) to recognise your evident brilliance.

Although e-mail is becoming more common, the same thoughts can be applied. And what I'd say is this.

Form rejections should just be forgotten. Deleted, or thrown away, and moved on. It was a no, which is sad, but life goes on, and so does your writing.

Personal rejections? I'd keep 'em. Not so you can gloat later. They're professionals, so are you, and it's nothing personal if your writing isn't for them. No, keep them for the boost you get. If it's personal, what does it say? What did they like? Are they encouraging? You need those things, for the dark hours when you stop believing in yourself and start to wonder - just for a second - if being a writer is worth it.

That's when you'll be glad you have them. They don't have to represent rejection and all that means. They can mean so much more - that you are a writer, with good work to submit, that you've made it over the biggest hurdle of all, which is actually finishing your damn book, and that although this agent wasn't for you, they see you as an equal, as a part of the publishing world. They've accorded you the decency of a formal, personal response to your business suggestions. What's wrong with that?

You may be able to tell that I have a couple of letters from years back still in my possession. I think I was thirteen, fourteen years old, and the agent's letter spurred me on. All my present writing, in all its forms, is in some way built upon those few kind words, years ago.

Wednesday's Inspiring Books

Today's book is a good one. Oh, yes. Let's not even pretend to have an introductory paragraph for this post. Boom!

Great cover, no?

The Weirdstone of Brisingamen (and The Moon of Gomrath, the sequel) are disturbing, honest and, on the surface, quite simple books, but with such depth and long lasting power that it's no surprise Alan Garner is widely recognised as one of the great classic children's writers, and he isn't even dead yet. The stories, which can appear quite straightforward, almost seem less important that the sense of ancient magic and deep, deep danger that Garner is able to write about without you ever quite knowing how he does it. That's the depth - that ability he has to leave you with impressions of thing you can't quite put into words, to make you scared of things he never mentions, to leave you feeling like you know places you've never even been to.

I got this book off my mum years ago - it's one of her favourite books, and we were holidaying in deepest Wales when we first started reading it. Wales is a good country for books like this. Not high fantasy, with epic battles and flashy magic, but fantasy earthed in the land and the myths you can feel in the hills. I remember one dark night in a small, rented cottage, an old place surrounded by old trees under an old moon, when I stopped reading Weirdstone 'cause it scared me. That's good writing, that is.

I do have criticism for Garner. Both these books have as their central theme a single challenge to be overcome, and once that task is complete, he just... ends. Stops. The pen freezes in his hand, I suppose, and there's no need to carry on. No wrapping up. No bothering about loose ends. Perhaps it's a compliment to readers - we can sort that stuff out on our own, we don't need telling and babying. But imagine Lord of the Rings ending just as Frodo drops the ring in Mt Doom. Yes, technically, they've won, but there has to be more story - the return home, the coronation, the cleaning up of all the mess.

Not in Garner books. Things end when the adventure is over and it's up to you to either sulk and want more or just imagine for yourself what happened in the end end. Maybe that is a strength. Maybe it's not anything. It certainly helped me know what kind of books I want to write.

And one day I shall write a book about a small, old cottage in Wales, and the ancient magic that stirs nearby...

Why Writing's Not a Game You Can Win

It's warm today in NJ! England should be a nice escape...

Today's post is aimed at unpublished and submitting writers - that is, authors who are approaching agents and publishers. It's inspired by various comments I see weekly in writers' forums and message boards, and by a general attitude I've noticed there. To be specific, an over-thinking of tiny details, an over-estimation of the finickiness of professional readers, and an almost unspoken belief that there's a Big Secret to Getting Published.  I'll explain...

Being published is more than a goal for authors. It's a dream. It might even be more than that. Though it can be hard to explain to someone with no interest in writing a book, professional validation of your own talent, and the financial freedom (ha!) that would come from a bit of success is the be all and end all for many writers. So, it's understandable that you want to do everything in your power to help yourself along, to stand above the competition and attract the attention of Those In The Know.

Which leads to some fretting and worrying about rather insignificant things. I've seen people asking for advice in the boards (never a bad thing, by the way - writers need community to survive) on weirdly specific matters.

'The agent asked for ten pages, but I sent eleven. Will this count against me?'

'I sent the query, but forgot to say I'll be away from the Internet next Wednesday. What if they reply then, asking for more, and I don't get back, and I lose my chance...?'

'Agent asked me to revise and resubmit. I want to reply to say thank you. How to I phrase the e-mail? What's the correct way to address them if I know their name but they just said 'Hi,'?'

The problem, I think, is that in over-thinking every little detail you do an injustice to agents (making them out to be some pedantic dragons who only need a single excuse to burn your manuscript, laughing maniacally) and yourself (leaving yourself incapable of using common sense or being independent enough to react to normal situations).

The answers to the above three questions, of course, are no, for goodness' sake that's not even a problem, and just write the damn e-mail, you're supposed to be a writer, and an adult.

The other point I wanted to raise is that the undertone of a lot of this fretting is a bit worrying; the feeling that if you can just follow the form letters, just use the correct phrasing, if you can just be professional enough and show you know the tricks, then that is what helps the most.

I'm not advocating ignoring best practice and industry standards. Query letters and pitches have a very specific format used across the industry and you ignore that at your peril. But I am saying that, for most agents still, and most publishers, there's one thing that counts above all. Know what it is? The writing.

Boom. Shouldn't sound shocking, should it? Good writing still makes up 90% of the package you present. Dotting ever i and crossing ever t won't count for anything if your story sucks.

You can't cheat your way in just by following rules.

I just feel bad for authors querying agents who clearly feel like there's this big, organised industry trying to keep them out, with arbitrary rules, strict specifications, and a big REJECTION stamp hovering over their work, waiting for them to trip up. Find the middle ground. Don't be sloppy, but don't be nervous and jumpy and believe that those tiny things actually matter.


It's hard to get an agent. Really, really hard. The kind of hard that, if you finally do, you'll be annoyed when friends and family don't react as they should. So I guess I can see why it's tempting to become a 'literary conspiracy' advocate, and then feel like you help yourself by making sure a request for the first 5000 words means you send 5000 words exactly, lest the agent fume and rage over any extra ones you tried to sneak in.  But agents don't need you to treat them with kid gloves. They sure don't see it that way.

OK, I'm ending now. I just want writers, unpublished or not, to feel happier, more confident, and more professional, and to view agents and standard publishers as colleagues, and not the enemy.

And also, stop asking dumb questions ;)