I had a great time at Bloody Scotland at the weekend. It was great to be among so many writers of distinction, including Ian Rankin, Mark Billingham, Val McDermid, and Craig Robertson to name just a few. I was involved in several events, and came away with more tips and ideas than I could shake a stick at. Very little sleep though.
One thing that I always notice at events like these is that despite almost every writer has a very dry sense of humour, the craft of writing itself is treated with the utmost seriousness. There was lots of entertainment on show (name the crime show theme when played on the kazoo was part of one panel) but the act of getting words on paper was kept simple and straightforward: just do it. It's hard. It's hard to keep going, day after day (or night after night in my case) and putting another thousand words down on paper (or screen, whichever method you prefer). It's even harder to keep those words fresh and interesting. And I'm sure every writer has reached a point when the right words dance just out of reach, and it feels like everything you've written belongs in the bin. Been there, done that. Several times.
But that love of words keeps dragging you back, picking out odd phrases that seem to shine like little gems in the mud for use elsewhere. Sometimes, having a break and returning to a piece with fresh eyes gives you the necessary distance to see it's not as bad as you first thought. Sometimes it is as bad as you thought.
No matter what, though, you keep writing, and whatever you write, be it poetry, fiction, non-fiction, lyrics, or anything else that takes your fancy, you treat it with the utmost seriousness. I can recall writing a story that was a light-hearted take on death and the afterlife and despite the fact I was told how funny it was by several people (and I sold it to the first place I submitted it to) I remember being as far from a comedic mood as possible whilst writing it.
Which brings me to my next anecdote. After knocking out just over a thousand words last night, I decided an early night was in order, catch up on some of that missed sleep. Did I catch up? Did I hell! I was awake at three in the morning after a particularly vivid dream (or possibly a nightmare, considering the subject matter...) that stayed with me when I woke up. On a more positive note, after mulling this dream over for a while, I developed a sub-plot for the short story I'm writing that has decided it wants to be a book. I've managed just over eight hundred words this evening, and the weird thing is, my story has layered itself towards this new plot point with no artifice on my behalf. It's as though the whole thing was there in my subconscious like a fossil that just needed freeing of the rock surrounding it.
Damn, I love it when that happens.
One thing that I always notice at events like these is that despite almost every writer has a very dry sense of humour, the craft of writing itself is treated with the utmost seriousness. There was lots of entertainment on show (name the crime show theme when played on the kazoo was part of one panel) but the act of getting words on paper was kept simple and straightforward: just do it. It's hard. It's hard to keep going, day after day (or night after night in my case) and putting another thousand words down on paper (or screen, whichever method you prefer). It's even harder to keep those words fresh and interesting. And I'm sure every writer has reached a point when the right words dance just out of reach, and it feels like everything you've written belongs in the bin. Been there, done that. Several times.
But that love of words keeps dragging you back, picking out odd phrases that seem to shine like little gems in the mud for use elsewhere. Sometimes, having a break and returning to a piece with fresh eyes gives you the necessary distance to see it's not as bad as you first thought. Sometimes it is as bad as you thought.
No matter what, though, you keep writing, and whatever you write, be it poetry, fiction, non-fiction, lyrics, or anything else that takes your fancy, you treat it with the utmost seriousness. I can recall writing a story that was a light-hearted take on death and the afterlife and despite the fact I was told how funny it was by several people (and I sold it to the first place I submitted it to) I remember being as far from a comedic mood as possible whilst writing it.
Which brings me to my next anecdote. After knocking out just over a thousand words last night, I decided an early night was in order, catch up on some of that missed sleep. Did I catch up? Did I hell! I was awake at three in the morning after a particularly vivid dream (or possibly a nightmare, considering the subject matter...) that stayed with me when I woke up. On a more positive note, after mulling this dream over for a while, I developed a sub-plot for the short story I'm writing that has decided it wants to be a book. I've managed just over eight hundred words this evening, and the weird thing is, my story has layered itself towards this new plot point with no artifice on my behalf. It's as though the whole thing was there in my subconscious like a fossil that just needed freeing of the rock surrounding it.
Damn, I love it when that happens.