Art hard

A long, long time ago I wrote a piece about how authors were no longer simply required to write: how we had to be artists & designers, marketing gurus, social media specialists and wotnot. What I didn’t really mention was how much fun this could be. For the last week I’ve set my editing aside and – inspired by the collapse of my somewhat elderly hard-drive – colonised my wife’s laptop and turned my attention to cover-art.

I’ve never missed as many buses as I did on my week’s sojourn, never lost time so completely. Learning new skills is always great. I just never expected to enjoy playing with Photoshop as much as I do.

Greyscale

The prep-work for the cover. It took bloody hours to get this far, mostly because of incompetence and uncertainty. A better impression of how the final image will look can be found here

I’ve never been as artist. I’ve always wanted to be; I’ve played with photography (GCSE grade A, I’ll have you know) and I did go through a phase of creating pastel abstractions in my early twenties. But I can’t draw. I’ve bitterly envied those that can; those amongst you who can simply pick up a pen and show me the inside of your mind. Just like I envy the guitarists. Damn communicators, making it look so easy. Everything I do – have ever done – is the result of bitter struggle, wringing myself out and trying, trying, retrying just to express myself.

I’m trying to get the cover-art right. My methods are the same as those I use to write. The ideas are nebulous. Trial and error; constant deletions and reworkings, shaping my mind as much as I do the image. Using three simple tools because I don’t know how to use the slightly more complicated (but infinitely quicker) fourth. Stumbling, misunderstanding, limping and cursing. But always moving forwards. Making my work a tiny bit better everyday.

It helps that I’ve found tools to design the basic outlines and that the overall image is towards the abstract. That means I’m trusting my intuition, heart and experience as much as my conscious mind – and, given that my conscious mind is an idiot, that means I can sense the image coming together. It’s a wonderful feeling, like learning a new means of – yes – communicating. A book-cover is a capsule encompassing everything the story is. The aim is to set mood, to tell the prospective reader just what the reading experience will be like at a glance.

Of course, this not only covers the image but the text: font, scale, hardness or softness: the mind draws inferences from a fraction of a second’s glance, and can judge from a tiny thumbnail whether the work will be right for them. The human mind is amazing, and anyone who sets out to influence it has their work cut out.

But right now I’m lost in the sheer joy of creation. I hope, deeply hope, that I find the other aspects of self-publishing as much fun as this. Or at least I hope I can learn as much from it. It’s certainly possible to view the business-side of writing as a distraction from real creation, but – right now – I’m choosing to view it as a tremendous opportunity. Not to sell books – that’d be a very nice bonus – but to learn. To grow. To build on my skills and possibly even to find new things to write about.

Phoney war

I am redrafting. Specifically, I am doing my third draft of Oneiromancer, and things are quiet, calm, and sedate. The phoney war is underway.

The first draft was the initial creation: nine or so months of blood, sweat and metaphors. Then came a quick(ish) four-month canter through the text to smooth out the kinks: to eliminate underdeveloped ideas and massage out the obvious imprecisions. Then came the beta-feedback, which was then combined into a new Masterscript (a physical printout much abused and bescribbled). Now I am back at the computer trying to turn all this information into a coherent story.

Editorium End

The Masterscript. Actually an old version as I’m too incompetent to access fresh files

It is slow, steady work. I suppose technically speaking it’s a copy-edit: scenes are being moved, split, merged, rewritten. Points-of-view are changing. Structural changes are afoot. But I am incapable of doing a pass-over without a little bit of line-editation in the margins. Typos – bane of my existence – are being squished and the odd clumsy line rewritten.

This is a dangerous time. Neither fish-nor-fowl, I risk missing big things for the sake of the little and little things for the sake of the big. I guess it’s worth saying that I don’t see this as my final rewrite. This is, after all, only my third draft. Every other piece I’ve completed has gone through at least seven run-throughs. Bitter experience has taught me that a novel is only finished once you’ve released or abandoned it. Five years ago I could think ‘yeah, this is it, this is nigh-on perfect.’ No more.

But back to Oneiromancer. I call this stage the phoney war because I’m still marshalling my troops, assigning reinforcements and strengthening the line. Because I’m still in a state of uncertainty. Aside from a few simplifications to my earliest scenes (removing aliases and a POV that prevented immediate graspage of characters) the changes have so far been small and unthreatening. I’ve decided to ignore calls for more description because I’m not that sort of novelist. Small changes.

(Possibly too small: there is still information that I may want to go back and squeeze within the introduction. But I’ve left this because a) I can’t find the places to put it in and b) I’m unsure whether it’s really necessary. I’ll need another round of feedback to decide me.)

Ahead, though, lurk the greatest changes. There is one particular scene that my betas all demand be moved. Were that it so simple. Moving one scene requires fairly wholesale changes: a flank withdrawn, the cavalry force-marched across bitter terrain to open up a whole new salient. Injuries must be bandaged, wounds cauterised and peg-legs installed. The real work lies before me.

And that’s just this draft. Every change risks an epidemic of blood-sucking typos, of vampiric continuity-errors, of characters suddenly lacking motivation and depth. Every copy-edit requires its own line-edit.

Worse: every draft requires a new phalanx of test-readers. I want to get this novel published. This is perhaps the most commercial work I’ve ever done. I want to find an agent. I want to see this on the shelves.

But you only get one shot with every agent/publisher. This is why beta-readers are so important. You’re never been the best judge of your work and an outside opinion is essential. My team have done a superb job of highlighting the many sins I’ve committed. Now I have to take my time and get this damn thing right.

It might take another year – longer – before I dare launch my assault on the bastions of respectability. The work I’m doing now is essential. The furnaces are burning, the mill-wheel is grinding. Progress is slow, controlled.

Soon the guns will be firing in earnest. But only when I’m ready.

A lovesong to the libraries

Libraries. What’s the point of ‘em, eh? After all, you can get Amazon to deliver a book to your door for only £2. So why are we spending money on such a waste of resources? A luxury, that’s what they are. Sure, we can use one or two but, in a time of austerity, we can use the money more wisely.

The stupidity, the banality, the shallowness of this statement leaves me breathless. That otherwise intelligent, rational people can put forwards such a facile argument makes me sick. So this is my paean to the library: to the irreplaceable, invaluable system that’s imperilled by people who know the cost of everything and the value of nothing.

Earlham library

My former home, beloved and wonderful. Photo courtesy of Norfolk County Council, used with permission. My old work-mug is still in there, waiting for my return

Stories

Let’s start with books. Can we at least agree that books and reading are good things? Let me just refer you to a previous post, where I campaigned against stopping convicted prisoners from receiving books in jail – a campaign that has, thanks to all you petition-signatories, been won. Stories are one of the most important tools in our make-a-human-being kit. Can we at least agree on this much?

Reading increases empathy, thus reducing crime and antisocial behaviour
It boosts intelligence, vocabulary and all that sort of thing
It aids relaxation and mental health
It benefits concentration and memory, including in Alzheimer’s sufferers
And it’s fun

Can we agree on this much? If you have any doubts, do a simple web-search on the benefits of reading.

Cost

I’m basing this section of the figure of £2 a book, as given in an argument I had a few days ago – the argument that inspired this post. I won’t bother debating this – though you might – because the precise number isn’t that important. But let’s break it down a little further. The under-fives read at least a book a day. It’s what bedtime is for, right? One of the essential building-blocks of a well-balanced human being. £2 a book is £14 a week. £56 a month. £672 a year. Still look like a minor expense? It’s also 365 books that you either have to store or dump. Over 1,800 before a child turns five.

Let’s turn to a different audience and look at those with poor eyesight. An audiobook is around £8 on the same monolithic retail-site as I mentioned above. Large-print books are at least £4. It doesn’t take long before these costs mount up. And these are the cheap ones; new audiobooks regularly clock in around £20 each. See where I’m going with this?

Discovery

That’s one thing. That’s a start. But I’ve never been too concerned with money. Money is either there or not there. I’m more concerned with this: how will people know what books are? I don’t know any parent who hasn’t bred their child in the library. Every single time I go into the library I see children experiencing the same joy of books that I felt when I was small; just to be surrounded by images, worlds, ideas – empathy – is a miracle. I was made in the library. If you’re reading this then I’m prepared to bet that you were too.

You can’t go on Amazon and choose a book. Amazon exists for those who know what they want. You can’t browse. You might be able to find something that catches the eye – but, week in, week out, that’s not what the internet is for. You can’t hit gold with random searches unless you’re magnificently sure of a genre, a style, a type of book. And, in that case, whence the empathy? Whence the discovery? Whence the finding concepts that you’d never previously been exposed to?

Every single time I go into a library I see things I’ve never seen before. I wander aimlessly, half taking in titles, covers, dreams, visions; concepts I never knew existed. If I shopped only online I’d never have discovered half of the authors I’ve come to love, to regard as friends, to build as deep parts of my psyche. Some days I’ll come home with nothing. Some days I’ll come out with only what I went in to find. But there’s always, always the possibility that I’ll come out with treasure. And it’s not only me who’ll benefit. Every day I try and understand the world, to see things a little clearer, have a broader, more expansive perspective. Surely the world can only benefit?

All this is true of physical bookshops, of course. Except libraries allow us to take risks. The cost is negligent: the risk of an overdue charge, perhaps. A little time. How many new authors have you encountered through Amazon? I can’t think of a single one, save maybe for the odd present I’ve bought for someone else and decided it sounds the sort of thing I’d actually like to gift myself. Libraries let us try new things, they let us test both new authors and ourselves.

Every time we step into a library we go on an adventure. We enter a land of magic and miracles. We’re pirates hunting hoarded gold. What right have we to deny our children this world of jaw-dropping mind-expanding majesty?

Computers

It is astounding how arrogant we are. How comfortable in the face of our own privilege. We think that because we don’t need things that no-one does. Well here’s a shock for you: not everyone has a computer. Not everyone is free. I used to work in a library – feel free to point out my biases – and much of my time was spent aiding people with the computers. Those that needed most assistance were the elderly, struggling to get to grips with what, for them, was new technology. There were also people running businesses from the library, buying and selling. People working on CVs, managing finances and the like.

The users that touched me most, though, were the migrants. Not refugees in my case, although there must be many people whose only connection with home was via a tentatively held email connection with family and friends left behind. The people from homeless hostels, desperately trying to find work, find social housing, to better themselves – or simply for warmth. What right have we, the (relatively) wealthy and well-educated, to deprive the poorest people of such a place, such an opportunity?

Integration and social interaction

This overlaps with the other headings because neat boundaries are always illusions, and libraries are always boundary places. They’re open to all. You know how rare and important that is? Where else can the well-to-do mix with the poorest of the poor, tacit agreements making everyone welcome and respectful of the needs of others? They are the great centre-ground, non-political, non-judgmental.

Libraries are places where every ethnicity is welcome. It’s where people go to learn English (or where English people go to learn foreign languages). It’s where immigrant mothers bring their children to make them part of wider society. It’s often the first port-of-call for new arrivals – whether inter-nationally or beyond – to find out more about their new home, to find ways of belonging, to fit in.

When I worked in the public library service I knew a family of Bangladeshis that came in most days. The mother spoke not a word of English but the kids were fluent. The oldest girl acted as a proxy for her mother, bringing in letters from the council for us to translate and explain. Even if the girl hadn’t spoken English we’d have been able to help because libraries offer a translation service covering most languages you can think of.

In the meantime the kids were reading books, learning English, exploring our world. Occasionally they were pesky, but that’s kids for you. And I tell you my heart melted when one of them drew a picture for me.

Other families were Polish. How much did it mean to them that we could provide them with books in their native language? We also got regular supplies of books in Tamil for another family. Some organisations claim that migrants don’t seek to integrate with western society, and yet these same people also want to close libraries. It’s bewildering. It’s maddening.

And, of course, it’s not just a question of race. Libraries bridge generations too, like no other place I can think of. They provide refuges for vulnerable people; company for the lonely, the ill and the isolated. They make happiness. They give essential social contact and ask nothing in return.

A safe and neutral place

I’ve left this until last because it’s not the most obvious advantage of libraries. But it is, for me, the single most important. I’ll say it again: a library is a safe, neutral and welcoming place. Do you know how vital this is? Can you think of any other places in western society that offers warmth, shelter, education, information and entertainment for no charge? I can’t. Not only is there no charge but there’s no expectation. No pressure, no sponsorship, nothing but books, magazines, aid, assistance.

My library was at the interstice of some of the very wealthiest housing in the city and some of the poorest. Every day, when the schools closed, the young teens would come in to use the computers. Sometimes they were annoying. Sometimes we had to turf them out. But they kept coming back, and they kept being welcomed, because they knew they were safe. What would they do if the library didn’t exist? Stay at home all afternoon? Many of them were single-parent and poorly educated: for some, home wasn’t a refuge. Should they hang around in gangs? Is the alternative for them to discover sex and alcohol at a horrendously early age? I’m not saying that the library prevented this, but at least it gave them an option, a chance.

And whilst they were in the library, what did they see? They saw other races. They saw other ages. They mixed – hell, some even helped the aforementioned elderly with their problems. No-one judged. I want to say they were free, but there were controls: the library staff work hard to maintain a place of equality for all, respecting everyone’s right to be themselves free of harassment and judgment. Sometimes that means saying no.

I ask again: where else in this society does such a place exist?

It makes me sick, absolutely sick, to see this under threat. And it makes me rage to think that the people responsible for the closure of libraries are those who have never used them. This mandate comes from the rich, from the privileged. They see only a useless repository of books – simple compressed vegetable matter that’s increasingly redundant. Saying that ‘Well I can’t see the point of libraries, so there can’t be one,’ is arrogance of the highest order.

I don’t need libraries. Really, I’m comfortable enough in my life to get by without. Certainly I’d lament them; I wouldn’t know what to do with myself on my Wednesday mornings. But I’d cope.

But I will not go gently into that good night. I know how necessary they are not just for me but for those less fortunate than me. I want society to be healthy and happy, and that can only be achieved with places like libraries that benefit everyone without exception.

The future of libraries is one where we combine traditional services with other underfunded – but essential – provisions such as mental heath and social services. In Rob’s Paradise there’d be staff on hand to give advice to all on a need by need basis. I suggested once that libraries should take on some of the services of the embattled Post Office: there are considerable practical difficulties there – a legal mandate to lend cash and security concerns – but I still think it’s a good idea. Libraries already host police surgeries. Why not mental health counselling or just basic financial advice?

A safe, neutral place. Libraries shouldn’t be cut, shouldn’t be hamstrung by targets and finances. They should be expanded and broadened. We need to stand up for what we have before we’re forced to face up to what we’ve lost.

Finally

If I’ve come across as angry here, if this has felt like a rant, then I’m sorry. And then I’m also not sorry, because I am angry, and because there are some things worth ranting about. I spit at the vandals who are doing their best to dismantle the love – yes, love – that libraries have provided not just for me but for millions like me. I spit at them – but I also pity them. They are not proper humans. They are half-baked. They are sociopaths.

Most of them are merely ignorant. I’d weep for them, but I’m too busy weeping for the world I love.

Slave to the grind

Right. A weekend away has occurred. Now it’s time to recalibrate the brain for writing: to shake my senses back into the realms of the unreal and ineffable. In other words it’s time to work out what the hell I’m doing with this novel.

For those what don’t know, I got my feedback on Oneiromancer back from my betas a few weeks ago. It was the usual mix of great criticism: helpful, horrible, headscratching harumphery.  And, as usual, it leaves me temporarily lost for a plan. Or, rather, it leaves me with questions that I can easily answer but, in the answering, raises a whole phalanx of follow-on questions with no easy solution.

My problems are specifically those of the cut-and-paste variety. I’ve determined that I’ve got to move a batch of scenes, which I can do without too much difficulty. But every move not only leads to continuity errors – relatively easily solved – but also leave notes hanging that need resolving; chords missing a key tone and begging for resolution.

Scribble

A section of my scene-by-scene guide with notes detailing my rapid descent into madness

What’s exorcising me at the moment is the need to prolong a character’s life. It was widely agreed that I’d killed one particular character too soon; that she still had a purpose that I’d not fulfilled. I’m sure my betas are right. And so I’m acting on that…

Except that, because I always saw her dying here, I’m not sure what to do with her there. I don’t know what information she can provide because in my mind she’d served her function. Actually moving the crucial incident is straightforward; knowing what to do with her in the interim is a pain in the bum.

It’s one of those issues where the writer knows too much. I need to freeze my thoughts at the point at which the original story is set to change. I need to establish what the characters actually know in that moment, what their aims are and where they see themselves going. Essentially I need to forget two-thirds of the story I wrote and replan from there.

But how can that be done? I know too much; I can’t self-lobotomise – except via alcohol, which is a science too imprecise for my needs. I’ve planned the story out, and whilst I know alterations are necessary my mind isn’t the most flexible. The thoughts are burnt into my mind like great welts, throbbing and fresh and raw.

This is where writing is an effort. This is where I need to focus, to reappraise, to assess. To think.

I also have to keep in mind that I’m doing this because I want to write a good story. I want to write the best novel I possibly can. This is why I asked for people outside my mind to read it, to comment and to tell me what doesn’t work. To not act on their advice might be easier but it gets me nowhere. Ultimately the only person I’d disappoint would be myself.

So it’s back to the editorium with me. I have the masterscript all printed and ready. I have a scene-by-scene guide ready to be scribbled upon. The only thing missing is a brain that has answers, and those are in short supply.

Writing is not a glamorous pursuit. It isn’t the lone genius scribbling in his garret, churning out words of wonder with a bottle of absinthe and a few cats for company. It’s staring and scratching and swearing and always, always, working. Without any prospect of success – however defined – at the end.

It’s times like this that define you. To be a writer is to embrace the hard times, to own them and, ultimately, to enjoy them as much as you do the initial fire of creation. Only then will you be able to produce something the world will embrace.