Are you being a sook? Are you agonising over writing something when you should just be putting the words down?

The other night, I was asked to be “captain” at the Queensland Writers Centre’s first real-life writing race. We all sat around with our laptops and wrote to a timer. Between us, this group of about 20 people wrote nearly 50 000 words over 90 minutes. I had a captain hat, as you can see, but only later did I realise that I didn’t take my duties as a quasi-military leader nearly seriously enough. We’re all terribly gentle with artists but, in the spirit of NaNoWriMo (where you try to write 50 000 words in the month of November) here are some words to pin up near your computer for when the writing is just too hard.

Cowboy the f*** up.

What, you think you’re curing  cancer? You think people are going to die if the metaphor isn’t just perfect? You know what? If you don’t write your book, nobody will ever know. Nobody will ever miss it. But if you do write it, many many cool things could happen. Your family, friends, and crit group will read it: and they might love it. Or they might suggest a billion things to make it better. And it would grow and be better and come close to the original potential you imagined for it. Hey, it might even get published one day. As a rule, though, publishing houses aren’t putting out books full of blank pages. Any schmuck can come up with one of those.

So it’s hard to get to the time to write? I see: so from the moment you wake in the morning until the moment you go to bed at night, there’s not a single ten-minute block in which to get out your notebook and have a think about where your story’s going? You must live in a freakin’ gulag. Or when you say you don’t have time, do you actually mean “I don’t feel like it” (please imagine whiny voice). I’m so damned pleased that you don’t feel like it! God knows it’s a crowded market, and if you never write that novel then I don’t ever have to compete with you. Sweet as. Don’t write; I’ll celebrate.

Look, if you don’t want to do the work, then stop whining about it and go do something else. Or are you still battling those teenagey feelings that you were formed for greatness? Well, you know what, greatness is not inherent. It’s in actions. It’s in doing the freakin’ work.

So do the freakin’ work. And don’t come crying to me.

The QWC is a wonderful resource. They run virtual writing races via the Australian Writers Marketplace online every Tuesday (and I’m often there). Well worth joining the organisation and paying a little extra for the AWM subscription.  Hope to see you at the races one night. No more QQ.

I’m just going to come right out and say it. I hate all sports. Even the ones I sometimes like. Now this is, of course, downright unAustralian of me so I’m going to try to defend my position.

First of all, you need to know that I am not opposed to physical activity. I’m a relatively fit and healthy individual. My cholesterol is freakishly low, as is my blood pressure. I go for walks pretty regularly and take the stairs instead of the lift most of the time. So this isn’t about me feeling all threatened by people with hard bodies (I tend to think women look better with soft bodies anyway).

What I hate most of all is the brittle rhetoric that surrounds almost all sporting endeavour. The bullshit about “teamwork” and “sportsmanship” and “giving it your best”. Everybody knows that sport is all about winning. Even when they say, “it’s not about winning” it’s about winning. The forum I in which I resent this rhetoric the most is children’s sports.

Imagine, if you will, an eight-year-old who reads poorly. Nothing stupid about her: just a combination of sluggish genetics and indifferent parents and she’s behind the rest of the class. Now, let’s give her a book and make her read in front of the whole school community. “Come on,” they’ll say, “give it a go. It’s not about being the best.” Her vision tunnels, her ears start to ring, she struggles through aware everyone is looking at her. How do you think she’d feel? I tend to think her self-esteem would be crushed and she’d probably develop hard feelings towards reading for life.

So why the hell do we make children who aren’t naturally good at sport race their classmates in front of huge audiences? “It’s not whether you win or lose,” they say. But it is. Because the kid who comes last, she doesn’t get a trophy on parade, she sits in the great silent stillness of the non-winner. Because she lost and everyone saw it. And if she’s the best reader in her class, there’s no trophy.

Luckily, though, there’s the wonderful consolation of a lifetime of books.

Falling in love with a new book is a billion different kinds of magic. I have cracked open that door and got my foot in the world and, even though I’m still suffering through the usual challenges, I have a lovely sense of rightness that I’m doing what I’m supposed to be doing.

As you’ve no doubt gathered, I’m basing many of my ideas for this book on Anglo-Saxon England, and one thing I’m really getting caught up in at the moment is the poetry of the time. You must understand, I had my first exposure to Anglo-Saxon poetry (sometimes called Old English poetry) 12 or 13 years ago in my undergraduate medieval studies minor. At the time, my response was “meh”. I mean, I liked Beowulf (there are monsters: what’s not to like?). But in general it seemed a little plain, even mundane. Then, while doing my master’s, I was part of an Anglo-Saxon reading group who spent months translating parts of the Anglo-Saxon chronicle and The Battle of Maldon. Again, meh.

So imagine my surprise, on revisiting it this time, to find all the meh gone. Where I thought there was kind of a detached bluntness, I now found a weighty strangeness. The split alliterative line… oh, my! What drama and measure there is in it! Discovering the beauty in it is like having a platonic relationship with someone your whole life, then suddenly looking at them and realising they are made of awesome. And falling hard, hard, hard in love. At the moment, my favourite poem is The Wanderer (click here if you want to hear it read to you in Anglo-Saxon). I must have read it ten times this week alone. Tolkien fans my recognise the adapted lines from it: “Where is the horse and where the rider?” (Aragorn sings it in The Two Towers, Theoden says it in the movie version).

So what is a girl loved up on Anglo-Saxon culture to do? Well, head off to England of course! I am dragging my family off to face a northern winter and investigate various sites and monuments (that’s the Sutton Hoo mounds in the picture). Oh, the kids are going to love it. That was irony.

This is a reprint of an article I wrote for the Queensland Writers Centre’s magazine Writing Queensland. I thought it might be useful to others here who aren’t members (and if you’re not a member WHY NOT?)

From time to time, aspiring writers ask me what is the best kind of story: one that is plot-driven or one that is character-driven? Somehow the idea that the two are distinct and one can be privileged over the other persists. “Character-driven” is usually seen as the mark of serious writing, while “plot-driven” is understood to be written by hacks pandering to the marketplace. This is a false distinction, and a potentially dangerous one at that. No writer can afford to overlook one or the other: a good story is driven by both good plot ideas and good characters. The trick is managing them right.

1. A story isn’t a story until it has people and problems. These two things (character and plot) cannot in any way be conceived outside of each other. An idea for a fascinating character means little until that character is challenged in some way; and a high-stakes plot idea means little if it isn’t focalised through three-dimensional people whose thoughts and feelings can be communicated to the reader.

2. What the writer must know first and foremost is the relationship between the people and the problems. Why is this person involved in this problem? Is it random? Or is it a function of the very person they are? What kind of attempts do they make to solve the problem, and where do those attempted solutions lead them? You must always think of the problem as belonging to somebody: a story describes that relationship between people and their problems.

3. Use the problems to create the narrative steps. How is your character going to get out of their predicament? What new problems can arise? The problems create the horizontal movement of the story, from beginning, through middle, and to the end; the movement that sustains narrative interest and keeps your reader turning pages. In some respects, the plot is driven by character: it evolves uniquely from the people and their responses to the problem they were given on page one.

4. Use the people to create the emotional connection. How does it feel to experience this problem? What history of acts and ideas does the character bring to the problem at hand? What do they think of their problem? This creates the vertical depth of your story; the depth that makes the story emotionally meaningful to your reader. In some respects, the characters are driven by the plot: they evolve uniquely from the narrative trajectory, which brings about their transformation from the person they were on page one, to the person they are when you write “the end”.

Okay, so while it may look as though this post is in defence of Dan Brown–an author who has sold a bazillion books and could probably buy a gold-plated helicopter–in fact it’s in defence of democratic principles. You may be aware that Brown’s new novel The Lost Symbol is out in the US today, about six years since he published The Da Vinci Code. This book is the very definition of “long-awaited”: both by readers and by snarky reviewers.

So it was with yawn-inducing predictability that this article warned readers not to be the kind of semi-literature lemmings who are “tempted” to buy it as there are so many books by “better writers” out there. The article then goes on to suggest a number of alternatives. Some of them look good; some of them, I’m certain, Dan Brown readers will have already found (Stieg Larsson’s for example). But some of them belong to the School of Wha…? Imagine this exchange in a book store:

CUSTOMER: Excuse me, I am looking for the new Dan Brown novel.
SALES ASSISTANT: I’m sorry, but we’re fresh out. However, I do have many copies of Paradise Lost still in stock.
CUSTOMER: Wonderful. I will take a copy as I am sure they will provide a similar reading experience.

Seriously: opinionated tosspots need to stop (a) bagging the common reader’s tastes, (b) assuming incorrectly that they know why the common reader reads the books they do, and (c) suggesting that the common reader read something a little less common as it would be Improving. I am reminded of the shoutline that appears on Umberto Eco’s official website regarding his book Foucualt’s Pendulum: it’s “a thinking man’s Da Vinci Code.” G’on admit it: you’re an unthinking woman aren’t you? You haven’t a clue what the Foucault a “Foucault” is and you quite like Dan Brown. For shame!

My point is this: read what you like and have your own opinions. And let’s take the guilt out of “guilty pleasures”.

I have been silent for a long time, nursing my secret shame. That I am predictable. I have wanted to blog a number of times, but had nothing new to give you. Just more of the same artistic crisis I had at the start of the last book (remember my hilarious overworked Mt Doom moment?) But here I am again, after more than 20 books, feeling the same stuff again and yet somehow still firmly believing that this time it’s unique, special, different. This time I really have lost my mojo. Reeeeeeeally!

Maybe it’s because I’m going back to the magic stuff, back to worlds where people can make corn-dollies come to life and have premonitions of dragons. This used to be my material but now I’m afraid of it. I stand back and look at it, feint left, feint right, back off, go to bed for a while and imagine winning an Endeavour prize home. I swear to you, it feels like I have forgotten the lyrics to a song I’ve known my whole life. I sit down to write and all I manage is weird, stilted dialogue and ham-fisted transitions.

Problem is, though, I have to write. This is not a time to not be writing, and this has nothing to do with a deadline. I wake up every morning between 5 and 5.30, my traditional writing time, with a burst of adrenaline to my heart. My body is telling me to get up and write: it has actually become a physiological need.

My husband is fond of saying to me, “What would you tell one of your students?” Well, let me just say that being the teacher means you don’t have to listen to any advice ever especially your own (and especially when your own has always been delivered in an annoyingly calm and practical way that borders on patronising).

So here I am, in a holding pattern. Repeating myself.

This week I will be blogging from the Q150 Writers Train. Go here to see. Normal transmission will resume next week.

I’ve been enjoying myself with research this week. I’m starting to gather ideas and images for a historical fantasy novel, based loosely on Anglo-Saxon England (around the 7th or 8th century) so have been reading my way through a big pile of books I bought earlier this year. Things I have learned that are really cool:

* Tolkien didn’t invent ents and orcs. Okay, I figured he didn’t invent elves and dwarves, but had always thought ents and orcs were his. They aren’t; they’re Anglo-Saxon. He totally made up hobbits though: kudos.

* The word “wife” is related via Old English to the word “weave”. Women were weavers, both literally and metaphorically. Their role was to be married, thus unmarried women were the ones who never got past spinning to get to weaving: ie. “spinsters”.

* Interesting Northumbrian woman who became a Mercian saint in the seventh century named Cyneburh: add her name to the Old English word “leah” (meadow) and you get Cyneburh’s Leah, or Kimberley in Norfolk. That’s right, my alter ego does have a touch of the medieval about her.

The next book I have on my pile is a book of Anglo-Saxon recipes. So I may soon be subjecting my family to stodgy germanic treats like “bræde sceapen flæsc” (roasted sheep flesh… doesn’t sound as appetising as “lamb roast” does it?),  “mearh smeamete” (sausage casserole), or “bæcen æpplas” with “flete estmete” (baked apples with sour cream custard).

Dang, now I’ve gone and made myself hungry for historical food: hate it when that happens. What’s Old English for “nom nom nom”?

It is time for me to sweep away the negativity and sweariness from the front page of my blog, and talk about something positive. I’ve had a few batches of new students in the past couple of weeks: a new Year of the Novel group, a new Year of the Edit group, and two new courses at uni. It’s been so lovely to talk to them about writing. Together we’ve discussed inspiration, creativity, best times of the day to write, responsibility to the story, and ideas, ideas, ideas. It constantly amazes me that I’ve taught so many people over the last seven years, and yet each one of them has something unique to express. Even if they sometimes write about similar things, the stories always come out so differently, and I always get a little thrill of excitement when somebody tells me what it is they want to write during a course.

Sometimes teaching makes me weary, but I don’t think that I could actually give it up now. I’m quite addicted to it. I feel a bit like a midwife, sometimes, and it is quite an honour to be present at the birth of something new and so passionately loved. Of course it isn’t possible to stay in touch with everyone after a course, or help everyone develop their MS to publication (I apply the rule of Mum before I take on any work mentoring: if I haven’t seen my Mum for a week, then I’m too busy), but it’s nice to have had each student in my life however briefly. A little spark for my engines.

Those of you who recall my angry, swear-filled post on PIRs may remember that I was interviewed for The Australian that week, then the interview wasn’t used. Interesting, then, to see this piece in The Weekend Australian by the very same journalist:

But one of the most depressing moments in the past few weeks was supplied by an agent who, when approached to contact one of her authors (a woman whose three novels have done so well she has international status), said she did not think it was appropriate for the author to comment. The author was too young even to understand what was going on (she’s 30-odd), according to the agent; besides, she was in the middle of writing a book, so was probably unable to think about anything else. Pathetic.

That “pathetic” agent was somebody very close to me, and this journalist whom I won’t name (let’s call her Ms Sorensen… no, that gives too much away; let’s call her Rosemary S) has only told half the truth. Yes, The Agent did turn down her request to contact The Author, but that’s what agents do: they know where their authors are at, what other demands are being made of them, how close their deadlines are, and they decide what’s best for them. For the record, my understanding is that The Agent didn’t say The Author was too young; rather, she said that The Author hadn’t been in the industry very long. (Also, basic fact check issue: The Author has only published 2 books, not 3).

The other thing that Rosemary S hasn’t said is that The Agent–who is a passionate advocate of Australian books–gave her the number of another author who might be able to help: somebody she had already had a number of long and detailed conversations with about PIRs, and whom The Agent thought might be able to offer useful commentary.That author was me, dear reader, and we all know how that turned out.

As an aside, Rosemary S was somebody with whom I’ve had a friendly professional relationship over the years. We’ve had a few drinks together in the past, she’s slung a bit of work my way, etc. So this is all the more dismaying to me. The two people of whom she wrote are very much in my inner circle, a favourite aunty and a sister-figure, if you will. Am I taking this personally? Well, yes, I am; there is simply no other way for me to take it.

Now, I’m not going to call anyone a fucking liar or even an unprofessional hack. That would be harsh. But I am going to look a bit closer at this word “pathetic”. Tossed off like that in a column, it only has its common meaning: limp, weak, not good enough. In fact, the word means, according to the OED, “exciting pity, sympathy, or sadness”. I certainly feel sad for a professional relationship lost; I certainly feel sympathy for the two good women so unfairly maligned in Rosemary S’s bitter dummy-spit; and, yes, I feel more pity than scorn for the journalist. The whole situation is pathetic, isn’t it?

* of course, some journalists are very nice