Losing the plot... Gradually

Ah, yes. I’m still here. Still writing. Yes, that’s it. Writing. Writing as though my life depended on it.
I’ve taken the day off work to write. And tomorrow will be the same – two days of annual leave to get on top of this whole drafting malarkey. With a little luck, by Wednesday I would have completed ten chapters of draft 5, spitting distance from the end which is hurtling towards me at great speed.
Between now and then (then being 24th August) I have a little matter of moving house… (which is chaos I tell you! And the boxes… Oh dear god, the boxes!! Where the hell did they come from!! They’re multiplying!! They’re everywhere! Swarming!)
…And then there's another little matter of being met by the public at the Bakewell Arts Festival on the 7th August (quick plug – here’s the flyer for the event):


So, erm, yes, that’s all at the moment. Just thought I’d keep in touch. Hopefully I’ll see some of you at the Bakewell event, maybe at the meet-the-author thing, or perhaps afterwards when I’ll be staggering about the town with a bottle of Bud in one hand and wearing a really cheery I’m-utterly-and-creatively-shagged-out-expression on my face.

Must dash now. Someone in the flat above has let loose some crickets which have grown to mutant size and are now hopping about our kitchen and making that really irritating chirping sound (the flat feels really Mediterranean at the moment).

4th down…

So ends draft 4 of the new book. An enjoyable draft by all accounts – a draft where I could relax a little knowing the main problems suffered by the 1st draft have been consigned to history (or a little corner of my laptop’s hard-drive). A draft where the mechanics of the prose was the main thing, not the plot. A draft which frustrated me at times, but also surprised me with the strength of my own writing. My two readers-cum-editors (Louise and Lee) so far agree with me the new book is a big improvement over the first; they agree that I’m fast learning my art…

So now to the final stretch, that last draft before Will Atkins at Macmillan New Writing gets to see the new book (still without a firm title as I seesaw between Soldiers of Fire and The Burning Sands of Time). This is the crunch draft, the one which will either see a second published novel, or a dark mourning of the soul to ponder my future and where I go next. What I do in the next few weeks will determine whether I fall foul of the “2nd book” curse or whether, really, the new book is just as good (or possibly better) than The Secret War.

Which is what I’m aiming for. I was never going to just rehash The Secret War, nor cop-out and write a dreary sequel. If anything, the new book is darker, the characters more fragile, battered and bruised.
For there is more at stake. Not just for the characters of the Soldiers of Fire/The Burning Sands of Time…
…But for me too.

How to be shy in public

I don’t enjoy being on a stage. I am naturally a shy person, so when the time comes to stand in front of a large body of strangers I get clammy, nervous and my heart races.

This week I was reminded of my disposition during the regular commute into the city, passing by Sheffield University busy with the undulating masses of students in their graduation robes. It was like “March of the Penguins” all over again…

…I graduated ten years ago, and it was a nervy experience sharing a stage with esteemed professors and Sean Bean (who was receiving an Honorary Degree from Hallam University at the time).
When I mean “share”, I mean having my name called out and having to dash across the stage, pausing briefly to shake the professor’s hand in front of several thousand people, while trying to stop the “mortar-board” from slipping off my head (I swear those things are designed for people with minute skulls). It never occurred to me that everyone else had to suffer the same process; I just didn’t want to be the one who trips over their gown, or whose graduation “hat” falls off and I end up doing a “Charlie Chaplin” – chasing my mortar-board across the stage…

…Ten years on, and I have changed somewhat. I still fear the “Charlie Chaplin” moment, and I still get nervous and sometimes clammy, but something else overtakes this fear: the requirement for self-publicity.

Writers are usually seen as either introverts or extroverts, yet through the media and from the desire of publishers, they have been forced from their garrets into public view. A book without self-publicity is usually a book no-one will read unless the publisher throws untold sums of marketing money at it. Macmillan New Writing is a publisher who cannot afford to throw those said sums the author’s way to get adverts for their new book in magazines, or on bill-boards. So the publisher gets the word out where they can; but more importantly it rests on the writer to provide the personal touch: self-publicity.

When I realised this - breaking that romantic tradition of being largely an anonymous entity and purely a name behind the writing - I got kind of nervous. You see, I don’t mind signing books or talking to strangers individually about my writing – it’s required. I don’t think an author must sign books, but they should. If someone is buying your book - investing their time, money and faith in you, it’s only fair that you should sign a copy if requested. And while it sometimes takes me by surprise, I quite enjoy the quiet attention it affords.

But when it comes to large audiences, that’s a whole other matter. I was nervous the first time I did a radio interview. Nervous even during my book-launch (though admittedly a few beers before-hand blurred the fear and my trepidation as much as it did the view of the 80 or so people listening to me). And I will be nervous when I deliver my talk at the Bakewell Arts festival on the 7th August. But as before, that fear will be overridden by the requirement for self-publicity, almost as though something else just “kicks in”. I go into another state – one that is divorced from me almost, as I speak confidently about my writing, about my book and the whole publishing process.

Yes, I’m naturally shy. But I’m also learning. Learning to put on a public face, trying not to let the attention get to me, while at the same time enjoying and being grateful when it happens.

In the end, for good or bad, it’s all part of being published in the 21st century.

I’m 10,000

You know, the power of “hits” is a curious thing.
Makes one man weep, makes another man sing…

Sorry. Didn’t intend to start this blog entry like a Huey Lewis song. Honest.
It’s just that I’m quite delighted to have hit 10,000 visits. It’s a milestone in blogging, like the 1 yr anniversary, or the first 1,000 hit-mark. And it’s more palatable than working out how many thousands of words have been spent keeping the blog up to date (especially to a novelist, who should really be expending those 80,000 words on his latest magnum opus).

But ultimately blogging isn’t about the hits. If I’d only achieved half as many, I suppose I wouldn’t have been that bothered. You see, if you break hits down, there must be a percentage of random “hitting” due to accidents with the mouse button, or arbitrary Googling that have brought people to this blog.

For example, the Sheffield floods had brought a few Googlers hoping to get the low down on the state of the city. As did the blog entry on Scott Matthews, and Nik Markovina. They weren’t designed to attract unusual visitors, it’s just that these things were relevant to me at that point.
Hopefully those who have wandered here by accident have stayed a while and thought the journey wasn’t a complete waste of time. And if that has happened, then I have done my job. If that’s happened, the hits don’t matter because I’ve brought people in – if only briefly – into this barmy little world of mine.

So 10,000 hits, on… Sorry 10,000 and 4… and this blog rolls towards it’s end date, sometime at the close of August, when the new blog kicks in. I haven’t done any extra work on the “Macmillan New Writers” project recently - other things have taken over - but it’s in the post.
I’m at the point where I can load on the thumbnails of the books, including a little box at the top entitled “This month’s novelist” – and before anyone asks, no it will not feature the Macmillan New Writers in nude poses with nothing but their books to hide their blushes, no matter how much you protest.

“That would be Mr Curran’s head exploding…”

Ever seen that film Scanners? That deliciously gory movie by David Cronenberg about pyrotechnic telepaths? There’s a wonderful scene at the beginning where some poor bugger’s head simply blows apart – and I was watching this yesterday thinking “mmm, I feel like that…”

This ill-advised empathy could be down to the unwarranted hangover from the night before (where my pals and I sat in glorious sunshine with 2000 other Sheffield-ers in the Botanical gardens, supping wine and listening to jazz), but more probable it came from the belief that responsibilities are towering over me like some “Wagnerian” mountain of chaos.

On the horizon is my first public appearance since being on the radio way back in May. I’ll be giving a talk at the Bakewell Arts Festival on 7th August, 7:45pm (click here) – and there’ll be a heavy emphasis on the whole Macmillan New Writing experience i.e. the process of being published and the advantages of MNW over the agent/publisher system. I’ll be questioned on The Secret War, and I might even do a reading from Soldiers of Fire, though we’ll have to see how “finished” the book is at that point. I’ll also be signing copies of The Secret War, so as one person asked me recently, if you really want “a signed copy to sell on e-bay for 50 quid”, you should come along.
Anyway, the event is taking some time to set up – I’m producing some publicity gumph for the event (I don’t have to, but I enjoy doing that sort of thing). The format of the evening will be an informal interview, followed by an audience Q&A and then the signing. It should be great fun, so if you’re around during the 7th, pop in (it’s free admission, you know, and is followed by a BAF unplugged session…)

The second thing on the horizon is a little bit more chaotic and labour intensive. We’re moving house, and fuck me, do we have a lot of crap to shift…
I’ve never realised how many books and DVDs I have until now. The boxes are just mounting and mounting and mounting. I’ve filled an entire room with boxes, which I can’t understand. I mean, if the room is now filled with books and DVDs to the point you can’t see the floor, where the hell were they stored in the first place? It’s like some strange world where books and DVDs just self-populate. Either that or someone is breaking into our flat periodically to give us their own books and films. Maybe they think we’re Oxfam or something.
This apart, we’re now faced with that horrible few weeks of packing and organising, and cleaning – because we’re renting, and when you rent you clean the place after you (or you lose your bond). If I once believed I had spare time in the evenings, I don’t now…

…But like the Bakewell Arts talk, I’m not complaining really. The place we’re moving to is amazing. A house on the side of a hill looking out across the Peak District. Once we’re in, I’ll have to post a photo of the view – it’s idyllic. And it will be a perfect place to write The Isles of Sheffield in November.

So apart from the upheaval – and apart from a day-job which is becoming increasingly demanding as well – there’s also the minor matter of completing Soldiers of Fire by 24th August.

Yeah right, a minor matter.

Sheesh. Okay, well this is a message to all friends and family: “for the next few weeks I don’t exist. Matt Curran has left the building. You might find him buried under removals boxes, drafts of manuscripts, or running into the hills giggling insanely.”

“Either that, or my head will explode.”

Diversionary Tactics and Lightening Strikes

I haven’t written a word in nine days. Count ‘em… Go on, I dare you… Nine whole days from last Friday to now. Ten if you’re being picky. But really nine. I’ve been on holiday, see. I thought I needed a break – just a few days – but a break sure enough.
I’ve been to Bournemouth – a town which puts the “seaside” back into beach-holidays, for a bit of sand, sea and torrential rain. Yes, it pissed it down, but it was sunny enough to get a tan, and Sarah and I spent lazy days roving the great beach by the pier, chatting, drinking ice-cold beers and generally relaxing. I was even allowed to indulge in my obsession of “who’s stocking my book” in probably the best bookshop in the UK: Borders of Bournemouth.
This bookshop, to my mind, beats any of the sellers in London, and in Yorkshire there is no equal. So what if it’s from a chain of bookshops - this one’s fantabulous. The Sci-Fi/Fantasy section is the most extensive I’ve seen, and if it weren’t for Sarah dragging me away, I would have spent hours perusing before settling to buy two US imported fiction magazines that I find difficult locating up here in Sheffield (Analog and The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction).
For me, a holiday isn’t a holiday without some kind of imaginative anthology to dip into during the infrequent bouts of sunshine.

Borders of Bournemouth also happened to stock several copies of The Secret War. Depending on whether you’re a half-empty/half-full person, seeing several copies of your book on the shelves can inspire conflicting emotions. Either that feeling of joy that a bookshop would order in so many copies and that someone might/could/will buy one; or the opposite where you might think “why are there so many copies left? Doesn’t it appeal to anyone?”. I’m more of the former, with a leaning to the latter. But really I was just chuffed to see The Secret War sat on the shelves.

I’m always chuffed to see it sat on the shelves.
I’m sad like that.

That apart, the other thing of note from our trip down south, was that Sarah and I survived. I say that not in an overly dramatic way, but in a “we-were-struck-by-lightening” way. And I’m not being metaphorical either. We were actually hit by a lightening-bolt while walking around Christchurch. Not the first time, I might add. We got the tail-end of a bolt in Katoomba, Australia, several years back. But this was a little closer – straight down our umbrella.

Good job I wear rubber soles.

So now I’m back. Alive and unfettered, and eager. Back at the word processor, back writing this blog before I embark on editing chores – chapters 10 and 11. I’ll be quick to avoid torrential downpours between now and the end of August when I at last turn-in the final draft of the new book, which also has a new title by the way: Soldiers of Fire.
After debating the whole title thing again with friends, this was the one that everyone seemed to like, echoed by Brian McGilloway in a recent e-mail. Soldiers of Fire pretty much matches the whole mood of the sequel, and like “The Secret War” is a no-nonsense moniker and is sure to remain where others have fallen due to suspected pretensions or downright cheesiness.

Unless I get struck down by lightening, that is.

Which might happen…

…Again.



Coming soon: a less rambling blog entry. Honest.