FIVE THINGS ON A FRIDAY

I have no idea who came up with Five Things on a Friday, but I see it all over the place, so I thought I would join in.

1. Awesometastic competition to win all kinds of drool-worthy books which haven't been released yet. I've already entered!
2. I've written and delivered the synopsis for the two book series (currently just titled FrostFire One and FrostFire Two, but hopefully something less lame in the near future) to my editor. Now we cross our fingers for a positive response.
   
3. And since I've already finished the first rough draft of Book One - YES! FINISHED! - I'm now giving myself my traditional week off before I start on Book Two, which means I get to read all the amazing books in my TBR pile! Whoohoo! I've already started Shiver by Maggie Stiefvater. I'm struggling with it a little at the moment, mostly with Grace's POV, but am pressing onward.
   
4. There is a farmer's market in town today, and I'm about to head out to sample local cheeses and breads and other yummy stuff. For my dinner tonight, I intend to make grilled portobello mushrooms with goat's cheese and a poached egg, followed by homemade leak and blue cheese soup. Yes, that's right - I am a cooking goddess.
5. Have a book trailer for The Swan Kingdom! Pretty, pretty...
   

MYSTERIOUS HINTS (Oooh!)

Hi Everyone! A late post today, because I have been taken up with publishing matters of an engimatical, unconfirmed kind.

I can't really explain anything in great detail yet. However, faithful blog readers may find a hint in my recent post about The Scary Place - the point in a work in progress where a writer realises that their plot won't fit into their book, and they're going to over-run their word target. By *a lot*.

Very faithful blog readers may even remember the post I made a while ago when I hit what I thought was the 50% mark (ha ha ha) of this book, and talked about my problems with my published novel Daughter of the Flames, and how I had ended up removing a vital plot arc and a lot of character development because I was scared of just such over-running. And how I was determined not to make that mistake again.

If any of you are now remembering the little remark that I made along the lines of 'why didn't I just turn Daughter of the Flames into two books?' and are now putting two and two together to make, well, two... give yourself a gold star for extreme observation skills.

Nothing is exactly settled yet. I have to write some synopses for my editor. She'll probably want to take them to the boss lady and see what the reaction is there. But I'm excited because if I can convince everyone, it means that I get to write this story the way I really want to, without worrying about word targets anymore. And, when I say excited? I mean ecstatic.

I have so many ideas for scenes that will enrich the characters and deepen the story, so many thoughts about how relationships can develop in interesting and complex ways - so much COOL STUFF in my head. And I'd resigned myself to leaving most of it on the cutting room floor of my brain, or 'telling' it in narrative rather than letting the readers see for themselves. As soon as I realised there was a chance I don't have to do that, I started scribbling lists of new scenes in my notebook, giggling with insane glee. 'Cos that's how I roll.

As a really satisfying side effect, getting my own way on this would mean that I've already technically finished the first draft of the first part. This would pave the way for me to possibly break my (not very impressive) record of one book a year, and manage to write two (the first drafts of them, anyway) for the first time. Go, newly professional writer! Go!

Anyway, more details about this as I get them. Stay tuned to this bat-channel.

SOME THOUGHTS ON TWILIGHT

Firstly, I must admit that, yes, I *ought* to be writing right now. However, I've just realised that I have once again wandered down the forbidden Cul-De-Sac of Plot Digressions and found myself at the Dead End of Doom. Which means that in a few moments I am going to have to go back, find the point at which I began work today, highlight and delete. And that stings us, my precious, it stings us. So I'm going to delay the stinging just for a little while - just long enough to get these thoughts out.

I'm not going to summarise Twilight here. Chances are that even if you haven't read it, you know enough about the story to keep up. If not, and you still want to read on, go here first. But not if you're at work. Your boss may find your uncontrollable hoots of laughter suspicious.

I'm also not going to make any comments like 'lots of people loved it anyway' or 'these are just my opinions' because that's blindingly obvious. If you want to try and flame me because you're convinced Twilight is perfect, go ahead, although you should be aware that working in the publishing industry has made me pretty much flame retardant.

Romance is a tricky thing to write. I know - all my novels so far have a romantic element, and I find it one of the hardest things to get right because what you're trying to capture on the page is something that has been talked about, sung about, acted about since the beginning of time. Every description has already been used. Every phrase is already a cliche. When you're trying to convey a great, immortal love in paper, it's like trying to paint on a canvass that has already been painted by every other painter that ever lived. No matter how good you are, all those layers of old paint are going to effect your colours and composition. They're going to shape what you paint. They're going to show through.

Even worse than that is the fact that in real life, love has a massive physical component. On film when Gwyneth Paltrow walks into the room and the hero stares at her, drumstruck, we GET it. In writing, you can spend ten pages describing the beauty of your love interest without conveying the smallest part of that vital, obvious human connection.

Stephenie Meyer runs up against both these problems in Twilight. She spends on average one paragraph on every page of Twilight describing Edward's physical beauty. She's trying to create that impact - that blinding moment when you look at someone and fall a little in love with them instantly, just because of their eyes or the way they smile. Unfortunately, she does not succeed. To me, what happens instead is that I find her writing - and her main character's internal monologue - so incredibly tedious that I wish Edward had died of the influenza rather than inflict these endless lines about his butterscotch-ochre eyes, flawless sparkly skin, tousled bronze hair and perfect crooked smile on the world. What's more, Bella does not find one single way of thinking or talking about Edward that is not already a cliche. Perhaps aware of this, the author tries to pretend that the colours showing through her work are there on purpose, by flinging literary references at us. Unfortunately, once again, it does not work. Instead, comparing her own prose to that of Austen, Bronte and Shakespeare only makes it all the more clear how remarkably and painfully average her writing is.

So what I'm saying is, Smeyer (as I like to abbreviate her name, just for efficiency's sake) isn't that great a writer. She falls into the two big romance traps. However, I could forgive her that. I've read many, many books with worse writing, and Smeyer's universe, descriptions and plot are at least internally consistent. My main problem with the Twilight books is that, once you've read them all and begin to compare them to other romantic books, a single fact begins to dawn on you.

The Twilight Saga is NOT ROMANCE.

Deep breaths now, people. Stay with me.

To illustrate my point, I'm going to talk to you about one of my favourite YA romance fantasies, which is called 'Howl's Moving Castle' by Diana Wynne Jones. Here, we have two characters who are (like the lovers in Twilight) separated by many factors. The main character, Sophie, is a shy, dutiful and self-effacing young woman who, through a misunderstanding, falls under a curse which turns her into an eighty year old woman. Following this, she becomes part of the household of the Wicked Wizard Howl, famed for eating young woman's hearts. Actually, Howl isn't a cannibal. He's a vain, arrogant and cowardly young wizard who (unbeknownst to Sophie) is under a curse of his own. He seduces and abandons young women without a qualm, slithers out of any real work and, on one memorable occasion, fills his entire castle with green slime because he's having a bad hair day. Sophie (finally freed from the need to be 'respectable' by the fact that she's become a crone) meddles, argues, bickers and fights with Howl constantly, messing up all his plans, forcing him to do things he doesn't want to do. Her interference sets Howl's world upside down, but he does the same to her, turning out to be an entirely different person than his first appearance would suggest.

This doesn't sound romantic, does it?

BUT IT IS. By the end of the book, when these two finally risk their lives to save each other and declare their love, the reader is totally and utterly convinced that their love is a real, breathing thing between them. That they are perfect for each other, not because their relationship is or ever will be perfect, but because it isn't.

The reason why this romance is convincing is that Sophie and Howl are both fully realised people in their own right. They come together despite or even because of their differences, make a choice to be the most important thing to each other, to mesh their lives despite possibly having to sacrifice other things which are are important to them. This holds true of every good romance any of us have ever read, from Pride and Prejudice through to The Sharing Knife books by Lois McMaster Bujold.

The problem comes where an author tries to write this kind of romance by creating a hero and heroine who have no real interests in life or attachment to anyone BUT EACH OTHER.

Let's look at Bella. I mean, really look at her. What do we know about her? She's clumsy - but that's not a personality trait, anymore than having a mole on your cheek is a personality trait. She likes reading. Not much - she's not passionate about it or anything, but it's something she does. She doesn't like rain or cold. She is mildly fond of her parents, but has no respect for either of them, and no apparent need for or reliance on them. She cooks, but not out of any sense of enjoyment - just because she thinks she should. Aaand... that's it. Those are literally her only traits. She has no ambitions. No dreams. No hopes or fears. She doesn't worry about college, plan to travel, intend to become a writer or an actress or a bank manager. She doesn't think puppies are cute or disgusting. She doesn't sing in the shower. She is completely self-reliant and has no true bond to any human being or human experience.

She comes to Forks not because she wants to but because (once again) she thinks she should. Despite what appears to be a borderline disassociative disorder on Bella's part, young people at her school try to get to know her, but she has no interest in or empathy for any of them. They bore her. She doesn't think any of them are attractive or worth her attention. Her only emotion when any boy approaches her is 'Eugh'.

Then Edward appears. By her own account, he is utterly, breathtakingly beautiful. And he's the only person in Forks who apparently doesn't like her and want to be friends with her immediately (apart from one girl, called Lauren, who is so minor a character that she doesn't count).

Considering all this, it's hardly surprising that Bella is willing to risk her life to be with Edward within a week of knowing him. That she can say to him, straight-faced, that she would rather die than have him leave her alone. It's because he's a) the only person who she has ever found attractive or interesting b) SHE HAS NOTHING ELSE IN HER LIFE. In sacrificing her humanity she's called on to give up nothing significant to her, nothing that she needs or cares about. She's not human in any real sense anyway.

The same things are all true of Edward. He has spent his entire undead life believing he is damned and soulless, moping about being the only singleton in a 'family' made up of passionately devoted couples. He says he loves his family, but they seem to inspire more exasperation than affection in him. He plays the piano. Other than that, his only occupation seems to have been going to High School over and over and over and over, feeling superior to every person he meets because he can read their minds. Except for a brief stint at medical school. But he's never attempted to be a practising doctor. To do that he'd need to take an interest in something other than his own misery, which he cannot apparently bring himself to do. He's never had a relationship, even of the hand-holding variety, with anyone. What kind of a life is that? He might as well have died!

So of course *he's* willing to sacrifice his being for Bella. She is literally the only interesting thing that's happened to him since he turned into a vampire. He can't read her mind and she smells good enough that he actually wants to kill her, unlike every other girl he's ever met, who all put him off with their stinky perfume and bore him with their pointless internal monologue.

And even when these two link up, there's still not enough human life in the pair of them to make one real human being.

Bella and Edward never think of anything but each other, discuss anything but their feelings for each other, or have any thoughts about their future except for being together. They're perfect for each other because no one else could possibly establish or maintain a relationship with either of them. When you think of it like that, you realise what you're looking at in this book isn't a romance at all. It's about a co-dependent relationship of socially retarded loners who are both so isolated that they have no choice but to cling to each other and call it love.

Now, if you want to write a story about the suffocating and unhealthy relationship between a pair of sociopathic teens who are both unable to form any meaningful relationship with anyone other than each other...fine. But please don't gussy it up and pretend that it's the next Romeo and Juliet. Please don't pretend that the 'love' these two have for each is the 'love' that the rest of us experience in our lives. It isn't. Neither of them know what love is.

Love is accepting (as Bella and Edward never do) that the other person in the relationship is a PERSON. Flawed. Conflicted and contradictory. Stuffed with insecurities and anger and shame and sadness. And laughter and life and joy. Love is looking at another person, knowing that they are not and never will be your 'dream lover' and choosing to be with them anyway. Choosing to give up every fantasy you ever had about Mr Perfect swooping in and fixing your life, because that fantasy doesn't mean as much to you as the guy with the head-cold snoring on the sofa in front of Match of the Day.

Love is being with someone not because they're imprinted on you or destined for you, or the only person in the whole world whose mind you can't read, but because they're them. Joe, or Sally or Pilar or Hasif. Just that. Only that. That's what love is.

Twilight a love story? Not in a million years. And that's why I despise these books. Because they're supposed to be about love, but there's no heart in them. What they're really about is desperation and loneliness.

Oh, and sparkly stalker boys. Mustn't forget that.

THE SCARY PLACE

I'm getting to a certain point in my current book now. It's a point I like to call The Scary Place.

It gets its name because this is where, by my (and my word-o-metre's) calculations, I should be nearly at the end. I'm only supposed to have around 10% (in this case, between 10,000 and 15,000 words) to go. And yet, and yet, and yet...

MY PLOT IS STILL GROWING.

It doesn't fit! Oh, no, what do I do? Holy Heck, this book is going to be way. Too. Long. Waaaah!

Yeah, basically it's like that. I don't know why this happens to me. Am I the only one? When I'm plotting out a book, deciding what should happen to who when, I'm always plagued with a vague feeling that not enough is going to happen and that it's all a bit thin. But by the time I hit The Scary Place the plot has started bulging out in all directions like an athlete on anabolic steroids. New scenes have somehow inserted themselves into the story. Characters have developed in unexpected ways. Parts of the story that I thought would only need one scene turn out to need three and a half. And even though this happens to me every single time, I'm never prepared for it.

If you could see me now, you would see that I have a harried, frazzled look, that my hair is sticking out in all directions from me running my hands through it, that my pupils are just a bit too dilated from rampant coffee-consumption. This is the look of an author on the edge.

I may have mentioned that my last manuscript, which I had originally forecast at a length of 65,000 words, ending up weighing in at a whopping 130,000? I do not want that to happen again, friends. Especially not since I ended up cutting nearly 30,000 of those words in revisions with my editor (it burned, I tell you! BURNED!). I want this book to be a reasonable length. I want to be between 90-95,000 words long and no more.

But I haven't even finished the bit where...well, that would be a spoiler but, looking at my four act diagram, I have nineteen 'Crisis Points' in the story, places where something major happens which flips the plot. And I've only written thirteen and a half of them. That means there are five major crises to write and I'm supposed to do that in 15,000 words? No way that's gonna happen.

So what do I do? Plough on - because it's all I can do - and admit that my visions of a first draft completion date of the end of this month are nothing more than a beautiful dream. Yes, I'm going to run over my word target AGAIN. Yes, I will probably have to cut thousands of words in revision AGAIN. Yes, I will miss my dream target (although not the actual target, which is early September) AGAIN.

The real question is, why do I persist in making up these word targets and pretending they're accurate even though I always exceed them? I suppose they're a safety blanket for a writer, giving us a sense that we know where we're going. Which is why letting go of that target is so scary. Like a kid venturing out without a security blanket for the first time, a writer without a word target feels cold, vulnerable and likely to burst into tears at any moment...

Frankly, I need a hug. Any takers?

ON MY BOOKSHELF

I have a rule. When I pass the 50% mark of a manuscript that I'm working on, I am no longer allowed to read any new books until I finish. I can re-read old favourites - that's fine - magazines - yep - non-fiction reference books - okay. But no new novels.

I'm not entirely sure when or how this rule came into being. I think it goes as far back as The Swan Kingdom, because I'm pretty sure I remember a friend sending me a stack of books as a celebratory present when I announced that it was finished. But whenever or however the rule came into being, it works. I happen to be one of those people that finish most books they read in one sitting, which means I read non-stop for about six hours at a time. You can't write from 9am to 5pm every day, cook, clean, take the dog for three walks, bathe, wash and blow-dry your hair, do internet grocery shopping and banking, reply to your emails AND read for six hours. So what always drops out of the equation is writing. When I'm reading new books, usually, I'm not writing.

BAD WRITER! NO COOKIE!

What this normally means is that while I'm writing that last 50% of my work-in-progress, I build up this stack of exciting books I'm *desperate* to read, but can't. I usually stack them up in my writing cave; there are days when looking at them is the only motivation I can scrape together to get some words down. Today, I thought I would share with you my 'I Get To Read These When I'm Finished' Bookshelf.

First of all: SHIVER by Maggie Stiefvater.

I'm such a fan of Maggie's that even though I've never read any of her books yet, I can still spell her name right without even checking. Yeah I know. Anyway, I follow this lady's blog and listen to her awesome music for inspiration and despite some uncomplimentary reviews from friends of mine, I'm really interested to read this book.

You'll note, by the way, that this is the beautiful, shiny, blue and silver American hardback cover I've posted. That's because the UK paperback cover is so vile that I couldn't bring myself to read it. Seriously, what is up with the drooling letters, dude? Eugh. Anyway, I decided to order a copy of the US hardback and wait a few weeks for it to arrive, since I wasn't going to read the book straight away, and it's even more lovely in the flesh. In the paper? Whatever.

Next, SISTERS RED by Jackson Pearce.

Whoa nelly, that is an awesome cover.

I love fairytale retellings - that's why I write them - but most people go for the Anderson ones because they're longer and more complex and leave more room for reinterpretation. There's not all that much meat in the Brothers Grimm Little Red Riding Hood, and I'm told that this story does have a few glaring plot holes.

However, it's about two girls who carve up werewolves with knives and a hachet so...yeah. I'm totally reading this.

Next on the list is CITY OF BONES by Cassandra Clare.

Yes, yes, I know everyone but me has already read this. And it's kind of shameful that I haven't, since me and Cassie Clare have the same publisher. I've been meaning to get to it for ages, and the other day I was browsing on Amazon and thought, Ooh, I should get that while I'm online! So I did.

I really hope it's as good as everyone says, because if so I have two more books in the trilogy to look forward to, and the companion book. Woohoo!

PRINCESS OF THE MIDNIGHT BALL by Jessica George Day.

Another one I've been meaning to get to for a while, but I hesitated because Robin McKinley, the Ruling Empress of Fairytale Retellings has already done a version of The Twelve Dancing Princesses, which I LOVE. I'm not sure anyone else can live up to that version, but the reviews on this one are good, so I'm willing to give it a go.

MAGIC UNDER GLASS by Jaclyn Dolomore.

I'm intrigued by this one for several reasons. The idea of a fairy trapped in an automoton is so original - and I've also been told that this author writes a little like Diana Wynne Jones which is about the highest tribute anyone could ever bestow, as far as I'm concerned. Really looking forward to it, but hoping the ending is not as much of a cliff-hanger as some reviews imply (boy, I hate cliff-hangers. Ngghg).

THE FOREST OF HANDS AND TEETH by Carrie Ryan.

I would have bought and read this one ages ago, despite the Twilight-Alike cover, just because that title is fantastic (so jealous! Why can't *I* think of titles like that? Waah!). However, the only copy in my local bookshop was all ripped up and torn, and I wasn't willing to shell out full price for a hardback with a ruined cover. When I returned to the shop the next time, there were no copies. It seemed like an omen, so I decided to make an offering to the writing gods and buy a notebook with the money instead. No, not really: I just forgot.

So these are the books I can't wait to read at the moment. What's on your To Be Read pile right now, and why?

WHY I HATE INTERNET SERVICE PROVIDERS

They deactivate your broadband accounts for no reason.

They delete the email addresses which you've been using for nine years without warning.

When you phone them up to complain about this, they say it will take seven days to fix, and in the meantime anyone who tries to email you will get their message bounced back to them.

When you tell them this is unacceptable, they tell you 'you need to be patient'.

When you ask why you should be patient when this was not your error, and ask to speak to a manager, they tell you there are no managers available.

When you persist, they say a manager will call you back in ten to fifteen minutes.

No manager ever calls.

When you call back, they will keep you on the phone for about a hour trying various things to fix your problem, then give up and tell you that, although they can 'reinstate' your broadband, the email will probably take another few days to sort out. And there are still no managers available to speak to. They offer to set you up a temporary email address so you can email your friends to warn them.

After you have hung up, the temp email address is found not to work.

Finally, during this entire process? The knowledge of the words that you were meant to write today will be itching at you like fire-ants, and the realisation that you've wasted a day trying to fix something that wasn't your fault, and that you are now behind on your word target will feel like acid poured on fire-ant burns.

And this - this, my pretties - is why Richard Branson will burn in Hell. BURN I TELL YOU.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to set up a gmail account.

SQUEEE! (Continued)

Today I received my confirmation letter, so it's probably safe to post about the amazing thing that just happened to me. Safe in terms of...well, it's not likely to turn out that I hallucinated the whole thing, or had a really vivid dream. So I shall share.

I mentioned a few posts ago that I was interviewing for a new part-time job. What I didn't mention was that I lost my previous job in really unhappy circumstances. We'll say no more about that, except that my job was my only steady income, and that it left me in a fairly desperate financial situation. I didn't have any savings, and once I went through my pay in lieu of notice I wasn't going to be able to pay my rent, let alone my debts. Signing on for benefits (a humiliating first for me) barely touched that problem.

I told my editor about this, and because my publisher is a fairly small (though mighty) independent publisher, who actually really care about their authors, my editor's boss got on the phone to me. She said lots of lovely things, reassured me that one day I would look back on my redundancy and laugh and think it was the best thing that ever happened to me ('Yeah, right...' I said, humouring her) and then gave me a really fabulous piece of advice. She told me to apply to the Royal Literary Fund for assistance.

I'd never even heard of the Royal Literary Fund before. Once I did some online research I found that they were a really amazing charity, set up nearly three hundred years ago - and funded by successful authors - that have made it their business to help writers out of financial difficulties. They've given grants to some of the most distinguished British authors in history, when those authors hit low ebb. Reading about their history made it seem even less likely that they would want to help me - but there was nothing on their website that specifically prohibited me from applying. So I phoned up and asked for an application form, got together some letters of reference, wrote down all my income (practically none) and expenditures (rather too much) and sent them two copies of both my published books. That last bit is important because the Royal Literary Fund only award grants once the literary merit of the author has been established. Committee members read the applicant's books and, basically, if your work is no good, they can't award you any money.

After all this, I frankly wasn't feeling too hopeful - and when a very nice lady from the RLF came to see me at home to check my application and all my facts, and told me that I was way, way younger than their normal applicants (I'm not close to thirty yet) and that normally grants were made to people who were 'mid-career' rather than just starting out, I pretty much resigned myself to being told there was nothing they could do for me.

I knew the date when my application was to be put forward was 14th of July. I forced myself to sit down and get to work as normal on my current book. I forced myself not to look at the phone. I rehearsed, in my head, how I was going to react when I was told 'Unfortunately on this occasion...' and told myself to remember to thank them for all their trouble anyway.

It was early evening before the phone rang. By then, despite my best efforts, I was feeling sick and jumpy, just wanting to get the disappointment over with so that I could get on and try to figure out how to bail myself out this mess. I answered the phone.

The very nice lady was on the other end. And she said she had good news.

Even then, I was expecting her to follow this with '...and bad news'. That's the format my life has taught me to expect so far. But no. She didn't say anything about bad news. She said, 'The Committee have decided to award you...'

I sucked in a deep breath, thinking she might say, perhaps, a thousand pounds. I would have been incredibly grateful for that much.

But the lady didn't say that. She named a figure. Then she said the RLF would award me that figure per annum for the next two years. The figure (because grants from the RLF are tax-free) was effectively the same as my annual earnings in my old job. She was telling me that I was going to have enough money to be able to write, full-time, for the next TWO YEARS.

I burst into tears and started thanking her so frantically that she barely able to get out her next sentence, which was to tell me that the Committee had also decided they would pay off my debts. All of them.

Even typing this now - even having seen this information in writing - even after three days - I still can't believe it. Things like this just don't happen to me. The Royal Literary Fund not only read my books and liked them - found them worthy beside the work of all the other amazing authors they've given grants to in their time - but they decided to make me a grant that will change my life. Forever.

I can write. Every. Single. Day. Yes, I still have to look after my family, do dishes and housework, walk the dog and the rest. But I get to write every single day for the next two years, without worrying about money, without desperately trying to find any job that will take me, without having to drag myself out and into an office where they treat their workers like a piece of hardware that plugs into a phone. This? This sounds to me like an opportunity to write a heck of a lot of books, peeps. Like a chance to make a huge difference to my career. Actually, it sounds like heaven, only without the unpleasant dying part first.

So when my editor's boss said to me that day I would look back on losing my job and laugh, and think it was the best thing that ever happened to me...she was right.

Holy Marked Up Manuscripts, Batman! I'd better get back to work!