Category Archives: The Writing Life

Summer Break

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Things have been quiet here of late, though I have been busy. I am very pleased in fact to have recently introduced two very good writers to two very good literary agents – let’s hope that those very good agents find very good publishers who believe in these wonderful writers as much as we do. It’s great when things work out.

I am now on a summer break from work and blogging (though who knows, I might sneak back here). Which might seem self-indulgent, but in the freelance life you rarely say no, and I realised I needed to for a short while in order to refresh myself.

I’ll be back at my desk in September, when I’m also appearing at the Writers’ Workshop Festival of Writing in York. There, I’ll be book doctoring and also leading workshops on showing vs telling (hint: both are needed) and my tarot-inspired approach to writing that I call the Four Elements of Creativity. I’m also running an afternoon-long mini-course called Tell Me A Story: The Art of Narrating, which will cover a pet passion that I’ve discussed elsewhere. Far too many books (I just finished a slog through one) have plenty of fantastic ingredients, but simply lack that magical quality of embracing a reader in their storytelling, and in this session we’ll use readings, discussion, and exercises to look at ways to locate and revive the dark arts of narrative pleasure. Come along! There are tons of great things arranged for that weekend in York. The good people of the Writers’ Workshop really are the best at organising such events (else I’d not be working with them): much to learn, much to take in, and sometimes very tangible successes to gain.

Meanwhile: priorities, which will include at the very least (and in no obvious order) dog, garden, food, and reading.

Enjoy your own summers!

Learning And Studying And Writing: A DIY MA In Creative Writing

by Andrew | 16 Comments

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[Also see my later post that includes a suggested syllabus for a DIY MA in Creative Writing.]

In my work as a book doctor and writing teacher, I sometimes remember a friend who’s a publisher saying to me that she thinks that creative writing programmes ‘give false hope’.

Hmm. I think this is a valid concern.

However, I am a teacher, as well as an editor, so I do believe in the idea of improvement, and especially in the idea that people can learn.

An MA in creative writing is one possibility, and it can provide structure and community, as well as direction. Someone was singing the praises of such courses in the Guardian only this morning: ‘Will a master’s in creative writing get you a book deal?’ – a variation on a familiar theme of discussing whether writing can be taught.

But an MA can also be expensive, and very often you’ll probably only produce the 15,000 words required for an academic thesis to satisfy the academeaucrats. Which is fine if you want or need an academic qualification. If you also want to complete a novel, you might need to seek out one of the few MA’s that actually require you to finish a novel (and even then, know it’ll still almost certainly need revising). So: research such courses well. Look at their content, look at the teachers, speak (directly) to recent graduates, and go in with your eyes open. And remember that the guy who wrote the article above got his book deal because an editor liked his book enough to want to publish it, and not necessarily because he has an MA.

And don’t start me on the idea of marking academic work. A % attached to a piece of creative writing is an absurdity, but one that the academeaucracy requires. In my view, if writing has to be marked (and it is a big If), it should be Pass/Fail, with maybe (maybe) very rarely, like, every five years, a Distinction for that brilliant thing that is ready to go. After that success should be measured by the author: completing the novel, getting it published, winning a prize, making a living, finally getting the approbation of the disapproving father. A % (often based on pretty subjective criteria) just disappoints, and boxes you in, and that is useless for most any creative enterprise. So please: a Distinction might stroke your ego, but take it with a pinch of mixed metaphors if what you really want is to publish your book. (Not least, you have to finish it first. See: 15,000 words, above.)

One further thought: in the UK, I suggest part-time MA’s spanning a couple of years are often better than one-year courses, because writing and creativity take time to gestate. In the US, an MFA (such as the one I did at Naropa University) usually takes two years full-time, and maybe longer part-time, and I think that shows in the depth and quality of the experience. Plus, it usually takes at least a term/semester to warm up and readjust. One year simply feels too rushed! Spin out the experience, spin out the pleasure.

And if you are thinking of going to university for any reason at all, you really must read this.

Rants over. Let’s put the positive back into the world. Let’s make it new. Let’s not forget that most of the great writers we read had no MAs, but very different qualifications: life experience, yearning, a typewriter, a well-read library. Their writing courses were self-assembled.

With a bit of discipline and imagination, you too can build a course of careful study and reading for yourself:

 

DIY CREATIVE WRITING: SOME NOTES TOWARDS A SYLLABUS

1. Read. One of the more gratifying things that someone said to me at the festival this last weekend was that she was very grateful to me for making her go away and do a lot of reading after last year’s book doctor session. (And she might know a thing or two, as she did win this year’s prize for the best opening chapter. Though I’m not taking the credit! Her book idea is very good, and she really can write too.) I always always always dish out a load of reading recommendations, and sometimes I worry I am being a bit too schoolma’am. So this was validating.

They might include (roughly in the order I’d recommend):

* Janet Burroway, Writing Fiction (the classic textbook, which came out in an affordable edition in 2019)
* Ursula Le Guin, Steering The Craft
* Constance Hale, Sin And Syntax (for help with prose style)
* Stephen King, On Writing
* Susan Bell, The Artful Edit
* Francine Prose, Reading Like A Writer
* good books on story structure, such as various written on screenwriting, e.g., Christopher Vogler’s The Writer’s Journey (though remember that fiction is not film, especially with regards to narration – fiction writers do not have to rely entirely/mostly on foreground action)
* Sandra Newman & Howard Mittelmark, How Not To Write A Novel (much mirth here too)
* Natalie Goldberg, Writing Down The Bones (fabulous for inspiring people, especially at the beginning)
* John Gardner, The Art Of Fiction
* Scarlett Thomas, Monkeys With Typewriters
* Alice LaPlante, The Making Of A Story (another textbook, including short stories that are discussed along the way)

Organisations such as The Literary Consultancy and Jericho Writers provide resources too, and also check out blogs and sites on writing such as my own Resources pages as well as Emma Darwin’s excellent Toolkit, Gotham Writers’ Resources For Writers, Julie Cohen’s Tips For Writers, Kate Harrison’s Help For Writers, Tim Clare’s Couch to 80k Boot Camp (podcasts) and Odyssey Writing Tips. And do seek out the many recommendations made by others.

Note: these are books and resources about writing. You might have to research other stuff too (what it was like to live in the 1970s, the workings of an astrolabe), but here I am talking about the focused study of writing. If you’ve not done this, you might gain from it.

2. Also reread your favourite books – but this time as a writer. See what makes them work (Francine Prose’s book listed above is great for helping with that). I often recommend listening to old faves as audiobooks for a different experience of them.

3. Get circulating in that world of writing. Take yourself to conferences, writing festivals, or conventions. Attend readings, talks, and literary salons such as those run by Words Away, the Riff-Raff, or TLC, and also check out what’s on at your local bookshops. Join Twitter and use social media, and participate in online communities. Blog, review. In fact, in some genres this is almost a requirement. Plus, it’s fun, and at the very least you’ll make friends. You’ll also grow your writer’s instinct.

4. [Updated January 2018.] Think about taking a course. Creative writing is now an industry, and some course are better or more suitable than others, for sure. I strongly recommend you get a direct personal recommendation from someone who’s actually taken a specific course with a specific teacher (and paid money to do so). Maybe try to talk (not email) with some of the teachers, and also consider who the other students might be (your peers can make a hell of a difference to your experience).

A sequence of online courses that I recommend highly is run by the University of British Columbia on the edX platform – read my review of How To Write A Novel here. The teaching materials on that course are probably among the best I’ve seen in creative writing.

I have also seen very good results from the self-editing course run by Debi Alper and Emma Darwin for Jericho Writers. It’s short (six weeks), and focused, and it’s taught by two very good and very experienced teachers who really know what they’re talking about. It might be an idea to consider a class such as this once you have a first draft of a manuscript and it’s ready for more work.

There are plenty of other courses too – online, residential, and regular classroom: Curtis Brown Creative, Faber Academy, The Literary Consultancy, Masterclass, Arvon Foundation, Write Here, Word Factory, London Lit Lab, Writers’ HQ, or the Guardian, as well as classes run by museums and libraries and regional writing bodies. Some are one-offs lasting a day or an afternoon, some are run over a weekend or a block of several days, or once a week for several weeks. Some offer more interaction with tutors and other writers than others; some are self-paced, while others have more fixed durations. You can find all sorts of different topics too, e.g., inspirations in getting started, characterisation, structure and story, drafting, publishing. I myself run workshops and masterclasses on creativity as well as craft topics such as plotting, character, voice, and revising and editing. Contact me if you’d like to be added to a mailing list, or if you are interested in my mentoring services.

And how about going to Boulder and immersing yourself in a week or two of the love and crazy wisdom of the Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poetics Summer Writing Program at my alma mater Naropa University? Such residential programmes and writing retreats can be found all over the world, e.g., Write It Down, Skyros, various locations across the UK. If that sounds a bit Let Them Eat Cake (or Millet Bars, in the case of Boulder) it’s cheaper than an MA, and possibly more transforming. Combining writing and learning and travel can be extremely liberating for your creative self.

It is in fact good to attend a variety of courses and events: practical, commercial, artsy, academic. By exposing yourself to different styles of teaching or different views of writing, you can work out your own process and needs. Also take on board the fact that, though there are times when feedback is essential, there are other times simply for finding inspiration. Taking classes in other fields can also inform your work in some way.

And again: seek out direct recommendations. Twitter can be a good place to find out more.

Also, it can make sense to use fresh projects or new ideas for exercises you try out in your studies. The task of learning can be complicated by your attachment to an existing or intended pet project, so it can be good to get out of your own way. Your labour of love can make you too outcome-oriented (is this good enough to publish?), when at this stage what you might really need is to focus on the more immediate goals of learning the craft (is my characterisation strong enough? should I try out another point of view just to see what happens?). It’s usually easier to free yourself for experimentation in technique and style when you’re working on something fresh. Short stories are great places to practise writing – and are also great outcomes in and of themselves, requiring less time, commitment and resources than a novel.

5. Use time wisely. It’s also a good idea sometimes to put a limit on various activities such as courses, as you can become a writing groupie, and mostly we probably want you to be a writer. (Nothing against groupies, but that is more about community and socialising and friendships – do that on the side too, for sure.) Create long-term goals, with deadlines. And not just deadlines of daily word counts, and for The End. Among your deadlines, you might actually take a break from writing your masterpiece for a bit, and decide to spend six months reading some of these books on writing, and maybe taking a short course or two.

6. Oh yes, and among all this set aside time actually to write. Maybe even do something like NaNoWriMo, which tasks you on clattering out a novel of 50,000 words in the month of November. I have conflicted feelings about NaNoWriMo, but a bit of bingeing doesn’t hurt for one month a year.

7. Find readers. Writing groups, reading groups, workshops. In person and online: I recommend working both ways, so that real time and eye contact can be balanced with reading that takes place at slightly more of a distance. Consider other potential beta readers among booklovers you’ve gathered down the years (and if you’ve not been gathering them already, maybe now’s the time to start).

You can also get professional reads from writers or editors, or work with a mentor; the cost of these services can vary, and it’s worth getting a personal recommendation. As I work independently, I tend to quote on an individual basis so that I can tailor what I offer according to need, but literary consultancies usually tell you their fees on their websites.

Integrate the different and sometimes contradictory things you hear, until your instinct knows what you need to do to make the writing the best it can be, or what you want it to be.

8. And reading and giving editorial feedback on other people’s work-in-progress will turn you into an editor, and you’ll gain perspective on your own writing too. Who knows, maybe you’ll even develop another career as editor or teacher yourself.

9. Think about a budget. Courses and editorial services or mentoring will have a cost attached, as will books. But look out for various offerings, e.g., via writing organisations – TLC provides info on regional writing bodies (as well as many other useful web links); sign up for emails from your local body with regular updates on events and opportunities in writing as well as publishing.

9. Most of all: listen. Listen to other people, but most of all slow down and listen to yourself, and listen to your own writing.

[I added a few minor updates here in January/February 2018 and September 2019, mostly to points 1 and 4 above. As the landscape of creative writing is always changing, I shall be overhauling these resources to reflect the widening range of available offerings. There are lots of workshops and courses and publishing events popping up all over – it’s great to see so many opportunities giving writers alternatives to the MA model.]

Back To Work

by Andrew | Leave a comment

The Goldfinch

Actually, this summer has been busier than I expected workwise. But I did have very lovely breaks in Stockholm, Berlin, and the Isle of Wight, and I did get some good reading done, and also adored Orange Is The New Black. And yay, we had sun! Decent summer weather was gratefully received.

Going back to my last post, my reading highlight must have been Donna Tartt’s new novel The Goldfinch, which is FANTASTIC. Maybe I’ll say something about its many wondrous wonders anon, but it’s one of those books where (probably) nothing should be known in advance, so duck the reviews and just get hold of a copy (coming to a bookstore near you in October, and yes, I’m very grateful for friends in high – and lowly – places in publishers, especially when they have access to very desirable advance reading copies). The Goldfinch was for me one of those (increasingly rare) experiences that was really all about the pleasure of reading. I cleared the decks of work and television and friends, and really made time for this great fat book (771 pages), and I finished it in the garden one sunny Friday morning, and the ending made me cry. That pretty little bird, that sweet little bird. I just got teary looking at the end again.

Tomorrow I’m off to the Writers’ Workshop’s Festival of Writing in York. I’m finally catching my breath after typing up notes for thirty one-on-one book doctor sessions, and I’m just here procrastinating before I finish handouts for the workshops on Editing For Writers and How To Write A Sentence. I’m also running a mini-course on the Four Elements of Creativity (woo woo, a bit hippie there, bring on the patchouli) and taking part in a panel on fantasy and science fiction.

And if you’re reading this while thinking about getting feedback from myself or anyone else at York (or most anywhere else, for that matter), don’t be anxious! (Not that you are, of course. But some people can be, especially if they’ve not attended such an event before.) The point of giving and getting feedback in such contexts is finding ways to improve the writing. Some people get nice strokes to the ego too, and sometimes even agents and book deals. But for most people such rewards are further down the line. Usually we’ll be having discussions like: This has a lot of this, but maybe not much of that. Or: This works well, so why don’t you do more of it, or let it stand out more clearly. Or: Have you maybe thought of trying this? Or: Why did you do that? Or: Concrete and specific details, please. Or: Don’t forget to paginate your manuscript. Or: Publishers might HATE this, but do it anyway, because much of the time they don’t know what the hell they’re doing (only kidding – maybe …). So: it’s a dialogue, and it’s pretty relaxed, and intended most of all to be helpful.

And beyond your book doctor sessions and the workshops and keynote speeches and literary competitions that are intended to give you professional insights and fire you with inspiration, you’ll be enjoying the company of writers and readers – and after all, good editors and agents are simply good readers, so they are included there too. It’s likely that there’ll be more work to do, after the weekend, but something that can come immediately is the forming of new friendships with like-minded booklovers, and they will be there in droves.

I’ll report back next week, when regular blog service will resume. Not sure I’ll be doing Friday Writing Experiments, or even posting weekly, but I’ll make regular-ish posts of some sort or other.

 

Summer Hiatus: R&R (Reading and Refreshment)

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Summer is here. Ah! There’s nothing quite like the feel of warm sun on your face at last.

I’m unplugging a bit for the coming months. The writing experiments are on hiatus until the autumn. But over the summer you might like to do some active reading. Maybe put your writing to one side for now, and use this as the chance to explore your genre. Look out bestsellers in your field, and maybe read some of the classics too. Read far and wide too: read works in other genres, maybe finding examples of things you can bring across to your own work. Read like a writer (Reading Like A Writer by Francine Prose might be helpful for this), and understand what makes the writing tick. Soak up these books, and free yourself of thinking about your own work; you’ll return to it the stronger later on, and it’s likely that good ideas will emerge for you anyway.

Good writing can’t be rushed, but needs to percolate. Slow down. (If you are one of those restless types, just console yourself that summers are quiet in publishing anyway.) Okay, I’m lazy, but trying too hard can make writing feel as if it’s, um, trying too hard, and what’s probably more important is possessing ease: an ease of voice, a natural balance in the writing. Perhaps set a vague long-term goal, if you really have to, but meanwhile rest in the moment and let your sensibility grow through becoming a better reader, a reader more useful to your own writing.

Most of all, have fun. Don’t task yourself too hard: no To Do lists of books you must read, but simply a stack on the bedside table to dip into, or on standby on your ereader. (Yes, relaxing can be the hardest task of all for some people.)

And beyond that, take a break from some of the noise (as well as creating it?). A holiday from Facebook? A little less Twitter? Yes, you know it makes sense. (Do 24% of British women really check their pages at least ten times a day, as I read this morning? I think I used to be a British woman. Maybe two British women, even three.) We don’t need Likes this summer. Just licks of a nice ice lolly, time with friends and family, trips to magical places, and good food and good books.

My own summer reading recommendations include the novel The Round House, by Louise Erdrich. It’s one of those books that really makes me aware of how much I love great American writers writing great American stories. It has a brilliant first chapter that establishes everything we need to know about the characters, setting, and dramatic situation that will lead us into a compelling story. (When you’re ready to submit your own work to an agent or publisher, read that first chapter and ask yourself if you’re close to achieving what’s accomplished there; if you can say yes, you must be in with a chance.)

And if you’ve not yet read George R.R. Martin’s series A Song of Ice and Fire, it’s about time. Perfect summer reading.

Enjoy the summer!

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Right Speech

by Andrew | Leave a comment

Enough has been said over the last week or so about Margaret Thatcher, and here is not the place for more opining on the subject of her legacy, not least as I’m just about bored with it and her now, and ready to move on. I’m still laying things to rest, I realise: the recognition of her achievements yet also the remembrance of her divisiveness. Perhaps only something like a fine novel can really make sense of the complexities this life and death presents, and perhaps that cannot be written quite yet (though with The Line of Beauty Alan Hollinghurst wrote a very fine one set during the prime years of Thatcher’s rule).

Much that was said and done this last week was hagiographic (the party political broadcast that was the funeral), or puerile (the ‘Ding, Dong! The Witch Is Dead’ campaign), or censoring (the BBC not playing that damned song in full during the chart rundown), and much else was simply stupid and pointless and rooted in attachments to old hatreds and battles of the ego (those street parties). But a few things were of particular interest to me for the way in which they seemed less reactive and more thoughtful, and a couple of pieces actually made me think more deeply about the things we choose to write about and how we choose our words.

Grace Dent and Tracey Thorn both talked about the misogyny of many things said about Thatcher, while Sir Ian McKellen addressed the fact that sympathetic obituaries were incomplete without mention of Section 28, which he says ‘was designed to slander homosexuality’.

Then Frank Cottrell Boyce talked about the lively antiestablishmentarianism (love that word) provoked in the arts in Britain during Thatcher’s rule, but paused to wonder why the many ‘searing indictments of Thatcher’s Britain’ failed really to undermine her; she was, after all, brought down by her own people. So what should an artist do, he asked?

A few years ago I was interviewing a young woman who had been a victim of ethnic cleansing. Abducted as a child, she’d been raised inside a cold, regulated, racially defined institution. But she’d grown up to be an articulate, engaging advocate for refugees. At the end of our meeting, I asked her how she had known – growing up in such an unloving environment – that life could be more. “I read a book,” she said. What book? A searing indictment of Thatcher’s Britain? “Heidi.”

There is nothing more subversive than a definition of happiness, a vision of how things could be better.

We can’t always be writing utopias. Sometimes only a dystopia will spur change, and we have to let rage have its way in our writing, and we must create violent or critical portraits and even say things that are scathing or wounding or angry. Like Morrissey did this week, for example. I guess it depends on how much you, as a writer, want your work to be defined by rage and indignation. (I’m currently reserving mine for the explanation of how Mark Thatcher became a Sir.) (If I were a knight, I’d be annoyed how my honour had been devalued.) (If I were a knight, I might have to challenge Sir Mark to a joust. Though I’d get someone from Game of Thrones to fight on my behalf. Arya. She’d win.*)

This subversive idea of happiness, probably in combination with a firm yet compassionate piece by Russell Brand, led me to thinking about the Buddhist concept of Right Speech.

Right speech, explained in negative terms, means avoiding four types of harmful speech: lies (words spoken with the intent of misrepresenting the truth); divisive speech (spoken with the intent of creating rifts between people); harsh speech (spoken with the intent of hurting another person’s feelings); and idle chatter (spoken with no purposeful intent at all).

Some of these aims might be quite challenging for those among us who like a bit of gossip or idle chatter (but of course gossip has purposeful intent!) …

But hey, even if voicing rages is what comes most naturally to us in our writing, there’s enough divisiveness in the world, and bombs and explosions and sadness, maybe from time to time we need to stop dwelling in fear and be utopian and spread the love a bit and invest in some of our own Heidis. Or at least try to.

There were other news stories on 17 April, and not all of them were looking backwards. Many were looking forward to ways of creating newness in the world, visions of ways things could be better, utopian even. Yesterday, for example, this was my Heidi.

I’m leaving the final words to my nan, who would’ve said of Maggie what she always said when someone died. Well, her arse is cold now, isn’t it?

And lo, the sun is shining again, between the rain showers, and maybe the long winter’s over.

Further reading
* Right Speech Reconsidered (from Tricycle Magazine)
* Raising The Tone (Writing Experiment No. 61)

* PS Just reread this in March 2020 – Arya, eh?! How prophetic was THAT?!