Bad Sex Award

Many have heard of the yearly Bad Sex in Fiction Award, which has been going since 1993 — the purpose to ‘honour’ an author for producing an ‘outstandingly’ bad sexual scene in what might otherwise be an excellent novel. The prize doesn’t include erotic fiction and mainly exists to throw light on often unnecessary sections of sex given a superficial treatment.

This is part of an old post where I drew attention to the 17th Annual Bad Sex in Fiction Award that went to author Jonathan Littell for some hilarious passages in his novel The Kindly Ones. However, some sentences aren’t as good/bad as they’ve been in some years and this is a translation from the French, which can affect some meanings. It’s also difficult judging for oneself when reading these lines out of context. Read more on the book and the award at BBC News.

Cringeworthy? Spiteful? Personally, I think it would be a fun award to win and, as they say, any publicity is good, although I’m not sure that’s always entirely true.

However, this I wish to put forward my contender/winner even though it’s for a book published some years ago:

“She kept a secret spring surrounded by sweet moss, and there he was refreshed.”

And the winner is…

Stephen King for this line in his 5th Dark Tower novel ‘Wolves of the Calla’. It read slightly better in context but made me roar with laughter, so unless that was his intention (and even if it was) this has got to be a dodgy euphemism if ever I heard one. Otherwise, I love the Dark Tower series and finally got to read the entire series in one sitting. I love the character of Roland, but my hero is Eddie.

I’m going to keep the award in mind when constructing such sentences.

A Life Lesson Learned

I’ve had more than one run-in with ‘celebrity’, but this incident was my first. A few years ago, I was working in an office and answered the phone. When I realised with whom I was speaking, I experienced a ‘gulp’ moment where time slowed enough for ‘I really don’t want to be dealing with this’ to pass through my mind. I had heard enough ‘rumours’ to square my shoulders and straighten my spine, preparing for a not-very-nice-guy. Still, I am, if nothing else, generous, prepared to give anyone the benefit of the proverbial doubt… in this instance, short-lived. The moment of good grace passed with the first words to come out of his mouth, the ‘conversation’ something like this:

“Get ****** *******.”
“I’m sorry, she’s not at her desk right…”
“I want to speak to her.”
“… now. Maybe I can help, or take a message?”
“I am ******* **** so Go.Get.Her.Right.Nowwwwww.”

My cognitive reasoning instantly translated this to: “I’m a toffee-nosed blowhole who expects the world to bow instantly to my every whim. I’m so full of my self-importance, I kiss my reflection first thing in the morning and last thing at night because no one else is good enough to kiss me, at all… except maybe my feet, when they are down there grovelling.”

I went to fetch the person in question (the toilet of all places) because it was my job and because unfortunately she was on the other side of a similar coin. They deserved to work together. She had the art of obsequiousness down pat when it served. Alas, in the real world, people-management escaped her skill set.

“You got the photocopying done?” she asked one morning, staring at the pile in my arms. “You got it done ‘today’?”

“Yes,” I replied, somewhat puzzled.

“However did you manage that? ***** never does the photocopying for me that quickly. She sometimes makes me wait days.”

To clarify, some offices have had photocopying departments, particularly if they regularly sent a lot of duplicate documents or leaflets .

How did I get my photocopying done in a blink where this other person couldn’t? Compare her, “Get this done,” to my “Good morning, *****. How are you today? How’s your daughter?” In reply, I’d listen (and I mean pay attention) to how well the woman’s daughter was doing, how proud she was of the young girl’s latest achievements, all of which swiftly concluded with, “I’ll put your work up next.”

No, I did not wish this woman a good morning in order to get my photocopying. Her doing so was an amazing bonus, but that was not in my mind the first time I said hello, or when I asked how she was. It’s called respect and being polite. I didn’t see her as the ‘photocopying woman’, as did so many. I saw her as someone deserving the same regard as anyone — a lesson the other two people of this blog could have done with learning before anyone gave them a job.

No one is more important than anyone else. If I were famous, I would not expect someone to hurry off the toilet barring a life or death situation (that call… was it important? No, not at all). I wouldn’t turn up without warning and expect to jump the queue. It’s a crazy world where a recognisable name or face expects preferential treatment, particularly if it’s to the detriment of others. It’s odd we give such care, not on a nurse who maybe saved a life that day, but on people (famous or not) who treat others with rudeness and arrogance. Respect should be earned. The person who does the photocopying or served coffee that morning, are all the same. My father served coffee for a time, and though he might have ended up in the Tower of London, had the Queen turned up, he would have expected her to pay and to wait in line. He would have been polite, he would have been respectful, but he did not like any individual having privilege over another. Maybe the picture he painted with this declaration was more allegorical than actual, but, as a child, that was something I would have been tickled to see. I never knew if he exaggerated, but the principle sure stuck in my mind.

Shakespeare’s Influence

Couldn’t resist sharing. Think you know Shakespeare? Or maybe you think you’ve never read him, never watched a play, and don’t care to. Maybe you think you don’t know any Shakespeare at all. Think again.

Love or loathe, Shakespeare influenced our language like no other writer. My personal tip is, if you can, visit The Globe (or any theatre) and watch a live performance. His work are plays and meant to be watched rather than read. The Merchant of Venice was one of the many fantastic performances I’ve seen, and yes, I was lucky enough to see it at The Globe on a balmy summer evening. Watch for a fast and fun whirlwind tour of how Shakespeare has influenced our lives:

Amazon Shenanigans

This week I’m simply highlighting some more Amazon Shenanigans. I, too, was fooled by cheap books in the beginning, but this steamroller is now out of control, and is no less damaging. Alas, some writers and even publishers have to rely on Amazon these days, but they’ve done nothing for writers or the book industry overall. I’m not telling anyone what to do, or where to buy, and in some cases there is literally ‘no choice’ but, please, open your eyes. Search online for more related articles.

Love for the Written Word

This week, I’m re-blogging a post I wrote for one of my publisher’s blog (when I was writing for Musa). I think it’s timely as the sale of printed books is on the increase.

I’m here to discuss a friend’s point of view — one that hadn’t occurred to me before. I’m going to wander a bit because I’m also talking books, but it all comes down to love for the written word.

Some people love e-books, some loathe them. I know some hate the term ‘e-book’ and I take that argument on board. A ‘book’ is a bound set of pages. Maybe it would be more accurate to call the electronic file of a book an e-novel or e-story because I don’t feel the presentation affects the content. The story ‘exists’ the moment the author penned it. When one used typewriters or even quills and ink, that didn’t make the story exist any less, although by no definition could hand written or typed pages be called ‘books’.

I’m not against electronic files of books, but I still love paper books, and always will. I admit there’s nothing like a physical book that can I can hold in my hand. It’s nostalgic. If a gift, we may recollect when we opened a brightly wrapped package, the moment we first set eyes on it, felt that fission of pleasure, and spare a moment’s thought for the person who gifted it. An electronic file, mostly, lacks the personal touch. An old book, even when it deteriorates with time… Well, those creases in the spine and cover could have developed over many years of handling and love. I don’t see a scruffy book as one someone has necessarily or ill-used. Also, for someone like me who spends a great deal of time in front of computer screens, then the printed page is a departure from that, although e-readers are improving all the time and this may not always be an issue.

Saying that, there’s room for both formats in my life simply owing to practicality. For one thing, I write e-books and would be a total hypocrite then to say I hate them. I don’t hate them, would love to live in the library the Beast gave to Beauty in the Disney film — just push my bed and a chair and table into the middle, I’ll be fine — but so far I’ve yet to stumble across any enchanted castles even if I’ve found my Prince Charming. I love all sorts of books, from the classics to children’s stories, fantasy and horror, and yes, some romances. Though I can be fussy about my romances more than any genre, I read them along with all the other genres that I love — to call my book collection eclectic is an understatement.

Unfortunately, I simply don’t have room for all the books I would love to read and own. I’m one of those readers, who, if I love a book, I struggle to part with it. I’ve relatives who don’t understand this. They feel a book read, or a film seen they’ve finished with. The story has been told; the reader/viewer knows what will happen, so why read/watch it again? I understand the point, but I disagree with it. A much-loved experience can be enjoyed again. We can enjoy it more because often one can miss things on a first pass, same as an author can during the writing process.

Among my many ‘wants’, I would love to own an entire library of classics. I’ve an abiding love for them. It amazes me when I hear someone say today that they’ve read none of the literary greats. Black Beauty, Heidi, Pride and Prejudice, Gulliver’s Travels, Oliver Twist… all these books and more were among my childhood reads. I cannot even remember them being referred to as ‘classics’ — they were simply books and they were adventures. They took me to different worlds and gave me experiences I would never have had otherwise. I read them alongside stories such as The Water Babies, What Katy Did, Ballet Shoes, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory and I never differentiated. Now people regard them as stuffy and dry, the language outdated. I cannot help feeling that people were better educated, more eloquent and literate when they read such books at a younger age. I was born when almost all parents read to their children, where they gave me books for children older than my age, and if I couldn’t read them right away, well I wanted to, and it made me strive to learn. If I didn’t know a word, my parents handed me a dictionary and told me to look it up, and yes, I took the time to do so. So these books have remained with me, ingrained.

The electronic format has allowed me to revisit some of these classics I’ve lost through moves, through lack of space. I am grateful. They are adventures and memories revisited, and I can keep them in virtual ‘space’. Although I still often buy my favourite authors in print, I have branched out and discovered others owing to electronic formats. I would prefer a world where there wasn’t an argument for or against, but where all can live in support and cooperation. In an advanced society, life is about individual choice.

It personified my thinking when speaking with a friend of mine. This friend is in his seventies and he recently bought an e-reader… and adores it. His reason is simple — he has struggled to read a book for some time. His eyes aren’t quite as they used to be and there may be other factors in his health, but whatever the reason, he can ‘see’ the words better on his reader as opposed to looking at a printed page. He can also increase the font size if need be, or zoom in. His reader has made his whole reading experience come alive again, and where he had as good as given up reading, or took a long time to struggle through a single novel, he’s reading again… devouring books, and what I saw in his eyes as he told me all this was joy.

So I’m just putting this thought out there for those very much against. Maybe e-books and e-readers aren’t for everyone, and for some, they may never be, but I think this proves that it’s pointless to criticise the needs of another person and that none of us can know what we may one day need ourselves. Should there be anyone saying they’d rather give up reading than commit sacrilege and read electronic books, then I can only think nose, spite, face. I could never give up reading. I’ve never heard such venomous arguments over audio books, which many people enjoy who aren’t blind and who don’t have seeing difficulties. The argument may stem from fear — a dread that the production of printed books will one day cease, and I understand that emotion well. Without printed books, this would be a poorer world, but one cannot ignore the increase of electronic formats — something I knew would take off long before someone ever conceived of the first e-reader. Simply, e-readers exist alongside things like audio books and are commonplace, they’re a lifeline for some, and — just as someone brought books into my life to enrich it — in my ‘book’ that makes their existence tolerable and even worthwhile.

Regard Fear as the Enemy

A little over a year ago, I did a guest spot on Southern Writers. Several months on this seems a perfect moment to reproduce that blog here, though an introduction explaining why won’t hurt.

Writers everywhere get days when they would like nothing more than to remain in bed, and to draw the pillow over their heads. Despite the longed-for dream, not everything about writing is fun. I always look at writing and publishing as two different ‘beasts’. This is one of those not-so-fun instances.

I’ve moved. We’ve jobs to do in the house, and this being the biggest relocation of our lives (so far), we’ve much to organise. I’d love to be one of those people who can compartmentalise, push everything to the back of my mind and write. I’m much better at getting everything finished and then concentrating on one thing at a time. No way in publishing can that happen. Right now I’ve a book to finish that I wanted to sub at the end of January. I’ve another in a trilogy that requires approximately another 20k of words and I should send in… oh about now. There’s no set deadline, but I’m trying to reach readers, publisher, and my expectations. Then I’ve another, and, in some ways, a far more important book to finish that needs a whole subplot adding to it. I’m swamped.

At the weekend I walked away from it all. I took a time out I couldn’t afford because something was going to snap; bad enough it should be my temper, but I didn’t want it to be me. All that leads me into the subject because writers live with a good deal of fear. Fear they won’t meet deadlines. Fear they won’t be able to finish a book. Terror that each fresh work won’t be received as well as their last. Fear of taking on new projects, especially those outside of their comfort zone, and the temptation to walk away from it all.

While the books I refer to below are currently unavailable, I’m working on other projects that feel as terrifying, maybe more so. Add to that the dread of days that end in what feels like a blink, and a bed and a pillow seems evermore enticing. The trouble with that temptation, like so many types of avoidance, it cures nothing.

I wish I could write an encouraging ‘how-to’ narrative, revealing all the secrets of mastering the writing craft. Such a missive might make the task easier and eliminate writer anxiety. My own included. My advice? Be afraid but grasp opportunities, anyway.

The secret is there is no secret. What may work for one author may not work for another, same for genre or market. There’s no specific wrong or right way to write, wrong or right way to market (though spamming is never a good choice). There’s no yet revealed way to kill the worry of finding the next idea, the right publisher, receiving a terrible review, or jumping in and trying something new. I’ve learned to view the occasional fluke as providence.

I try anything, and file what doesn’t work now in case something becomes useful. This goes for stories as much as promoting. I find stories often by ‘accident’. May begin with two seemingly unconnected incidents, a vague idea of characters or places, or a single occurrence. I’ve even created stories from a title idea, a phrase, or a random selection of words, tried many genres. Some markets I stumbled into because an idea nagged me to write it, or because I was searching for submission calls. That’s when an accident bridges the gap to intent. Where one formula won’t work for one writer, it may do so for another. Where a blueprint doesn’t apply to one genre, another must be rigid. Study the market. It’s amazing how many writers still send the wrong material to the wrong editor or publication. A horror publisher doesn’t want romance, or vice versa. Pay attention to guidelines.

I read anything and everything; have too many interests, so with writing it was hardly surprising I wanted to run in all directions. I called myself a multi-genre author, little knowing I was making an already arduous task more problematic. Branding is important, possibly imperative. My stories appear from the mysterious well of my imagination working together with a brain that seems to tuck away the quirkiest detail; I sometimes feel as if I’m fooling myself if I think I’m in control of them. There’s no knowing where I’ll head next, so I keep my options open. That’s why my next publication will take me to Jupiter, where there are dragons.

Being willing to make ‘accidental’ connections both in real life and in my storytelling is how I got embroiled in the steampunk world of Space 1889. I received an invitation. I quietly panicked. Then I took a breath, started reading and researching. Now I have three titles (one co-authored) in a series that is a minor part of history. Regard fear as the enemy.

How to be more Creative

A good while ago I put up a post linking to a speech famously given by John Cleese in 1991. I’ve lost the link to that post but found this one. On a good note, it’s less than five minutes to watch rather than the previous quarter of an hour. It also addresses many of the key points in that speech. It’s worth paying attention to. My thoughts returned to this because, although we’re finally in our new house, I’m struggling to get back into writing mode. I’ve two books that desperately call to be finished, but it feels as though everything else equally requires my urgent attention.

There’s probably not a day that goes by when I don’t wish I could follow his advice; sadly, my brain has to work when it gets the opportunity and doesn’t know how to switch off activities. I absolutely understood a moment he refers to, though, when he says you sit down and remember a thousand things to do. That could not be truer after a move, after a major upheaval of completely moving your life and existence to another part of the country. Living here doesn’t feel real because of so many things, not least my trying to recall how to be creative.