I've watched both and read a few negative comments about Billy Piper as Fanny - mostly gripes about the authenticity of her hair. I have to say though that this is the first time I have ever perceived that Fanny might be a sympathetic character and this is almost entirely down to Billy. Mansfield Park is probably my least favourite Austen novel, just as Northanger Abbey, the first one I ever read, remains my favourite, although only just! But it is hard to like Fanny.
The film version, which was shown recently, with its heavy handed political correctness, and unattractive hero, only served to emphasise just how trying a real life Fanny might have been - perhaps a measure of how much times have changed. But that's so infrequently an Austen fault, her people are invariably so real and recognisable, that as a reader or viewer you somehow feel it must be your own fault for not understanding. However there was a good natured charm, coupled with a sort of rock solid sense of what was right, about Billy as Fanny. It was an interpretation that I could not only live with, but found enlightening. So I could forgive her hair. I was too busy watching her performance.
The Radio Times did a little carping about Northanger Abbey (funny how they seldom seem to do this about major BBC productions) but I found it worked rather well, particularly Catherine's overheated imaginings. I once dramatised The Mysteries of Udolpho for Radio 4 - it was meant to be part of a Gothic season, but in the event, Udolpho was IT. A bigger load of old hooey I have yet to read, although I think I made a pretty good job of it, even if I do say so myself, with my tongue rather firmly in my cheek.
The only jarring note in Northanger came with the depiction of General Tilney as being much too close to one of those unrelenting Gothic villains. As I remember the story, Jane, true to life as ever, tells us that not only did the General really love his wife, but once he realises that Catherine isn't completely poverty stricken, he comes round in the end. The older I grow, the wiser I think that this woman was in her perceptions of the infinite adaptability of human nature to whatever the current situation happens to be!
Radio Rage
Just imagine for a moment, that you are watching a good, old fashioned, romantic movie. How about Brief Encounter? Rachmaninov is doing his spendid tear jerking stuff in the background, and Celia Johnson is talking about an ordinary men in an ordinary mec and then quite suddenly, in the middle of all this, up pops a musicologist (I envisage him in faded cords, and a kipper tie, and wild hair) and starts to rabbit on about Rachmaninov, his life history, and the interpretation of his music. Startled out of your absorption, you spend the minute or two that he is lecturing at you thinking 'what the hell...?' so you don't actually hear what he is saying. Thankfully, he shuts up, and you slide back into the movie, only this time, you're a wee bit rattled, so it takes a little longer to get back into it. So long in fact, that by the time you've settled down, he's at it again. 'At this point in Rachmaninov's career....' he says, interrupting poor Celia in mid speech.
By the end of the movie, and if you haven't already given up on it, you are incandescent with rage. Nor have you absorbed even a hint of information about Rachmaninov. All you want to do is throttle the commentator, slowly, with his own tie.
If the same thing happened in a theatre, I doubt if the musicologist would get away unscathed. I suppose the audience might just think he was part of the play of course, and it would be alright if he was part of the play, a well written, well rounded character of the kind that Brian Friel does so brilliantly - in other words, part of the playwright's vision.
But I don't mean that, at all. I mean a perfectly good drama, ruined by some 'expert' constantly interrupting the play with a parallel and utterly distracting commentary.
And yet BBC Radio inflicts these abominations on us over and over again. Yesterday, there was one more. An absorbing and rather moving love story was spoiled by an intermittent lecture on the music that was part of the theme of the play. What in God's name was the point? All we needed was what the writer had already created - a character who knew about the music in question and could talk about it, eloquently, but more importantly in character.
To invade the audience's suspension of disbelief, time and time again, is nothing short of madness.
So why on earth do they do it?
It shows such a profound ignorance of how drama works that one is forced into the assumption that the only reason for it can be as a money saving exercise - fewer minutes of actual drama to be paid for. But surely this can't be the case? And even if it was the case, wouldn't it be better to have a shorter, uninterrupted play, followed by a talk about the music for those who want to listen? Or are we - in this increasingly didactic and prescriptive age - to have the academic perspective thrust at us, whether we like it or not, on the principle that a spoonful of dramatic sugar will help the unpalatable but worthy medicine go down?
By the end of the movie, and if you haven't already given up on it, you are incandescent with rage. Nor have you absorbed even a hint of information about Rachmaninov. All you want to do is throttle the commentator, slowly, with his own tie.
If the same thing happened in a theatre, I doubt if the musicologist would get away unscathed. I suppose the audience might just think he was part of the play of course, and it would be alright if he was part of the play, a well written, well rounded character of the kind that Brian Friel does so brilliantly - in other words, part of the playwright's vision.
But I don't mean that, at all. I mean a perfectly good drama, ruined by some 'expert' constantly interrupting the play with a parallel and utterly distracting commentary.
And yet BBC Radio inflicts these abominations on us over and over again. Yesterday, there was one more. An absorbing and rather moving love story was spoiled by an intermittent lecture on the music that was part of the theme of the play. What in God's name was the point? All we needed was what the writer had already created - a character who knew about the music in question and could talk about it, eloquently, but more importantly in character.
To invade the audience's suspension of disbelief, time and time again, is nothing short of madness.
So why on earth do they do it?
It shows such a profound ignorance of how drama works that one is forced into the assumption that the only reason for it can be as a money saving exercise - fewer minutes of actual drama to be paid for. But surely this can't be the case? And even if it was the case, wouldn't it be better to have a shorter, uninterrupted play, followed by a talk about the music for those who want to listen? Or are we - in this increasingly didactic and prescriptive age - to have the academic perspective thrust at us, whether we like it or not, on the principle that a spoonful of dramatic sugar will help the unpalatable but worthy medicine go down?
Paying For It
I've been reflecting on my previous post, and I think I know one of the reasons why Scottish publishing is so masculine. I think it has a lot to do with Calvinism, and the general 'we'll pay for it' - or 'we'll pey fer it' as they say down here, whenever a watery sun pokes its head out - mentality of so many inhabitants of this country that I love so much. And make no mistake, I do. Love it I mean. But the default setting of many Scottish men in particular is pessimistic verging on dour. And that goes for publishers as well. You know who you are.
I'm also convinced that this inherent truculence lies at the root of so much of the religious bigotry that still dogs the Central Belt. Even now, when I'm asked where I went to school, I know that there will be a slight - very slight, these days - reaction to the name of a school which is so obviously Catholic. What did you expect, I want to say, from the daughter of a Pole married to an Irishwoman?
The original (and possibly reasonable in the circumstances) suspicion of outside political interference has been replaced by a completely unreasonable suspicion of the drama, colour, exuberance and general all round theatricality that is such a characteristic of the church of Rome. It's a characteristic of big, bold romantic novels as well. Couple that with the exploration of love, relationships and the occasional promise of a happy ending, which are part and parcel of commercial women's fiction and you can see how the 'it'll all end in tears' brigade would object. Such things make them uncomfortable, embarrass them, not least because they are - God forbid - enjoyable: a guily pleasure, as somebody commented about my own novel, The Curiosity Cabinet.
Some members of the arts establishment often couple this dourness with literary snobbery. I occasionally play a party game of discussing TV programmes with people who don't know me well, waiting for them to tell me, as they invariably do, how they 'can't stand soaps.' Oddly enough, they always know the plotlines. I wait for an opportune moment, and then tell them that I love Coronation Street. (True). A look of dismay crosses their faces as though I have made some dreadful faux pas. Quite often they ask why, and I tell them because I think it's a well made drama with some of the best parts for older people you will ever see on television, brilliantly written, directed, and acted. Why would anyone need or want to disapprove of something so entertaining, something, moreover, that gives harmless pleasure to so many people?
The sad thing is that when Scots loosen up a bit they can and do write passionate love songs and stories that would put the rest of the world to shame. I have, on the whole, met far more hopelessly romantic Scottish men than women, so these guys must go around in a constant state of repression. A woman who indulges in real life romance usually knows what she's doing and generally keeps something back. A parachute of sorts. When a man falls, he falls harder, faster and more comprehensively. Icarus to the life. Not, mind you, that those men who do dare to write about such things get much approval from their fellows . Or at least not until they're dead. Then it's alright. Like poor old Rabbie Burns, they have well and truly peyed fer it, and can be mourned with due dour solemnity.
I'm also convinced that this inherent truculence lies at the root of so much of the religious bigotry that still dogs the Central Belt. Even now, when I'm asked where I went to school, I know that there will be a slight - very slight, these days - reaction to the name of a school which is so obviously Catholic. What did you expect, I want to say, from the daughter of a Pole married to an Irishwoman?
The original (and possibly reasonable in the circumstances) suspicion of outside political interference has been replaced by a completely unreasonable suspicion of the drama, colour, exuberance and general all round theatricality that is such a characteristic of the church of Rome. It's a characteristic of big, bold romantic novels as well. Couple that with the exploration of love, relationships and the occasional promise of a happy ending, which are part and parcel of commercial women's fiction and you can see how the 'it'll all end in tears' brigade would object. Such things make them uncomfortable, embarrass them, not least because they are - God forbid - enjoyable: a guily pleasure, as somebody commented about my own novel, The Curiosity Cabinet.
Some members of the arts establishment often couple this dourness with literary snobbery. I occasionally play a party game of discussing TV programmes with people who don't know me well, waiting for them to tell me, as they invariably do, how they 'can't stand soaps.' Oddly enough, they always know the plotlines. I wait for an opportune moment, and then tell them that I love Coronation Street. (True). A look of dismay crosses their faces as though I have made some dreadful faux pas. Quite often they ask why, and I tell them because I think it's a well made drama with some of the best parts for older people you will ever see on television, brilliantly written, directed, and acted. Why would anyone need or want to disapprove of something so entertaining, something, moreover, that gives harmless pleasure to so many people?
The sad thing is that when Scots loosen up a bit they can and do write passionate love songs and stories that would put the rest of the world to shame. I have, on the whole, met far more hopelessly romantic Scottish men than women, so these guys must go around in a constant state of repression. A woman who indulges in real life romance usually knows what she's doing and generally keeps something back. A parachute of sorts. When a man falls, he falls harder, faster and more comprehensively. Icarus to the life. Not, mind you, that those men who do dare to write about such things get much approval from their fellows . Or at least not until they're dead. Then it's alright. Like poor old Rabbie Burns, they have well and truly peyed fer it, and can be mourned with due dour solemnity.
Why is Scottish Publishing So Masculine?
You know how women sometimes say I'm not a feminist but... ? Well I am a feminist (though by no means a man hater!) and...when I recently took myself for a wee trawl through the websites of various high profile Scottish publishers, my first instinct was to wonder if my own prejudices were showing. Then I spoke to a few female writers (and potential readers) of my acquaintance and decided that I was right after all. We've all noticed it. Scottish publishing is, on the whole, a depressingly male dominated world, full of books (fact and fiction) about football and serial killers. I haven't actually counted the ratio of male to female authors, but even the most casual glance will show that the guys predominate. Moreover, even the crap is, let's face it, macho crap. The exception could be so called 'serious' fiction, but I'm not even sure about that. Most Scottish publishers will look much more kindly upon 'visceral coming of age novels' from young male writers, which they are happy to label as literary, than they will upon 'emotional coming of age novels' from young female writers which they will all too often dismiss out of hand as a kind of guilty pleasure. What hope then for the experienced female or even male storyteller, creating a well written, well researched, popular novel, possibly with a Scottish setting, of the kind that so many woman, and some men too, so desperately want to read?
Is there no woman or man out there, who would be prepared to set up a Scottish based publishing house, dealing in good, popular fiction, historical or contemporary, that is neither visceral, nor provocative, nor overly dark but unashamedly popular, and with an emotional depths. Come to think of it, whenever I see something described as 'provocative', I know with a fair amount of certainty that the only thing it is going to provoke is boredom, and a desperate desire to open a bottle of wine, but adolescent shock tactics do tend to pall after a while. Film gets it right lots of the time, and the companies seem to have no trouble marketing the movies either.
As another hugely talented Scottish writer remarked recently, were Robert Louis Stevenson around today, his novels would almost certainly be rejected out of hand by every single contemporary Scottish publisher. And she's absolutely right. Kidnapped? Treasure Island? Way too popular - wouldn't suit their image. Catriona? But isn't it the story of love triumphing over politices and doesn't it feature an astonishingly sexy reference to stockings? Whooo, can't possibly publish the genre that dare not speak its name. (romance) The same goes for a number of other Scottish writers. Grassic Gibbon? Domestic violence in a rural setting. You must be joking. Neil Gunn? Emotion, poetry and mythology? What on earth next? Mrs Oliphant? Middle class ghost stories, difficult to sell in the current market.....
I do wish that some brave soul out there would bite the bullet and start a Scottish imprint that wasn't so deeply, pathologically, cringingly ashamed of its feminine side. Go on. Try it. You have nothing to lose but your prejudices.
Is there no woman or man out there, who would be prepared to set up a Scottish based publishing house, dealing in good, popular fiction, historical or contemporary, that is neither visceral, nor provocative, nor overly dark but unashamedly popular, and with an emotional depths. Come to think of it, whenever I see something described as 'provocative', I know with a fair amount of certainty that the only thing it is going to provoke is boredom, and a desperate desire to open a bottle of wine, but adolescent shock tactics do tend to pall after a while. Film gets it right lots of the time, and the companies seem to have no trouble marketing the movies either.
As another hugely talented Scottish writer remarked recently, were Robert Louis Stevenson around today, his novels would almost certainly be rejected out of hand by every single contemporary Scottish publisher. And she's absolutely right. Kidnapped? Treasure Island? Way too popular - wouldn't suit their image. Catriona? But isn't it the story of love triumphing over politices and doesn't it feature an astonishingly sexy reference to stockings? Whooo, can't possibly publish the genre that dare not speak its name. (romance) The same goes for a number of other Scottish writers. Grassic Gibbon? Domestic violence in a rural setting. You must be joking. Neil Gunn? Emotion, poetry and mythology? What on earth next? Mrs Oliphant? Middle class ghost stories, difficult to sell in the current market.....
I do wish that some brave soul out there would bite the bullet and start a Scottish imprint that wasn't so deeply, pathologically, cringingly ashamed of its feminine side. Go on. Try it. You have nothing to lose but your prejudices.
Saturday Afternoons on Radio 4
What has happened to the Saturday afternoon drama slot on Radio 4? It used to be a haven of entertainment, in a slough of sporting despond. When television was offering a choice between football (sometimes remarkably similar versions of the same game) rugby or - God Help Us - darts, you could always rely on Radio 4 to come up with the equivalent of Midsomer Murders - a good old fashioned detective story, or maybe a romance, an adventure or a ghost story. Sometimes I would listen to it while I was proof reading, or sorting out the miscellaneous boring paperwork that seems to accumulate on my desk all week. Sometimes it would accompany cooking (nice) or cleaning (nasty), especially if we were having visitors. Sometimes it would come with me down the garden - at low volume of course - to help with the weeding. It was almost always a pleasure - a well made, popular drama with a strong cast. Saturdays feel (and for most of us are) different from other days of the week. I am pretty much challenged in one way and another all week long. I'm not looking for a challenge on a saturday afternoon.
But of course, the Beeb is prone to fixing even the unbreakable, never mind the unbroken, and they appear to have fixed the saturday play, good and proper.
The last few weeks have seen an influx of stage plays either badly adapted or worse still, not adapted at all. Just recorded. And I know that pots and kettles spring to mind here, because I have a radio production coming up which is an adaptation of my own stage play. But at least I can write for radio, and know what the medium demands.
Honour, by Joanna Murray Smith, was last week's offering. I've never seen it on the stage, and it could be that it is a completely different animal when the visual qualities, and intimate atmosphere of a theatre are added to the mix. But as a radio play it seemed slow and pretentious. The old middle class guy fell for the young predatory middle class woman and left the nice, creative middle class wife who had sacrificed everything for him. The characters kept repeating each other's lines, ever so slowly, for added effect. It drove me wild with frustration, until, in a classic illustration of what an old radio producer of mine labelled the "shit - click" effect, I switched off and played the Pogues instead. Bring back proper radio. Bring back radio drama written by experienced radio writers. Not just me, either. I've served my time, and while I still love the medium, I'm not actively seeking commissions. But I know that there are lots of damn good radio dramatists out there who are. Down with docu-dramas interspersed with those awful 'expert commentaries' that wrench you kicking and screaming out of your willing suspension of disbelief. And down with theatre plays unless somebody who knows and loves the medium has 'translated' them first. Anything else short changes writer and listener alike.
But of course, the Beeb is prone to fixing even the unbreakable, never mind the unbroken, and they appear to have fixed the saturday play, good and proper.
The last few weeks have seen an influx of stage plays either badly adapted or worse still, not adapted at all. Just recorded. And I know that pots and kettles spring to mind here, because I have a radio production coming up which is an adaptation of my own stage play. But at least I can write for radio, and know what the medium demands.
Honour, by Joanna Murray Smith, was last week's offering. I've never seen it on the stage, and it could be that it is a completely different animal when the visual qualities, and intimate atmosphere of a theatre are added to the mix. But as a radio play it seemed slow and pretentious. The old middle class guy fell for the young predatory middle class woman and left the nice, creative middle class wife who had sacrificed everything for him. The characters kept repeating each other's lines, ever so slowly, for added effect. It drove me wild with frustration, until, in a classic illustration of what an old radio producer of mine labelled the "shit - click" effect, I switched off and played the Pogues instead. Bring back proper radio. Bring back radio drama written by experienced radio writers. Not just me, either. I've served my time, and while I still love the medium, I'm not actively seeking commissions. But I know that there are lots of damn good radio dramatists out there who are. Down with docu-dramas interspersed with those awful 'expert commentaries' that wrench you kicking and screaming out of your willing suspension of disbelief. And down with theatre plays unless somebody who knows and loves the medium has 'translated' them first. Anything else short changes writer and listener alike.
Long Absence, Apologies.
No, I hadn't decided to end it all, after my last little contretemps with my publisher. I soldier on to write another day. We have been renovating our kitchen - a hideous job, but the last big task in our year long attempt to improve our old cottage. You can read about it elsewhere, on my Scottish Home blog if you like. We thought we had almost finished, but today we had a flood. The plumbers seem to have managed to allow the rinsing water from the washing machine to overflow into the dishwasher. There is only so much space in a dishwasher so you can imagine the results. But of course this is meant to be a blog about writing. And oddly enough, I have managed to do some writing, while all this has been going on!
I'm researching a new play, called The Physic Garden, of which more, much more, in due course. I've spent a few interesting weeks revising a novel set in Poland, called The Sorrel Mare, also of which more in due course. I've been diligently working away at what is meant to be my 'work in progress' - a new novel, called The Fifth Mary. And I have been putting together a proposal for a non fiction book, called Needle and Loom. I don't think it's uncommon for writers to have many different projects on the go - that way when one isn't going well, you can take refuge with another. But for the moment, I have decided to shelve the Corncrake. So if you read the two chapters on here, I'm afraid you'll just have to wait until somebody out there decides that I am a good commercial proposition. Then, suddenly, everything will be available. Here's hoping.
All of which probably helps to explain why I haven't been blogging. But I'll be keeping a kind of a diary on all the above projects, and what happens to them over the next few months. Keep reading.
I'm researching a new play, called The Physic Garden, of which more, much more, in due course. I've spent a few interesting weeks revising a novel set in Poland, called The Sorrel Mare, also of which more in due course. I've been diligently working away at what is meant to be my 'work in progress' - a new novel, called The Fifth Mary. And I have been putting together a proposal for a non fiction book, called Needle and Loom. I don't think it's uncommon for writers to have many different projects on the go - that way when one isn't going well, you can take refuge with another. But for the moment, I have decided to shelve the Corncrake. So if you read the two chapters on here, I'm afraid you'll just have to wait until somebody out there decides that I am a good commercial proposition. Then, suddenly, everything will be available. Here's hoping.
All of which probably helps to explain why I haven't been blogging. But I'll be keeping a kind of a diary on all the above projects, and what happens to them over the next few months. Keep reading.
The Not So Rave Rejection.
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!
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.
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