Is it me, or does everybody in the publishing industry seem to be obsessed with voice, perspective, style and rules?
Do you read for enjoyment or do you read for ‘the experience’? Do you look for a great story or a great ‘voice’?
Personally, I love to get swept away in a consuming story with characters I care about. Voice is secondary. I do admire the cleverness of a novel written in an original way, but these days I’d rather lose myself in a character’s struggle, than have my breath taken away by stunning prose.
Maybe it’s because I’m a busy mum with too much crap rattling around in my head. As I get older, my tolerance for culture is dwindling. In my twenties I was always up for watching a clever art house film, or listening to an experimental Mercury Music award winner. Now, I revel in paranormal romance, sci fi blockbusters and a bit of Paulo Nutini.
The gatekeepers of the publishing industry all talk about voice as if it is the only thing that matters. They’re constantly searching for authors who tell stories in new and inventive ways. But maybe they’re missing the point. Surely, for most, reading is a form of entertainment - a comfort or an escape.
Is this obsession with voice a prestige thing? A form of snobbery? Or is it really the way to move the publishing industry forward? A way to generate buzz and keep the mystique of literature. A publisher's ‘Finest’ range, made with organic, speciality ingredients. But sometimes the only thing that’s really going to hit the spot is a plate of curly fries.
How long have you been on authonomy?
I joined in 2009, but didn’t start using the site until about 6 months ago.
How do you use the site – are you a reader or a writer?I’m a writer. When I first joined authonomy, I wanted people to tell me how wonderful my book was and for an agent or publisher to snap it up. Then I got a reality check in the form of some serious ...
So I’m spending my Friday night looking at a map of Britain, trying to get inspiration for a character’s name. There are some good possible contenders for surnames:
Willoughby, Lovell, Foscott …
Digby? Angus Digby?
Oh, it’s really hard. I’ve virtually finished the book and the character’s name is currently Sam Richards, but it’s not right. He’s a seven-year-old boy, a little bit spoilt, but with a good, brave heart. The book is the first in a series so I want the name to be strong, but a little bit quirky.
Burton Coggles! Far too quirky! It could be a double barrelled name, but he’s not a posh character, so that wouldn’t really be right
Todd Finchley – could be good.
I liked the name Edward Poots, but Pete, my husband turned his nose up. He’s probably right. It’s a bit Dickensian. Single syllable surnames are good though – Jones, Smith, Black.
My favourite so far is Thomas Tripp, but it’s actually a pub, named after a local smuggler. Would it be cheeky to rip it off and steal the name, or would people say, “oh yeah, she ripped it off and stole the name”?
I also like Nathan Jones, but that’s probably because it’s familiar to me – Pete (again) pointed out that it’s the name of a song and, thinking about it, I do vaguely remember the Bananarama version.
Why are names so hard to get right? I know that if I do get it right, his character will come alive. Novelist, Elmore Leonard, once said in an interview that he had a problem with one of his characters - he couldn’t write any dialogue for him. He kept getting writers block. Then, as soon as he changed his name, he couldn’t shut him up.
What about the name Dylan Jones? But he’s not from Wales, so it would be confusing. Readers would wonder why he had a Welsh name.
George Swift is another possible. Wilbur? Walter? Arghhhh.I’ve been thinking about this name for months.
Voodoo Spice: The Voodoo Review: Shalini Boland: "SHALINIwww.shaliniboland.co.uk http://someonewotwrites.blogspot.com I’ve been lucky to meet this multi-talented lady through the HarperCol..."
Yesterday was the kind of day I always imagined family life would be like. You know that image you have of an ideal family - fun days on the beach, Sunday lunches, days out, everybody smiling and laughing, teasing each other good naturedly.
But I've found that life with kids is somewhat different to the image I carried around in my head for years. In my everyday reality, there is much gratuitous noise, a truckful of disagreement, an inordinate amount of crying, a smattering of bedwetting and an awful lot of poo.
Yesterday reality went on hold for a day. For me, yesterday was a pure distillation of autumn. If I reach old age, I’ll wheel out the memory of 10/10/10 and hold it up to the light to view from all its impossibly perfect refracting angles.
The day was ripe with a warm amber glow. It began with me and Billy sweeping up leaves in the garden. You would never think it, but sweeping up leaves with a three year old is one of the most pleasurable things you can do. We chatted and swept, talking about everything from, how many leaves it would take to fill up the green bin, to why Stephanie from Lazytown always wears pink.
After lunch, we piled into the car and drove out to a local farm to choose pumpkins.
“There they are!” the boys shouted. “Pumpkins! I can see them. Look, Mum! Hurry up, Dad.”
And there they were – comical blobs of orange strewn across the fields. Billy and Dan tumbled out of the car.
“Corn on the cobs!” Dan yelled. “And they’ve got blackberries. Can we get some?”
“I want a punkin,” Billy said, lip quivering at the mention of other, less exciting, foodstuffs.
We chose two fat pumpkins, a whole heap of corn on the cobs, some local honey and several punnets of blackberries.
Still early, we decided to drive on up the road to The New Forest. The light filtered down through the trees, dappling us with its warmth. We headed to a small arboretum packed with towering redwoods, silver birches, larches, horse chestnuts and solid oaks; perfect for climbing. Red-leafed maples and smooth-trunked eucalyptuses rustled next to willows and other exotic specimens.
We collected fallen leaves, built rickety miniature wigwams from fallen branches and picnicked amongst the acorns and conkers.
Life can be hard work and mundane. Sometimes it can be heartbreakingly unfair and sad. But yesterday was beautiful and I’ll keep it safe and separate in my mind to take out and polish on the not-so-great days. Like a shiny conker or an exotic orange pumpkin.
Pete’s at work, The boys are at school and preschool. Nothing to do for the first time in ... months.Well, I say nothing to do - there’s a ton of stuff to do around the house, but I’m exhausted, like there are no bones in my body. Like I want to crawl back under the duvet and sleep for a year. So, today I’m going to do nothing.I mean nothing. Nothing at all. Not read a book, not watch TV, not listen to the radio. Not even go out somewhere to do nothing. Just sit in the lounge and …be.Can I do that?
First, I’d better empty the dishwasher and wipe down the surfaces in the kitchen. Then I’ll make a coffee and I might even treat myself to a bag of Maltesers.
House a mess. Don’t look.
Phone’s ringing… Yes my house is on the market. Yes I understand you’ve got five hundred million buyers who all want to buy my house. But no, I don’t want to change my agent. Yes, I suppose it would be okay if you called me back in a month’s time. THANK YOU, BYE!
9.37
I sit in the lounge, crunch my chocolate and sip my deliciously scalding hazelnut coffee.It’s quiet and warm. Just right. The unfamiliar sensation of luxury sweeps across me. The luxury of time and of peace. Of empty hours lined up ahead of me. I smile.
My laptop sits benignly on the wide arm of the sofa.
I’ll just check my Hotmail.I open it up and press the power button.The warm silence is replaced with a heated electronic hum.I wait, not so relaxed now, but still …
Hotmail. Great, five messages: two new Twitter followers. Better check them out, follow back and then I’ll have a quick look on Twitter while I’m at it.Think of a few witty-ish tweets. Okay, I’ll give myself till then I’ll stop and carry on doing nothing.
Song lyrics in my head. Quick, grab notebook, write lyrics. Ooh melody too. Quick, grab phone, press record, sing into phone.
Phone’s ringing … Shit, forgotten the melody. Hello? Hello? Oh joy, a call centre. Why can’t I just hang up? No thanks. Oh really? No, no thanks anyway. I’ve got to … Oh? No, I’m not really interest … Right, Mmhmm. Thanks, but I’m really not ... Repeat to fade.
Some new messages on Hotmail. Family stuff. I’ll just fire off a few replies. Better check Pete’s email to see if he’s got any offers of work (freelance copywriter extraordinaire). Check Authonomy to see if anyone has commented on my book – nothing.
10.35
Just had an amazing idea for the next chapter of my novel. If I don’t write it down now, I’ll forget it. It won’t take long and then I can really relax and rest my cluttered brain.
So happy with my chapter. How could any agent resist?I still want to carry on writing, but I’m shaky with hunger. Lunch first and then I’ll write and make sure I leave some time to do nothing. I don’t have to pick Billy up until 2.I’ll still have some time.
Some cheese and crackers whilst writing a couple of critiques for other books on Authonomy.
Now, back to the relaxing.Just ever such a quick peek at Hotmail, followed by the teensiest tweet and another check on Pete’s email. A little look on Authonomy. Someone backed my book! Love them forever xxxx
Ooh, the sun’s come out. I can put the washing on the line. Anyway, it’s too late to write anything before school pick up. Still trying to remember that elusive melody. Bloody call centre. I’ll quickly hang out washing and then should have a good forty minutes left to relax.
House still a mess. Don’t look.
Phone’s ringing. No, Virgin, I don’t want to upgrade my phone package. Piss off please, thank you very much if it’s all the same to you.
Is that the time?I’ve got to go and pick Billy up from preschool. And it’s raining, the washing’s going to get soaked. What happened to my day of doing nothing? I did pretty much nothing, so why am I still tired and why do I feel like I’ve wasted a precious day? Bad mood descending, grrrr.
