Motivation

I have been stricken recently with a virus. This involves laying around on sofas feeling sorry for myself and watching TV until my brain started to trickle out of my ears. In these situations one's mind drifts and, maybe it was the fever, mine drifted in a strange direction. I had this vision of an alternative London that captivated me. I soon had two characters, children, a brother and sister existing on the fringes of society scraping an existence as mudlarks - Thames slumdogs if you like. There really were mudlarks, scouring the Thames mud at low tide. I considered where poverty and desperation might drive them and the possible consequences of their actions. That gave me a plot.

I have not written a word of this short story yet, I am deep into a novel and other commitments, but I will write it. Short stories are uncommercial these days; I suppose TV programmes have replaced them. I will probably never be able to sell it so why bother to go to all the effort to write. The answer is because I need to tell stories. I can't help myself. Anything I can sell is a bonus but money is not my prime motivation. If you want to make money then get a job. If you wan't to write then write.

This short story going around in my head draws on London's past - again. In England, history sits under the modern world like the submerged part of an iceberg. Spring is now well under way in England. The days are lengthening fast and new life shoots up around ancient buildings. Enclosed are a couple of photos I took last week. They show students playing frisbee on the lawns of Royal Holloway College, London university and the gardens at Chilham Castle.

Hope you like them.

John

Writing Time: Be Selfish

Dave's post and Rowena's comment reminded me of the constant struggle to protect my writing time. It's so easy and so common for others to take for granted that if a writer is at home all day, s/he must also be available all day, to gossip, run errands, etc. People who are used to the cultural norm of the "day job" tend to forget that for a writer, writing is a job and requires time and attention.

I have to protect my writing time from myself, too. It's amazing how when I've hit a tough patch on the WIP, suddenly housework becomes very appealing. Or I have to update my blog. Or, or, or...

So here are a few tips for protecting that precious writing time. Not everything works for everyone, but this may give you some ideas.

Establish Boundaries

My friends know that when I'm writing, I ignore the phone. I let them know when I usually write, and they call at other times of day, or better yet send me email that I can answer when I'm ready to connect to the Internet.

Speaking of that the World's Worst Waster-of-time, I disconnect from the Web when I'm writing. I have a separate computer (laptop) and a separate chair for writing. The desk is for business. The writing chair is for writing. My incredibly patient, supportive, and understanding spouse knows that when I'm sitting in the writing chair, I don't want to be disturbed.

Say When

Planning when to write helps. I prefer as few distractions as possible, so I like to write while the spouse is away at work. I need a fairly long stretch of time, preferably a couple of hours at least, when I can work uninterrupted if I'm going to make good progress. If I'm going to have to jump up and do something in fifteen minutes, I'm probably not going to be able to concentrate on writing.


Set Goals

For those whose lives are especially full of outside demands, though, fifteen minutes at a time may be all they get. In this case I'd suggest considering the charming and delightful late Roger Zelazney's method of writing. He would sit down four times a day, and each time he'd write three sentences. Doesn't sound like much, but it adds up.

Roger's objective and hope was that at least one of those four times, he'd get caught up and write more. But even if twelve sentences a day—every day—is all you can manage, it adds up to a book in a surprisingly short amount of time.

Writers tend to be either tortoises (slow, steady, every-day workers) or hares (sprinters). I'm a tortoise, though I can sprint when I need to. But a technique that I've found very helpful for me is to commit to writing 500 words a day, every day, rain or shine. Some days—most days, in fact—I write more. But I've got a long streak of daily writing going and the desire to keep it going is a great incentive.

Telling others about your goal helps you keep it, too. Dean Wesley Smith is currently tracking streaks for a bunch of writers. If you're curious about that, visit Dean's "Streaks" page .

Some writers prefer not to set word count goals, but instead designate a block of time for writing, as Dave mentioned. Whatever works. Just having a plan helps a lot.

Rainforest Village Writers Retreat

There's a wonderful new tradition in the Pacific Northwest, created and managed by the editor and owner of Fairwood Press. Patrick Swenson, as a teenager, used to work at this lovely rustic place on Lake Quinault, in the rainforests of the Olympic Peninsula. Three years ago he arranged with the Rainforest Village for some discounted rooms and more or less complete ownership of the bar and restaurant for a few days. This year, the third, the number of attending writers has swelled to nearly forty, beyond the actual capacity of the Rainforest Village, where writers gather to write, to have a few brief presentations about writing, and then to write some more.

I'm one of the "early birds", which means from 6:00 a.m. on the bar/restaurant area of the Rainforest Village is set aside for us to sit in relative quiet and work. The late-night writers will own this area until midnight or beyond, but I think they're missing out. As I sit here, I'm looking out over a lovely mist-shrouded lake, with the mountains dimly visible through the fog beyond it. One year it rained the entire weekend, and we watched the lake creep up toward the restaurant until it looked as if we might float away. The second year the sun shone intermittently. This is the first full day, so no weather report yet! I'm a Pacific Northwest girl, though, and no matter what the weather, I find this to be one of the most beautiful places in the world.

And, of course, there's magic that happens when a group of writers gathers to write. The group mind is a wonderful thing. Nothing is allowed to intrude on us, for these few days. Due to popular demand, Patrick expanded the retreat to five days, and we're here now . . . ready to work. I've looked forward to this all year.

Computer viruses

Well, not literally, but I am now struck with the flu, which should say something in the way of how interconnected our world is, where the same illness can strike everywhere flights to, seemingly at once.

Of course, being a writer I imagine it means something else -- that reality is more permeable and porous than we think. That there is another sort of connection behind the reality.

I'm fairly sure this is an illusion, but then if the human mind is a mechanism for organizing reality and giving it coherence, the writer mind is a mechanism for mysticizing reality and giving it meaning, so I will not apologize for being a writer.

Of course, it's entirely possible this is just the fever talking.

I will be back next week with a post on voice -- what it is, how to detect it, and whether it's possible to acquire one.

Narrative Tension

This is the visual I use to inspire me when I write King Rolen's Kin. Since we're experiencing an autumn with over 30 degrees heat and high humidity, the thought of snow is very alluring.

I spent all day driving children to the train station, picking children up from the train station, while trying to read my current Work in Progress and pin down a niggly feeling that one of the three narrative was flagging.

I'm using three PVs, weaving events in so that all three characters will arrive at the denouement which has to happen on a certain festival day, ready to play their part. Now, this wouldn't be too hard, if I could actually sit down and read what I've written in one go, but what happens is this.

I read up to a point where I think, this scene should go back one chapter to heighten the tension of character three's story arc, or I need to write a new scene to screw the tension higher. So I move the scene or write a new one. Then have to go back and re-read the book to see what this has done to the other two time lines. And then I read on. In the middle of all this, I have to get up from the computer and rush off to drive kids around and deal with minor family emergencies.

I'd just like a few hours without interruptions. Now child 5 has just come in to tell me that the washing machine is broken. Argh!!

The real life thing is really bugging my proposal/short stories/ starting the next novel wrestle. And it is a a wrestle right now. I think it is guy thing (by all means tell me I am wrong), but I stand in awe of the authors who manage to juggle being a great parent/partner, some doing a day-job, and somehow writing 2-3 at once. Hey, I have small brain. It takes intensive focus to write, and if I whistle while I'm p!ssing, I wet my shoes. I find all that works for me is to do all the extraneous things that have to be done, and then switch off the incoming e-mail, and close any websites, make myself some really strong coffee, and stare at the screen until I get something done.

It works really well... in part.

I can stare at the screen for hours.

I've achieved a lot of screen staring like this.

Seriously: it is a creative process, and easier to get there for some than others. Your mechanism - be it write 200 words a day, or play Ravel's Bolero - is almost cetainly not the same as mine. Take any advice on this with shovels of salt... but do write. And somehow, finish.

Jack

SOmetimes I like to write something... different: From FATE FANTASTIC, Edited by Martin H Greenberg, and Daniel M. Hoyt 2007

JACK

Dave Freer

Now you see me...
Now you don't.
But I'm out there, oh yes. You all just keep looking for me, my little darlings. Peer out into the dark. There are always things that skitter in the night. Twigs that crack in the silence. A hint of movement, where all should be grave-still. Ha. As if a grave is ever really still. I've spent enough time in one to know that. You haven't. Yet.
A muffled shriek at midnight. It could be an owl.
Or it could be me.
Tch. Keep looking out, silly ones. Stare hard into the shadows under the wind-gnarled trees. It's very black over there.
Now you see me...
Now you don't.
Which is all really very odd... because I'm in here, in the circle of firelight, with you. I DO so like it when you look for me out there. Stopping myself from giggling is the hardest part. And it is nice and warm here by your fire. The things people will believe. As if that would keep me away. Your cold iron could kill me, but that is a chance I must take.
Grey dawn is a fair way off, still and before then my mischief and damage must be done. I'll have to slip off and to go to earth then, before the sunlight comes. It is such a lovely foxy way of putting it, 'to go to earth'. Appropriate too, for me, even I can't say that it is too accurate. But it has a better ring to it than 'to go to the mound'. A pity, that. My kind are rather obsessed with accuracy.
Magic requires it.
***
She huddled into her hooded cloak and leaned against him for security. The child was shivering slightly. Well, they all were, probably, and not from the cold. Terrible tales were told of Gnita Heath. Of the dragon, of the ring of old misshapen rocks which were strangely bare of the lichen that grew on the other stones out here. Of the doom that overtook those who wandered too far onto it.
Or... in other words... about Jack.
"It'll be all right. We're ready for anything. We'll see him coming," said Hrolf, trying to keep even the hint of a quaver out of his voice. "And there are lots of us."
She smiled at him. There was a quick flash of white teeth in the shadows of the hood anyway. "You're so brave."
In his heart of hearts, Hrolf Ragnarsson did not feel it. He had come here to die, seeking the death that had been foretold when he was barely three months old. The wise women, the chanter of galdr, and mistress of seid had spoken with with his fylgjur -- his fetch. He would die on Gnita Heath. A part of him wanted that death... and yet, not now. Not at the hands of night-monster. Not overtaking the others with him. "We warriors are not afraid of anything," he said with all the stoutness he could muster. The poor mite was so frail. What did the king think he was doing, sending a waif of a girl out here?
"Not even a ghost that drinks blood and sends men mad?" she asked.
Her teeth were very even and very white.
Did she have to mention that story? That was almost worse than Jack.
***
I suppose it is rather nasty, enjoying watching him shake. But some things need to be kept from humans. Some things are holy, and fragile. Anyway, I like doing my job.
Jack...
Jack o' lantern...
Jack o' shadows...
Jack o' bedlam.
The redcap of the heath. It's quite a job. Quite a responsibility.
I do wonder why the humans think I'm male. My kind never are.