Tag Archives: writers notebook

voice

by on October 7, 2011 in stuff I write

A writers ‘voice’ defines them.  It tells the reader a lot about the tone of the story and how it will unfold.  Is it serious? Is it comical? is it… well that’s the problem.  What is it?

When working on my coursework, I’m marked on the voice I use.  Mainly is it identifiable, is it right for the story that I’m telling? This is something I’ve been pondering today while sitting here (on a day off).  If I were to write a novel, what kind of voice would I use?  I’m torn between the serious and the comical.  Something with a little bit of humour wouldn’t go amis I feel, but that can be tricky in itself.  How do you manage to get the voice across?

Would a story be funnier if it was told in the first person, or in the omniscient narrator?  I love the style that Robert Crais uses when he’s writing his Elvis Cole novels, mainly because he manages to weave serious with comical to great effect.  It can’t be easy, but I wonder how plausible it actually is when trying to write something.

Perhaps I should just stop pondering and actually get on with it, and see how it comes out.

make hay while the sunshines

by on October 3, 2011 in stuff I write

Yes I know, it’s bee a little quiet over the last few days.  I’ll admit it’s because I’ve been overly engrossed in a couple of good books, and the weather has been far too good to sit inside.  Poor excuse I know, but with the last day of summer clearly now passing away like the leaves falling from trees, I’ve got no more excuses.

It struck me while sitting in the garden on Saturday and Sunday, that the noises you hear in the village are so entertaining.  OK, so the church bells and the neighbours cat on Sunday morning were not entertaining (as they woke me up).  No, what is entertaining is listening to the sounds.  What were people up to making all those noises?

I think I was struck by the noise of what was either an electric saw, or a hedge trimmer.  I spent a good deal of time trying to work it out (because the sound by this point had started to invade my head more than I wanted it to).  What was someone doing out there on a nice sunny day?  Were they shaping a bush into a nice tidy hedge, ready for the impending winter?  Were they building some shelves to house the books they’d stocked up on for the rainy days ahead? I just couldn’t decide.

Then there were the birds, chirping around.  The sound reminded me of the spring days, that blossomed into summer.  Of waking up to the birds outside my window before I moved.  There seem to be fewer birds and a lot more cows.  Cows that moo at 2 in the morning.  What on earth is that all about? Were they mooing instead of snoring? I couldn’t decide.

The last thing that struck me was the number of people out cutting their lawns.  I bet it’s going to be the last good cut of the year.  As the days wind down, the grass slumbers.  I’ve noticed it do it.  Not that I sit here and watch grass grow, clearly I’ve got better things to do.  Whatever the case, it was just the little mundanities that build up into the soundtrack to the last day of summer.  I didn’t want to believe that the sunshine that warmed me so much yesterday would be giving into gales and rain (which looking out the window appears to have happened).

How on earth do you layer these little details of everyday life into a story? It is the richness of this existence that reminds us that we’re part of the world.

genre

by on September 27, 2011 in stuff I read

I’m trying to get a little bit ahead of the game.  I’ve started reading my course book this evening, and there is a quote in it that strikes me as a really interesting perspective.  It says:

To write a poem or a novel is immediately to engage with a literary tradition… The activity is made possible by the existence of the genre, which the author can write against, certainly, whose conventions he may attempt to subvert, but which is nonetheless the context within which his activity takes place, as surely as the failure to keep a promise is made possible by the institution of promising.

I find this really interesting.  Simply because it suggests that by defining a genre that you are writing against, you are promising the reader something.  You are setting out a course for them on which they will follow.  To say that you like a particular genre is to define who you are as a reader.  It is to define your role in the play that the writer has created.  You are the audience, and he or she is the story teller.

It’s almost as if the author is defining the structure for existence.  There is no such thing as supply without demand.  So if a reader demands a type of genre then it is the job of the author to deliver on that.  They form an unspoken contractual agreement, where the author decides to write something in a specific genre, and the reader agrees to write it.  When that contractual obligation is broken, the reader is left broken by the promise the author has failed to keep.

I wonder how many authors out there fail to deliver on these promises?  To say they are going to deliver a crime thriller, only to deliver a romance.  Sometimes reading a book can be a disappointing adventure.  You set yourself ready to enjoy the ride that is given, and the book just doesn’t live up to your expectations.  Do you continue on through the journey, or do you drop the book and all the hope you had within its pages?

In the past, I used to think that I had to do the author justice by promising to finish the book no matter what.  Now? well, life’s too short for it to be ruled by the disappointments that a bad book can give you.  So I just admit defeat and find something else to fill my time.

one adult and a dog

by on September 25, 2011 in stuff I see

When you’re single at the age of 34, it can seem as though the whole world is passing you by.  Bearing in mind you’ve just made yourself single, you were never married and you don’t have children, it feels a little bit, well, strange.  If you were in a city, this would be normal, for cities are full of single people.  It seems that is the place to go if you want to hook up with someone.  Yet when you’re out in the sticks so to speak, being single is an odd state to be in.

This weekend, I feel like a divorced mother having the kids for the weekend.  I was asked to dog sit Lily.  I haven’t seen Lily in three months, and whilst I don’t get to see her, it doesn’t mean that the overwhelming love for her hasn’t disappeared.  She bounded through the front door and remembered who I am.  She was as pleased to see me, as I was to see her.  Wag, wag, wag, went her huge brush-like tail, a huge smile across her blond muzzle.  Here was someone, for a change, who was genuinely pleased to see me, no questions asked.

So, being the ‘single mother’ I decided to treat Lily and take her out for a couple of hours.  Knowing she loves other animals (cows and horses specifically it seems), I took her to the local wildlife park.  I’ll admit, I wanted to go and stand, and stare at the penguins for half an hour (which I did).  I let Lily lead the way around the park, she seemed to enjoy this, stopping to bark at the camels and the cows.  I love seeing her happy, the big smile across her face, tongue hanging out the side of her head, her tail swishing in the breeze.

I’ve said to friends, that there are few places you can go when you’re single that are socially acceptable.  This comment has been waved off on numerous occasions as being something silly to say.  Today, my thoughts were confirmed.  There are places that you shouldn’t really go when you’re single.  A wildlife park is one of them.  I was the only single person there.  Lots of couples about my age, with or without children, but not another single person in sight.  Interesting.  For the large part, I ignored this, as Lily was having a very good time yanking me in different directions to look at the animals and have a good sniff.  The people, stared at me.  Some with a mixture of shock, and others with abject curiosity.  It was as if I had become one of those animals behind the wire.

Perhaps I should have a little sign to hang around my neck ‘single white female, not an endangered species, habitat – Wiltshire’.  I don’t quite understand what the confusion is really.  Perhaps people are amazed at my brazenness – I’ve gone to a couples and children’s domain by myself.  Perhaps it’s awe? I do wonder just how many of these couples are as happy as they like the world to think they are.  It’s a deceptive painting of life, to see the glorious colours of a Van Gough, when the reality is a cheap sepia photo of someone long since dead.  I wonder how many of these people who profess to be happy, are secretly envious of the life I now have?  Who knows – all I know is that happiness is what you make it, nobody has the right to question what does or doesn’t make you happy.

oppressor

by on September 22, 2011 in stuff I write

In this great wide world of ours, there are people who, for whatever reason believe that they have the right to control others.  It doesn’t matter whether that’s on the scale of a single person or an entire country.  The personalities of these people are, by and large ruled by insecurities.  I’m sure that you’ve all come across someone like this in your lives.  Essentially, I’m talking about subjugation by an oppressor.

An oppressor can take many forms, a tyrant, a bully, a despot, a dictator to name just a few.  The oppressor feels the overwhelming need to control someone.  I believe that this personality is driven by insecurity, and the overwhelming need to prove everything in their lives.  They need to rule the lives of others, because they are incapable of ruling just their own.  From observing these people at close quarters, I think the number one thing that drives them down this sad road, are insecurities.  Everyone has insecurities, it doesn’t matter what someone says, and there are always little insecurities that ripple through lives.  They can be small, or they can engulf a life and take it over letting it rule the way a life is lived.

Very recently my path crossed with someone, who I have known for a very long time.  More and more, I’ve noticed that this person is a bully.  They express instant dis-satisfaction with any element of my life, if it is not to their high standards.  When something like this happens, they are rude and say some reasonably nasty things.  Yesterday was pretty much the final straw.  Instead of lying down like a demure debutant and taking what’s thrown and me, and agreeing with it (something I don’t do anyway, I normally ignore them), I pushed back.  So, somewhat childishly, they ran for the hills crying and hurling obscenities at me.  Clearly, this is their prerogative, but it’s just not something I’m tolerating any more.

I won’t try to understand why this person feels the need to talk to me the way they have.  I have now (I hope) removed them from my life permanently.  So, what can I take from this situation? Well, I can strip them bare of their every facet and trait, and then store them away for safe keeping when I come to craft a story.

So what will I be taking away? I think the venom that I could imagine they spat from their mouth when typing in fury their apparent hatred for me.  I’d also like to explore the ‘oppressor’ and ‘victim’ dynamic a lot more.  It’s one area that could be tricky to develop, but it would also allow me to get my teeth into some of the more challenging aspects of writing, namely, dialogue, voice and personality.  Perhaps the challenge for me would be to create a clichéd view of the ‘oppressor’ and ‘victim’ relationship, then turn it around somehow into something a little bit more interesting.