Unholy Pitches

Wordpile

For the love of all that’s holy, don’t try and sell a novel with an ensemble cast.

That’s the message I have for you today; another episode in the ‘Oh my lord, what the hell have I done?’ series I’ve been running for what seems like forever. Now there’s nothing wrong with trying to write a novel with an ensemble cast – write what the hell you like – but trying to create a pitch for a novel without a single identifiable star is another thing entirely.

Yes, it’s more Pitch Wars angst from me. By the time you read this I’ll have sent my submission into the electronic ether* and I’ll be chewing on my knuckles, fingernails long-since devoured. See, the thing about Pitch Wars is that you actually have to pitch. Or at least you have to write a query letter.

Now a long, long time ago I was actually brave/stupid enough to try and give advice on querying. I think, by and large, I wasn’t entirely wrong. But I didn’t realise then that American queries are different. And Pitch Wars uses the American system.

Basically, an American pitch is – well, it’s a pitch. Basically it’s like sending a mini-synopsis or book-blurb, the kind you’d see on the back of a novel. These are hard at the best of times but when you have seven major characters, all of whom demand that they’re the star? A blurb that covers all of them would completely cover the back of a book (in very small print) and start creeping across the front as well. And that’s before we get to what actually happens to significant minor creatures, like the girl whose murder sparks a whole sub-plot and emotional wringeration, or the creepy neighbour-witch who gives another character a major fillip…

So basically I have to choose one of my cast and put her centre-stage, ignoring the rest of the crew. It’s the only way I can see to do it. But she’s not the character the novel opens with, and I worry about confusing the reader/judge, and, and, and…

So if all you out there want to save your sanity, don’t work with ensemble casts. Not on your debut, at least. Save it until you’ve got a reputation, when people are slightly more likely to indulge you. It’s the only way to be safe.

 

*Not submitted yet. Today. Tomorrow at the latest. Stupid last-minute editing

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But, seriously

bad-comma

Woe unto the world. I have a new pet hate. A trend is arising within the bowels of the internet that I cannot abide. Every time I see it I want to spew my bile across the web, for there are some things up with which we will not put.

I’m speaking, of course, of inserting a comment after ‘But’ at the beginning of a sentence.

But, maybe any news is good news 

But apparently, it was more serious than we all thought even after Eifert had the surgery done

Yet, you don’t want a player who already has missed significant time to injury to blow his talent and opportunity

And a MegaDoom-article with multiple unforgivable errors:

So, the Bengals will probably see him start to slow down soon, though, he hasn’t shown that yet

But, he also used more baseball analogies to explain the Bengals’ need for more potency in the kick return game

But, he was the 13th ranked punt returner in the nation in 2015

Finally, here’s a Buzzfeed article with some slightly more amusing comma-fails

There are some of you out there who will be angry at the use of ‘but’ at the beginning of the sentence at all, but I’m sanguine about that. It’s the misuse of the comma that makes my blood boil. But (no comma) I’m coming across this error more and more as I trawl my way through blogs and news-sites. Maybe it’s an American thing – most of the culprits seem to be American, although that might just be where I’m looking – or maybe it’s simply a lack of editorial oversight. But (no comma) it must stop. Now.

I suppose I should admit to being a grammar pedant. Misused apostrophes irritate, sadden and amuse in almost equal measure. I just don’t understand the problem: the rules aren’t that hard to grasp, are they? But I’m used to them. Artistically speaking, miscomma-ing has far more impact and can jerk me out of a story in a heartbeat. Especially when a piece is supposed to have been professionally edited and a whole committee must have got together to make an incorrect decision.

Apostrophe

I ask you, Savers of Abingdon, what has this apostrophe ever done to you?

[Pedantry sidebar: it has never been ‘wrong’ to boldly split infinitives that no-one has split before. The ‘rule’ came from 19th century academics looking at Latin grammar and deciding that, since it was so superior to every other language, nothing that couldn’t be done in Latin could be done by anyone else ever.]

I try not to be too anal. I know that language changes and that usage evolves and develops. That’s part of the beauty of words. Similarly no-one came down and in a single act laid down punctuative laws; the system we use is a result of millennia of experimentation. If anyone’s interested I recommend Shady Characters by Keith Houston as an entertaining read.

And language and punctuation are still changing. Just a few decades ago no-one would have dared start a sentence with ‘And’ or ‘But.’ I use sentence fragments all the time. I am hardly a paragon of grammar knowledge, as can be judged from my score of 30% on a test aimed at 11-year-olds.

But (no comma) bad punctuation really grinds my gears. Punctuation, much more than words, is what writing is. Woebetide any novelist who dares approach me with a published work that doesn’t get this right.

And I’d literally erase literally unless we use literally literally.

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.

Ambiversion

I’m currently reading a fascinating book about introversion; about how we live in a time where personality, not character, matters most. Where volume is rewarded above quiet reflection and decisions are evaluated on presentation, not on substance.

You might think that writers are immune to such cultural trends. After all, although not all writers are introverts, it is a field that requires time spent alone, in a comforting environment (which will vary from person to person), with a lot of time spent in one’s own head. It’s no surprise that some of the best-sellers are considered introverts: the Bronte’s; JK Rowling; Virginia Woolf and JD Salinger are just a few examples.

In the past this wasn’t much of an issue. Writers could send manuscripts to their agents or publishers, receive comments back by post and, bar the occasional meeting and maybe a quick book-launch, barely had to leave their homes to produce quality material that would sell.

Things are very different now. The industry has changed dramatically. Writers are now required to actively promote themselves; they’re expected to appear in public, doing lectures and readings and interviews. Although much promotion can be undertaken online, the fact remains: those who shout loudest get the most sales.

This isn’t right, isn’t fair, and risks the best novels slipping between the cracks to be replaced by mediocrity and blah. It’s a consequence of the way the publishing world has retreated, saving money by pushing promotion onto authors. Some, naturally, cope better than others. I consider myself to be an ambivert and personally have no problem speaking in public. But many do.

It’s no different in the world of self-publishing: it may be possible to quietly slip out your masterpiece and to avoid the limelight but no-one’s going to read it if no-one knows it’s there. The best way of promoting yourself remains the personal appearance – at conferences, in shops, or at the car boot-sales where you hope to offload a few of the thousand copies that are currently preventing use of the spare bedroom.

Don’t think the internet’s a way around this. Most bloggers and tweeters (myself included) are locked in a circle of writers reading writers, reaching very few people in the buying world. Even though the internet has been a liberation for introverts everywhere (they can metaphorically dance and sing behind their keyboards, engaging only when and how they want), the fact remains: introverts don’t like to shout. It’s an incredibly slow, incremental journey for those who prefer to pick and choose their interactions with the outside world.

It seems to me that the publishing world is doing a massive disservice to both readers and writers. Books are signed not only on the basis of their quality but by how well the author can push themselves. Some people are good at this, others aren’t – but literary merit does not reflect this difference. Similarly, many readers are introverted. Don’t they deserve to hear the experiences of people like them, as well as the big noises that live in big worlds of parties and friendships and society? We’re not all Gatsby’s and we don’t all want to read about them.

The driving force of publishing is money, not talent. That’s not to say that publishers don’t like quality writing – they most certainly do – but that even the best-written book in the world will be overlooked if it ain’t gonna be a unit-shifter. Bear in mind that many (most) debut novels are bought not on their own merits but on the potential that the industry sees behind its author. It’s a risk-averse world, one in which quiet courage isn’t rated as highly as the ability to stand up and shout – no matter what bollocks is being shouted.

Anyway, that’s what I think. Thoughts?