Last year, my novel, The Curiosity Cabinet, was published by Polygon. It had been shortlisted for the Dundee Book Prize, had been praised by respected poet John Burnside, (as well as Lorraine Kelly, who loved it!) and seemed to be selling well. (It has since sold out, which explains why it's hard to get on Amazon.) While I was in the middle of writing the final draft of God's Islanders for a different imprint of the same publisher, I also finished a new novel called Darragh Martin. It had gone through several drafts, and my agent liked it. She sent it out to a number of publishers, including the publishers of The Curiosity Cabinet. The reception was, not to put too fine a point on it, lukewarm. (This blog is nothing if not honest!)
At the time, I was a bit peeved, because I had enjoyed writing it. It was an unashamed homage to Wuthering Heights, but with a Scottish setting. I hoped that it was a well written story of neediness and obsessive love and I fancied that it might have a commercial edge. But some of the letters of rejection, relayed to me by my agent, were very helpful. There was, so they pointed out, a gaping chasm at the heart of the novel. The way in which the story was narrated was problematic. And one of the characters bored me, so it didn't surprise me that she bored the readers. But the real fault lay with the main character, Ceit Galbreath. (And she was the main character, not the Darragh Martin of the title) who was a vividly drawn girl to begin with, but who petered out into a rather pathetic creature by the end.
After an initially defensive reaction, I reread the letters and saw that they were right. While I was working on God's Islanders, Darragh was still fermenting away, and I realised that, come hell or high water, I had to do something about it. This was neither practical nor sensible, since I have a couple of completely new projects in waiting. One is a highly commercial idea for a new novel, which is all about solving a Scottish historical mystery in the present day. I have even started writing it. The other is for an equally commercial non fiction book, which seems to tap precisely into an aspect of the current zeitgeist. My lovely agent suggested mildly that I would do better to forge on with these. And she is right. But - as so many writers will know - there is a difference between shelving a project because you have gone as far as you can go with it, and realising that you have short changed a character whom you have grown to love. Which may explain why I spent most of November and December rewriting what had once been Darragh Martin as a very different (and I suspect infinitely better) novel called Corncrake.
But can we do anything with it now that it is finished? Well, there's the rub. I suspect not. Because it has been turned down, it can't be resubmitted. Never mind that it is now quite a different book. But this explains why I am going to subject you to the odd extract on Wordarts. If you think that you might like to read more, will you do me a favour and let my current publisher (Polygon/Birlinn) know all about it!
The Rave Rejection
An online writers' group of which I am a member, has recently been discussing the phenomenon of the Rave Rejection. It used to be customary to be turned down by publishers (or magazines, or theatres, or even the BBC) in one of two ways. There was the standard letter of rejection, and then there was the personalised 'We like this but...' rejection, which was hopeful, and could most certainly be helpful, in that it usually contained a modicum of information about why a manuscript had been rejected. Sometimes the suggestions were perceptive and inspirational. You felt you could take them on board and move forward.
However, an increasing number of us have been victims of the Rave Rejection in which the novel in question receives fulsome praise but 'it isn't what we are publishing right now' or 'I didn't love the book.'
Many moons ago, my husband and I used to have a craft shop, and that was exactly the rock we perished on, so I know a bit about the hard realities of selling. We only stocked things we 'loved'. What we should have done was stock a whole cross section of stuff, from things we loved, through things we quite liked, to things we really didn't fancy but knew would sell. That way, we might have made a go of it. The public at the time were buying pottery dogs as though dogs themselves were on the verge of extinction, and we should have changed the name of the shop to Pot Dogs R Us and stocked masses and masses of them... but that's another story.
So no publisher in their right mind would only sell books they 'loved'. Nor, I'm sure, do they. But I'm equally sure that an editor has to champion a book through the whole thorny publishing process, which must explain a good many of the rejections. Perhaps what they sometimes mean is 'I'm looking for the next massive blockbuster, and I don't think this is it.' Or perhaps they mean 'I really like this, but the marketing department doesn't.' Or perhaps they mean that the writer (as a friend of mine was so memorably described by a BBC producer) is 'tainted by experience.' Or perhaps they mean exactly what they say. This is well written, but I'm not mad about it.
The problem with the Rave Rejection, from the writer's point of view, is that there is nowhere to go with it. What can you do? They haven't suggested changes. On the contrary, they think it is beautiful just as it is. Nothing wrong with it at all. And there's the rub. It is completely unanswerable. Get a few of them and you're left with 100,000 words of unloved, but beautifully written text, fit for nowhere except the bottom drawer - and perhaps, sadly, that is what is intended all along!
However, an increasing number of us have been victims of the Rave Rejection in which the novel in question receives fulsome praise but 'it isn't what we are publishing right now' or 'I didn't love the book.'
Many moons ago, my husband and I used to have a craft shop, and that was exactly the rock we perished on, so I know a bit about the hard realities of selling. We only stocked things we 'loved'. What we should have done was stock a whole cross section of stuff, from things we loved, through things we quite liked, to things we really didn't fancy but knew would sell. That way, we might have made a go of it. The public at the time were buying pottery dogs as though dogs themselves were on the verge of extinction, and we should have changed the name of the shop to Pot Dogs R Us and stocked masses and masses of them... but that's another story.
So no publisher in their right mind would only sell books they 'loved'. Nor, I'm sure, do they. But I'm equally sure that an editor has to champion a book through the whole thorny publishing process, which must explain a good many of the rejections. Perhaps what they sometimes mean is 'I'm looking for the next massive blockbuster, and I don't think this is it.' Or perhaps they mean 'I really like this, but the marketing department doesn't.' Or perhaps they mean that the writer (as a friend of mine was so memorably described by a BBC producer) is 'tainted by experience.' Or perhaps they mean exactly what they say. This is well written, but I'm not mad about it.
The problem with the Rave Rejection, from the writer's point of view, is that there is nowhere to go with it. What can you do? They haven't suggested changes. On the contrary, they think it is beautiful just as it is. Nothing wrong with it at all. And there's the rub. It is completely unanswerable. Get a few of them and you're left with 100,000 words of unloved, but beautifully written text, fit for nowhere except the bottom drawer - and perhaps, sadly, that is what is intended all along!
Worthy of Hire?
Late last week, I had a phonecall from what sounded like a very nice young man who explained that he worked for Scottish Television. They were organising a webcast for Burns Night - a kind of Burns Supper,to be filmed in Mauchline. 'I think we're doing it in Mauchline because he lived there, went to the brothels there' said the young man, cheerfully.
It would be going online, mainly for foreign consumption, so they needed somebody who 'knew about Burns.' They certainly needed that. The presenter was going to be a young actor called Donald Pirrie and he had suggested they contact me. Would I be interested?
Possibly, I said.
Donald played the poet himself (brilliantly, in my opinion) in my play 'Burns on the Solway' which was produced at Glasgow's Oran Mor centre last spring. It was a play about the relationship between Burns and his wife Jean Armour - I've certainly written several plays and articles about the poet, I've even been asked to do the 'Immortal Memory' at the occasional Burns Supper and have always insisted on talking about the poet, instead of - as so many male speakers seem to - seizing the opportunity to tell a string of dubious jokes about myself and my friends. So I felt fairly certain that I could answer any questions they might have. The young man promised to call again with more details, and did, early this week. I was out, but my husband took the message. Could I be in Poosie Nancies, in Mauchline for mid-day on friday?
I called him back. Was there any - erm - possiblity of payment, in the shape of expenses? After all, when writers don't write, they don't earn. And I would be away from my desk for a whole afternoon.
Well no. 'We have a very low budget' he said. 'We could give you some travel expenses' (10 miles by car....) and then there's the food.'
So by then I had got to thinking. If I phoned my solicitor, or my dentist or my plumber, and asked him to spend a whole afternoon working on something for me, using his considerable expertise, and offered to pay his transport, and feed him, would he do the work? Or would he laugh uproariously and put down the phone.
I did neither. I very courteously declined his kind offer, and told him that perhaps he should find a retired amateur expert, who wouldn't mind giving up a whole afternoon for the benefit of a major commercial company in return for a free lunch.
But afterwards I got to thinking that if I had had a book about Burns to sell, for instance, I would probably have done it. Would it have made any difference to sales? I very much doubt it. But still I would have felt constrained, in the way that solicitors, dentists and plumbers never do. (Come and replumb my house for free, think of the publicity you'll get....)
Which, as Hercule Poirot used to say 'gives one furiously to think' does it not?
It would be going online, mainly for foreign consumption, so they needed somebody who 'knew about Burns.' They certainly needed that. The presenter was going to be a young actor called Donald Pirrie and he had suggested they contact me. Would I be interested?
Possibly, I said.
Donald played the poet himself (brilliantly, in my opinion) in my play 'Burns on the Solway' which was produced at Glasgow's Oran Mor centre last spring. It was a play about the relationship between Burns and his wife Jean Armour - I've certainly written several plays and articles about the poet, I've even been asked to do the 'Immortal Memory' at the occasional Burns Supper and have always insisted on talking about the poet, instead of - as so many male speakers seem to - seizing the opportunity to tell a string of dubious jokes about myself and my friends. So I felt fairly certain that I could answer any questions they might have. The young man promised to call again with more details, and did, early this week. I was out, but my husband took the message. Could I be in Poosie Nancies, in Mauchline for mid-day on friday?
I called him back. Was there any - erm - possiblity of payment, in the shape of expenses? After all, when writers don't write, they don't earn. And I would be away from my desk for a whole afternoon.
Well no. 'We have a very low budget' he said. 'We could give you some travel expenses' (10 miles by car....) and then there's the food.'
So by then I had got to thinking. If I phoned my solicitor, or my dentist or my plumber, and asked him to spend a whole afternoon working on something for me, using his considerable expertise, and offered to pay his transport, and feed him, would he do the work? Or would he laugh uproariously and put down the phone.
I did neither. I very courteously declined his kind offer, and told him that perhaps he should find a retired amateur expert, who wouldn't mind giving up a whole afternoon for the benefit of a major commercial company in return for a free lunch.
But afterwards I got to thinking that if I had had a book about Burns to sell, for instance, I would probably have done it. Would it have made any difference to sales? I very much doubt it. But still I would have felt constrained, in the way that solicitors, dentists and plumbers never do. (Come and replumb my house for free, think of the publicity you'll get....)
Which, as Hercule Poirot used to say 'gives one furiously to think' does it not?
Poets Reading Their Own Work
Some time last week,I was standing daydreaming in the shower (all my best ideas seem to come to me in the shower) with BBC Radio 4's 'Today' programme, as a faint noise in the background. Then, I became aware that somebody was speaking in the dull, and strangely offputting drone that I always associate with public poetry readings. I emerged from the shower to hear the end of a poem which was being recited in the customary monotone, and all the memories came flooding back - the hours of boredom,the stifled yawns, the pretence of knowing what the hell the performer in question was talking about....
These were candidates for the T.S. Eliot Prize and each was being given the opportunity to recite one of his or her poems for the delectation of the listeners. Guiltily, I thought that I was probably alone in my revulsion, but it seems that by the end of the week, Radio 4 had received a flood of letters and emails from listeners making exactly the same point. One poor woman declared that she had almost been prompted to drive into a brick wall, and begged the BBC not to do it to her again....
Many years ago, I used to write poetry myself, and I have also been known to read it in public. In fact the Poetry Performing Circuit can be one of the few ways in which a poet can make some kind of a living from his or her work, since they sure aren't going to make any fortunes from publication. Mind you, I always tried to be careful what I chose to read, perhaps because I was also writing for radio and theatre at the time, and was well aware of what made sense and what didn't when read aloud. It was at about this time that -working for an organisation called The Arts In Fife - I was commissioned to set up a series of public readings in Kirkcaldy. One of the performers was a distinguished novelist who had better remain nameless. I loved his written work, but his reading of it (pages and pages, head in book, droning monotone without pause or variation) was hideously boring. Mind you, I was young and foolish, and had forgotten to check the local football fixtures, so the actual audience upon whom this horror was inflicted was really very small indeed.
The BBC's current efforts rekindled all those memories. But why do poets - great poets at that - still think that a public performance needn't involve any kind of effort to be entertaining? Do they really think that their words are so ineffable and immortal that we will be bowled over by the simple sound of the syllables?
Could it be that, because the poetry reading is still, essentially, a middle class activity, they are lulled by the silence, and the polite handclapping at the end, into thinking that they have actually entertained everyone?
Bring back the hook, I say, the one that used to be used in the old Glasgow music halls, to yank unfortunate performers off the stage.
Mind you, it's not all doom and gloom. Last week I also caught Seamus Heaney reading one of his own poems on another Today programme, and found it to be completely magical, his voice lending an extra and very welcome dimension to the poem on the page.
I remember being lucky enough to tutor an Arvon course with the brilliant, kindly and clever Scottish poet and novelist, the late Ian Crichton Smith, who wrote in both Gaelic and English. On the last night, he was persuaded to read some of his Gaelic poems. Few of us understood what he was saying, but it was still a wholly enchanting experience, musical, emotional and spellbinding. I don't know how he did it but I wish some of last week's poets had taken a few lessons.
These were candidates for the T.S. Eliot Prize and each was being given the opportunity to recite one of his or her poems for the delectation of the listeners. Guiltily, I thought that I was probably alone in my revulsion, but it seems that by the end of the week, Radio 4 had received a flood of letters and emails from listeners making exactly the same point. One poor woman declared that she had almost been prompted to drive into a brick wall, and begged the BBC not to do it to her again....
Many years ago, I used to write poetry myself, and I have also been known to read it in public. In fact the Poetry Performing Circuit can be one of the few ways in which a poet can make some kind of a living from his or her work, since they sure aren't going to make any fortunes from publication. Mind you, I always tried to be careful what I chose to read, perhaps because I was also writing for radio and theatre at the time, and was well aware of what made sense and what didn't when read aloud. It was at about this time that -working for an organisation called The Arts In Fife - I was commissioned to set up a series of public readings in Kirkcaldy. One of the performers was a distinguished novelist who had better remain nameless. I loved his written work, but his reading of it (pages and pages, head in book, droning monotone without pause or variation) was hideously boring. Mind you, I was young and foolish, and had forgotten to check the local football fixtures, so the actual audience upon whom this horror was inflicted was really very small indeed.
The BBC's current efforts rekindled all those memories. But why do poets - great poets at that - still think that a public performance needn't involve any kind of effort to be entertaining? Do they really think that their words are so ineffable and immortal that we will be bowled over by the simple sound of the syllables?
Could it be that, because the poetry reading is still, essentially, a middle class activity, they are lulled by the silence, and the polite handclapping at the end, into thinking that they have actually entertained everyone?
Bring back the hook, I say, the one that used to be used in the old Glasgow music halls, to yank unfortunate performers off the stage.
Mind you, it's not all doom and gloom. Last week I also caught Seamus Heaney reading one of his own poems on another Today programme, and found it to be completely magical, his voice lending an extra and very welcome dimension to the poem on the page.
I remember being lucky enough to tutor an Arvon course with the brilliant, kindly and clever Scottish poet and novelist, the late Ian Crichton Smith, who wrote in both Gaelic and English. On the last night, he was persuaded to read some of his Gaelic poems. Few of us understood what he was saying, but it was still a wholly enchanting experience, musical, emotional and spellbinding. I don't know how he did it but I wish some of last week's poets had taken a few lessons.
Happy New Year and Apologies
Apologies for my long silence - more than a month. My excuse, quite apart from Christmas and several power cuts, has been that the run up to the holiday was spent in a frantic effort to complete the latest 'tranche' of renovations on our house, and the computer became completely inaccessible for a while. Posting on blogs was the last thing on my mind. Oh and I did my back in lifting, you've guessed it, boxes and boxes of books, and spent the week between Christmas and New Year hobbling about, high on painkillers and the occasional infusion of wine, or something stronger.
After accumulating books for many years, I decided that the end of 2006 would see a certain amount of decluttering. I'm not one of those writers who can work on an untidy desk, although I'm not of the minimalist persuasion either - I just like things to be a bit ordered around me. The study had become more and more of a hell hole, so one of our pre Christmas tasks was to strip it bare, decorate it, carpet it and decide what really HAD to go back in, and what could safely be consigned to the car boot sale or the charity shop. My aim was to reduce the library by a third. I probably achieved about a quarter.
First of all, we spread a few more books round the house - you know, novels in the living room, textile and art books downstairs, all the Dickens and Agatha Christie in nice editions in the hallway where visitors can make a selection before bed, that sort of thing. Well, it gives the illusion of decluttering anyway...
Then I sifted miserably through the rest, trying to decide which books I (a) would never ever read again, (b) would never read at all or (c) wouldn't discover, immediately after throwing them out, that I needed for some obscure research project or other. They amounted to several boxes worth, they have gone, and my heart feels inexplicably lighter. My back's knackered though. Ulysses is still hanging on in there, as is War and Peace. Some dear old friends (The Lucia Books by E.F. Benson, for instance) are so battered by time and love, that I think I need new editions. In the course of the selection, I did find a little book that I had spent many hours searching for in connection with God's Islanders, completely unaware that it was lurking on my own shelves all the time.
Now, the study is painted in that restful shade of blue that the Swedes were traditionally so fond of. The shelves are relatively dust free. The carpet is soft and woolly. The PC is enticing. And spring is surely on its way. All I need to do is finish the next two novels. Of which more soon. Oh, and guess what? There's a bit of room for some new books.
After accumulating books for many years, I decided that the end of 2006 would see a certain amount of decluttering. I'm not one of those writers who can work on an untidy desk, although I'm not of the minimalist persuasion either - I just like things to be a bit ordered around me. The study had become more and more of a hell hole, so one of our pre Christmas tasks was to strip it bare, decorate it, carpet it and decide what really HAD to go back in, and what could safely be consigned to the car boot sale or the charity shop. My aim was to reduce the library by a third. I probably achieved about a quarter.
First of all, we spread a few more books round the house - you know, novels in the living room, textile and art books downstairs, all the Dickens and Agatha Christie in nice editions in the hallway where visitors can make a selection before bed, that sort of thing. Well, it gives the illusion of decluttering anyway...
Then I sifted miserably through the rest, trying to decide which books I (a) would never ever read again, (b) would never read at all or (c) wouldn't discover, immediately after throwing them out, that I needed for some obscure research project or other. They amounted to several boxes worth, they have gone, and my heart feels inexplicably lighter. My back's knackered though. Ulysses is still hanging on in there, as is War and Peace. Some dear old friends (The Lucia Books by E.F. Benson, for instance) are so battered by time and love, that I think I need new editions. In the course of the selection, I did find a little book that I had spent many hours searching for in connection with God's Islanders, completely unaware that it was lurking on my own shelves all the time.
Now, the study is painted in that restful shade of blue that the Swedes were traditionally so fond of. The shelves are relatively dust free. The carpet is soft and woolly. The PC is enticing. And spring is surely on its way. All I need to do is finish the next two novels. Of which more soon. Oh, and guess what? There's a bit of room for some new books.
Launch Parties and all that.
My new non fiction book, God's Islanders, was finally formally published within the past couple of weeks, and my publisher arranged a launch party in a local branch of Waterstones (lately changed from Ottakars, but with the same excellent management team, thank God.) These events (and frankly, I haven't done all that many of them) are always nerve racking. Will anyone turn up? Will anyone buy the book, a large and reasonably pricy hardback, if they do turn up? Will they enjoy it? Will they enjoy themselves? In the event, some 35 people turned up and drank wine and listened to me rabbiting on and many of them did buy the book (some of them even bought two copies, as the manager later told me, cheerfully) It occurred to me that it is much, much harder to talk to a large group of friends and relatives, than it is to talk to a large group of strangers. Why should this be? Perhaps because they know all your faults and failings, and besides, you can't help feeling that they can hear you rabbiting on any day of the week, without having to buy a book in order to do so. But still, it's nice to be supported.
Somebody asked me 'Is it very exciting?' and I said yes, but afterwards I realised that it wasn't. Not very. It was nice to get those first copies through the post, because it is a lovely production, very beautifully published. And it has been nice to get the odd compliment. But the book has been such a slog. And there was no one point of celebration, no definite publication day, nobody cheering on the sidelines, as it were. I remember one publisher I worked with sending me a bouquet of flowers to mark publication day, and that made it kind of special, but nobody from Birlinn even came to the launch. So no, it wasn't exciting. The excitement is all in the writing - everything that comes after is in some strange sense, an anticlimax.
Somebody asked me 'Is it very exciting?' and I said yes, but afterwards I realised that it wasn't. Not very. It was nice to get those first copies through the post, because it is a lovely production, very beautifully published. And it has been nice to get the odd compliment. But the book has been such a slog. And there was no one point of celebration, no definite publication day, nobody cheering on the sidelines, as it were. I remember one publisher I worked with sending me a bouquet of flowers to mark publication day, and that made it kind of special, but nobody from Birlinn even came to the launch. So no, it wasn't exciting. The excitement is all in the writing - everything that comes after is in some strange sense, an anticlimax.
Eeenie meenie... what next?
People are always asking me 'where do you get your ideas from' and I have to explain that I never have any problem with ideas, more that I never have enough to time to write as much as I would like. This is a problem which is exercising me right now.
I have finished my non fiction book about Gigha and I'm still waiting for publication date, which has been postponed for a week or two. But the launch of what has turned out to be a rather nice (ie nicely produced!) illustrated hardback is scheduled for 22nd November, so I'm assuming it will be in the bookshops by then.
Which in theory, means that I should already be deep into a new book. What contributors to various writers' message boards call the 'WIP' or work in progress.
And I am. I really am.
I have an idea for a brand new novel. I have a working title for it (The Fifth Mary). My agent thinks that it is a good commercial idea, with interesting characters and a strong plot. I have done lots of research. Although not a historical novel, there is a historical mystery, related to Mary Queen of Scots, at the heart of it. I have written a long and detailed synopsis (30 pages or more) and already have a few chapters under my belt.
So what's the problem?
Well the problem is my last unpublished novel, which is still tapping at the window of my consciousness and wailing 'Let me in! Let me in!'
I finished what I thought was the final revised draft of it (then called Darragh Martin) about a year ago, but Polygon/Birlinn who published The Curiosity Cabinet and ARE publishing God's Islanders within the next few weeks, didn't even want to look at it, on the grounds that it didn't fit their current list.
So my agent sent it out to other publishers, but the reception was lukewarm to say the least, so I did what all writers do in this situation - filed it away in the bottom drawer, and pressed on with something else, in this case a new play, which was subsequently produced in Glasgow, and a new non fiction book, my history of the people of the island of Gigha, which is about to be published in hardback and which has taken just about all my time and energy for the past year.
About six months ago, I took Darragh out of his drawer, scanned through the chapters, looked at some of the feedback from publishers, and realised that for the most part, they were right. The structure was too complex, and - perhaps more important - there was a gaping hole at the centre of the novel, and at the heart of one of the main characters. I didn't do anything about it at the time, since I was wrestling with God's Islanders, but made a few notes, and closed the drawer.
Not long afterwards, I came across a couple of references to the corncrake, in poetry, and started doodling the name on the old manuscript. It seemed peculiarly evocative of one of the characters, who comes and goes like that elusive bird.
Then the dreams began.
It is, I have to say, rather like being haunted.
The characters knock at the window of your subconscious, refusing to be ignored.
They lurk at the back of your mind, popping up at inopportune moments.
This is what I do, they say. This is where you went wrong. This is the way I am. This is the way I have to be. And what are you going to do about it? And what about this scene, and this possibility, and why did you never explore that bit of me?
It is almost sinister in its intensity.
Now, whenever I try to knuckle down to the new 'work in progress' the old one intervenes, muscling in, demanding attention.
So a couple of weeks ago, I got it out again and started revising the synopsis and suddenly it all slotted into place, and I thought 'No wonder nobody would buy it, because this, this and this was wrong with it, and now I can see, and now I need to do this, this and this to put it right.'
Which is what I am about to do.
Darragh Martin has become The Corncrake. Instead of being told from several different and unnecessarily complicated perspectives, it is going to be told in the third person as a straightforward (and rather different) story, spanning the years from the 1950s to the present day.
I will try to write the WIP while I am doing it, but I make myself no promises. And in any case, I may be on a hiding to nothing, because even when I have finished it, who will take a second look at a rejected novel?
Better better better says my head to forge on with the new.
But all the same as Ceit and Darragh, but especially Ceit, lovely, magical Ceit, who got so short changed in the last version, pace through my mind, demanding to be heard, there's nothing I can do but write the novel as I now know it was meant to be.
More in due course.
I have finished my non fiction book about Gigha and I'm still waiting for publication date, which has been postponed for a week or two. But the launch of what has turned out to be a rather nice (ie nicely produced!) illustrated hardback is scheduled for 22nd November, so I'm assuming it will be in the bookshops by then.
Which in theory, means that I should already be deep into a new book. What contributors to various writers' message boards call the 'WIP' or work in progress.
And I am. I really am.
I have an idea for a brand new novel. I have a working title for it (The Fifth Mary). My agent thinks that it is a good commercial idea, with interesting characters and a strong plot. I have done lots of research. Although not a historical novel, there is a historical mystery, related to Mary Queen of Scots, at the heart of it. I have written a long and detailed synopsis (30 pages or more) and already have a few chapters under my belt.
So what's the problem?
Well the problem is my last unpublished novel, which is still tapping at the window of my consciousness and wailing 'Let me in! Let me in!'
I finished what I thought was the final revised draft of it (then called Darragh Martin) about a year ago, but Polygon/Birlinn who published The Curiosity Cabinet and ARE publishing God's Islanders within the next few weeks, didn't even want to look at it, on the grounds that it didn't fit their current list.
So my agent sent it out to other publishers, but the reception was lukewarm to say the least, so I did what all writers do in this situation - filed it away in the bottom drawer, and pressed on with something else, in this case a new play, which was subsequently produced in Glasgow, and a new non fiction book, my history of the people of the island of Gigha, which is about to be published in hardback and which has taken just about all my time and energy for the past year.
About six months ago, I took Darragh out of his drawer, scanned through the chapters, looked at some of the feedback from publishers, and realised that for the most part, they were right. The structure was too complex, and - perhaps more important - there was a gaping hole at the centre of the novel, and at the heart of one of the main characters. I didn't do anything about it at the time, since I was wrestling with God's Islanders, but made a few notes, and closed the drawer.
Not long afterwards, I came across a couple of references to the corncrake, in poetry, and started doodling the name on the old manuscript. It seemed peculiarly evocative of one of the characters, who comes and goes like that elusive bird.
Then the dreams began.
It is, I have to say, rather like being haunted.
The characters knock at the window of your subconscious, refusing to be ignored.
They lurk at the back of your mind, popping up at inopportune moments.
This is what I do, they say. This is where you went wrong. This is the way I am. This is the way I have to be. And what are you going to do about it? And what about this scene, and this possibility, and why did you never explore that bit of me?
It is almost sinister in its intensity.
Now, whenever I try to knuckle down to the new 'work in progress' the old one intervenes, muscling in, demanding attention.
So a couple of weeks ago, I got it out again and started revising the synopsis and suddenly it all slotted into place, and I thought 'No wonder nobody would buy it, because this, this and this was wrong with it, and now I can see, and now I need to do this, this and this to put it right.'
Which is what I am about to do.
Darragh Martin has become The Corncrake. Instead of being told from several different and unnecessarily complicated perspectives, it is going to be told in the third person as a straightforward (and rather different) story, spanning the years from the 1950s to the present day.
I will try to write the WIP while I am doing it, but I make myself no promises. And in any case, I may be on a hiding to nothing, because even when I have finished it, who will take a second look at a rejected novel?
Better better better says my head to forge on with the new.
But all the same as Ceit and Darragh, but especially Ceit, lovely, magical Ceit, who got so short changed in the last version, pace through my mind, demanding to be heard, there's nothing I can do but write the novel as I now know it was meant to be.
More in due course.
Arvon Foundation Writing Courses
I'm just back from tutoring a week's fiction writing course for the Arvon Foundation at Moniack Mhor in the highlands - a lovely group of people, all intent on making that leap from shorter fiction to writing a full length novel, all working in an inspirational setting. These courses are hard work for the tutors, but when the people 'gel', as this group seemed to, from the outset, there is nothing better for getting the creative juices flowing, for tutors as well as participants.
Partly, it's the setting, which is magical: an old farmhouse and cottage, high on a hillside, with stunning views. There is a huge welcoming kitchen stocked with all kinds of excellent food and a sitting/dining room (warmed by a real fire) where everyone eats together around a long table, where workshops are held each morning, and where people gather each evening to read and listen and pool their ideas.
The way these courses work is that everyone gets his or her own breakfast and lunch, but the students are divided into groups of three and each group cooks one evening meal for the rest during the week. The tutors don't have to cook, but they are kept extremely busy in other ways. Apart from the long morning workshops, there are one to one sessions every afternoon! But even the cooking isn't an imposition, since all the food is bought in, menus are set in advance and detailed cooking instructions supplied. There is also a hefty commercial dishwasher, which takes about 4 minutes to complete a cycle! Add to that the odd glass of wine for the cooks, and the process seemed to go very smoothly. The results were invariably delicious.
In between times students are free to write, read, daydream (an essential part of the writing process and one which is too often neglected) and go for long walks through some of the most stunning countryside in Scotland, in the hills above Loch Ness.
Participants on this occasion ranged from a London based journalist to a retired man living in France, who had flown in specially for the course. The week was warm, friendly and more importantly, produced some excellent writing. There are always two tutors who consult over the course structure in advance - in this instance it was myself, and novelist David Armstrong, with a midweek visit from the incredibly talented Ruth Thomas, who brought her blissful baby Arthur along for the ride (and her friend Jenny Renton to mind him while she did her reading.)
It was, in short, a week full of unexpected epiphanies, and one which I would be delighted to repeat at any time. I think I probably got as much out of it as the students. I drove home through Glencoe, and stopped for a rest at Inveruglas on the shores of Loch Lomond, feeling quite stunned by the sheer beauty of the landscape. A double espresso in the little cafe there gave me the necessary kick to get me home safely. But Moniack, and the ideas it inspired, have been with me ever since.
Robin Hood again
Something curiously lacking in this production so far, but I'll reserve my judgement for a few more episodes. Its shortcomings were only highlighted by the wonderful, watchable 'A Knight's Tale', which was shown later, on another channel.
There was something almost tentative about it, but it may improve. And why was the wench who Robin snogged first wearing more eye make-up than your average Goth?
Robin himself lacks a certain something that Guy (of course) had in spades. It would have been much more interesting to reverse the casting, so that we had the moodier, more powerful and undoubtedly more handsome Armitage as Robin (all those crusading experiences would have been more believable) and Jonas Armstrong as the younger, quite sexy, but spoiled brat, who had stayed at home, and taken advantage. I reckon that would have worked better all round.
Incidentally, is anybody out there thinking of casting Armitage in the part he was so obviously born to play? I mean Heathcliff of course. And please, please, please, can I dramatise it? Please? Please?
There was something almost tentative about it, but it may improve. And why was the wench who Robin snogged first wearing more eye make-up than your average Goth?
Robin himself lacks a certain something that Guy (of course) had in spades. It would have been much more interesting to reverse the casting, so that we had the moodier, more powerful and undoubtedly more handsome Armitage as Robin (all those crusading experiences would have been more believable) and Jonas Armstrong as the younger, quite sexy, but spoiled brat, who had stayed at home, and taken advantage. I reckon that would have worked better all round.
Incidentally, is anybody out there thinking of casting Armitage in the part he was so obviously born to play? I mean Heathcliff of course. And please, please, please, can I dramatise it? Please? Please?
Robin Hood, Robin Hood....
A late and much lamented friend of the family is always indelibly associated in my mind with Robin Hood. Whenever the old film was shown on the telly, he and my husband would phone each other up, and spend time chortling over the green tights. (Maid Marian is actually to be seen weaving those tights in that early film. Or at least there seems to be something green on her loom.....) The pair of them had been members of the same fencing club - the sword fighting kind - and would practice in the garden, or shoot longbows. One summer, I remember, they had an axe throwing contest on the lawn.
This week's Radio Times shows a Maid Marian in what looks more like lycra than homespun, but as with Doctor Who, there's a whole new generation to be enticed into viewing. Robin is being played by a friend of a young friend. I must say he looks very very young to me. Policemen, doctors and bank managers also look alarmingly boyish. 'What is he doing out without his mammy?' as they say up here in Scotland. On the other hand, Guy of Gisborne, alias the amazing Richard Armitage, smouldering away in black leather, on the cover of that same Radio Times, is obviously there for us slightly... how can I put this?... more mature ladies. Nobody smoulders like our Richard.
'Don't I look like that when I'm in my bike leathers?' asked my husband, somewhat plaintively. There's no answer to that one, is there? But then I'm no Maid Marian either....
This week's Radio Times shows a Maid Marian in what looks more like lycra than homespun, but as with Doctor Who, there's a whole new generation to be enticed into viewing. Robin is being played by a friend of a young friend. I must say he looks very very young to me. Policemen, doctors and bank managers also look alarmingly boyish. 'What is he doing out without his mammy?' as they say up here in Scotland. On the other hand, Guy of Gisborne, alias the amazing Richard Armitage, smouldering away in black leather, on the cover of that same Radio Times, is obviously there for us slightly... how can I put this?... more mature ladies. Nobody smoulders like our Richard.
'Don't I look like that when I'm in my bike leathers?' asked my husband, somewhat plaintively. There's no answer to that one, is there? But then I'm no Maid Marian either....
Launch Parties
This week, I was contacted by the events manager at my publisher - some time ago, our local and very writer-friendly branch of Ottakars had said that they were interested in launching God's Islanders. When I went in last week, though, there was a general air of preoccupation. Like all paranoid writers, I thought 'was it something I said?' but of course the changeover to Waterstones is taking up so much time that launching books about small Scottish islands is probably the last thing on their collective minds.
I had an email from the publisher today to say that the shop will be happy to launch the book in late November, and could I supply them with a list of people to invite? I've been pondering this ever since. Numbers are reasonably limited, close friends and relatives are a must, as are members of local writers and book groups who have supported me over the years. But since this is a book about Gigha, it would seem rather sad if nobody from the island was there - and might it be possible to have a second launch on Gigha in the spring I wonder?
Meanwhile, our friends who run a local chandlery have told us that they will definitely be stocking the book, and Birlinn are also looking into the possibility of a signing session there. This is not as mad as it sounds - many people visit big chandleries in November/December looking for Christmas gifts for yachties, (I've done it myself!) and the little isle of Gigha is the first port of call for so many Clyde sailors when they decide to venture further afield, and round the mull of Kintyre - a daunting prospect in bad weather, as the Vikings knew to their cost, so many hundreds of years earlier! If you want to know more about them, you'll have to read the book.
I had an email from the publisher today to say that the shop will be happy to launch the book in late November, and could I supply them with a list of people to invite? I've been pondering this ever since. Numbers are reasonably limited, close friends and relatives are a must, as are members of local writers and book groups who have supported me over the years. But since this is a book about Gigha, it would seem rather sad if nobody from the island was there - and might it be possible to have a second launch on Gigha in the spring I wonder?
Meanwhile, our friends who run a local chandlery have told us that they will definitely be stocking the book, and Birlinn are also looking into the possibility of a signing session there. This is not as mad as it sounds - many people visit big chandleries in November/December looking for Christmas gifts for yachties, (I've done it myself!) and the little isle of Gigha is the first port of call for so many Clyde sailors when they decide to venture further afield, and round the mull of Kintyre - a daunting prospect in bad weather, as the Vikings knew to their cost, so many hundreds of years earlier! If you want to know more about them, you'll have to read the book.
What's in a Name?
Well, quite a lot really. In about a week's time, I'll be heading north to Kiltarlity, by way of Inverness, and thence to beautiful Moniack Mhor, the Arvon Foundation's Scottish centre, where with David Armstrong I'll be tutoring a course on fiction writing. Browsing the Arvon website tonight (why didn't I do it sooner, I ask myself?) I realised that they have spelled my name wrong. For some unaccountable reason, I have become Czerkawask. Now I answer to most variations on Czerkawska.... I mean I've lived with the name all these years, and even when I got married, I elected to keep my own name. So I have encountered all possible spellings and pronunciations, and believe me, some of them have been very odd indeed. The trouble started when I first went to school. Everyone else was learning to spell names like Brown and Smith and Jones. There I was, struggling with Czerkawska and wondering why it seemed to fill the whole line....
But I've never been called Czerkawask before.
It didn't used to matter very much. But now, when people type some variant of my name into their PCs looking for - how can I put this? - my books or plays which they may possibly want to buy... what will they get? Not much, that's what.
Catherine Czerkawska Czerkawska Czerkawska. That's what Amazon know me as. It's what Google knows me as, as well. There. That might help.
But I've never been called Czerkawask before.
It didn't used to matter very much. But now, when people type some variant of my name into their PCs looking for - how can I put this? - my books or plays which they may possibly want to buy... what will they get? Not much, that's what.
Catherine Czerkawska Czerkawska Czerkawska. That's what Amazon know me as. It's what Google knows me as, as well. There. That might help.
My Wuthering Heights Cupboard
I have just bought an old oak court cupboard, or 'press'. Very old really. It has 1626 carved on the front, along with some initials, a G.A. and an A. above that. There is also a tiny little G.A. down on one of the legs. (George Armitage? George Arden? Why am I convinced he was a George?) My professional woodcarver husband, who knows about how such things are constructed, reckons it is pretty much original (with some renovations, obviously - changed locks, etc and I suspect that the back is later than the rest of it) and not a Victorian amalgam. The carving is simple, and very beautiful, and the whole huge piece looks 'country made'. The colour is wonderful - some parts are darker than others, the wood is silky smooth to the touch, with the marks of the adze still on it in places. I got out some good wax polish but found that I needed to use very little - once I started rubbing at it, it was as though the wood sprang to life, with hundreds of years of waxing and polishing - and it smells wonderful too, sweetly of old beeswax. There is a candle shelf, and above it, all along it, are faint, irregular marks, which I realised were the scorch marks of ancient candles. One is particularly noticeable, as though the wood may actually have caught fire and smouldered there for a while.
So why am I writing about this in a blog about creative writing? Well, even while I was bidding on it in my local saleroom, I had lines from Wuthering Heights running through my mind. Remember the scene where Cathy is delirious, down at Thrushcross Grange, and tells Nelly that she sees the 'black press, shining like jet'? And Nellie tells her that there is no press, and she realises that she was wandering in her mind, and imagining herself back at Wuthering Heights? It's a magical scene, and - like so much of that powerful novel - one that has remained in my mind for years. My cupboard inexorably reminds me of Wuthering Heights. Although it was bought in Scotland, it is almost certainly of North Ccountry provenance - Yorkshire, Lancashire or Cheshire. I don't know who G.A. was, if he was some cabinet making countryman, who made this for his new wife, A, (Anne? Alice?) and decided to put his own initials down on one of the legs, as well as on the front, to indicate as much - or some wealthy young farmer who had the cupboard made to mark his marriage - but there is something rich, and warm and beautiful and elemental and a bit scary about it, and I know that the feelings it inspires in me are very similar to my feelings when I read, and reread the descriptions of Wuthering Heights itself, in that much loved novel. It's an inspirational piece, and I find myself sitting and gazing at it, as though I can't quite believe it.
PS The whole kitchen is now going to have to be redesigned around my beautiful bargain. We had intended to do this anyway, but the situation is becoming urgent. Meanwhile, I can feel an idea for a novel coming on.....
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