28 December 2013

Revisiting old stories can be very strange. I’m reworking a couple of old stories for upcoming competitions, and they seem to be fitting very well. The startling thing is that I’m only now really discovering what the stories are about. Not what happens in them, not the plot – that hasn’t changed, not really – but what the actual theme is, what the story means, potentially, to anyone who reads them. And these stories are both about a year old.

In the case of one of them, it’s been a very pleasing revelation, because I was always aware that I didn’t actually know what the story was about. I mean, it was a good story, it pottered along from beginning to end, it got the job done. And it got good feedback; people seemed to like it. But me (and, crucially, my inner editor)? I wasn’t quite satisfied. Obviously, I was being a bit more harsh on it than many of my readers were, but I tended to be left with a sense of ‘yes, very nice, but so what? What’s changed?’

Actually, lots of things had changed in what was a relatively short story (under 2,000 words), but I wasn’t convinced that my characters had learned all that much, that they themselves had been altered by events. And I wasn’t quite sure how to solve it. In the end (or at least, the original end), I decided to use my lack of certainty as a writer as a plot point: the characters themselves voiced a lack of certainty about how things were going to turn out. Now, if that sounds to you like something of a cop-out, I’d be the first to agree with you. But it seemed that most of my audience were perfectly happy by my cheat, finding it pleasingly ambiguous. Of course, sometimes the writer should shut up and quit while they’re ahead, but I was never quite satisfied. Then this competition turned up which appeared to be tailor made (with a couple of alterations) for this story, and I knew that I needed to make the ending neater. I just didn’t quite know how.

I’ve argued before (here, probably) that whenever I’ve had a problem that I couldn’t solve in my writing (or directing, or indeed in most any type of story telling), that I have already written the solution in an earlier part of the story: that plot point B has to happen, because I’ve already written plot point A, and they beautifully support each other. Such a shonky mantra, and yet it’s never let me down. I thought I might fail on this one, however. I had no idea how the two central characters could resolve their issues. There was too much difficulty to overcome, and roughly 80 words to do it in. And, it seemed, nothing that I’d already written in the first thousand words was giving me an exit plan.

And then I spotted it. I had the reveal: and I’d hidden it in the God-damned title. In the title. As if I’d always planned it that way, and that I’d named the story after I’d worked out the resolve. And while the rest of the story didn’t exactly write itself (I had to get involved a bit), it further strengthened my belief that a lot of stories are not so much created, as discovered, buried things that already exist, waiting for us to use the correct tools.  

Monday 29th April 2013

When do you throw in the towel, and realise that the story you're working on isn't actually any good? I'm in the middle of a couple of tweaks on a short story that's due a deadline to tomorrow. Any tweaking is purely cosmetic now, just a tightening up here and there. At this stage, I don't want to do too much of a rewrite, because the story itself is pretty much written. Completed. Finished. As well it should be. I've sent it off to two other competitions already.

Basically, the not so hidden punchline to that paragraph is that, not only have I posted the story to two previous competitions, I've also had it rejected twice, too. It hasn't even made the long list. I just got the last rejection a couple of days ago, meaning that it's perfect timing to release it from statis and get it out there one more time. Now, I'm a reasonably paranoid and self deprecating kind of chap. Hell, I'm also a unreasonably paranoid and self deprecating kind of chap. Any lack of praise for my work will cause me to tense up, convinced that whatever it is that I'm working on isn't worth any kind of comment whatsoever, and people are all too willing to change the subject before being forced into a situation where they have to concede that whatever thing it is that's under discussion is just disappointing, whether it be a short story, a play, or maybe even sexual congress. Maybe that that middle one. Whatever. Obviously, being like many other creative types, these paranoid feelings remain in check even when people say flattering things. Maybe they even get heightened, because we're hard wired, most of us, not to really take on compliments, not without a great deal of effort and self coaching. Many famous actors refer wryly to the recurring dream that one day they're going to get 'found out' as someone with no talent. Why should it be any different for a creative type who hasn't even had a career yet?

Look, I know how a lot of short story competitions work. I've heard the horror stories about, uh, the stories. The unpalatable truth is that the people judging these things have to wade through a remarkable amount of dreck, of stuff that is at best unoriginal, and at worst, seemingly unfinished. And a lot of the time, judges are forced to wonder to themselves 'does this writer know? Do they actually think they're good?' Presumably they do. Here's the thing: I actually like this twice rejected story. It's not any great and powerful change of events, but it is a sweet moment. A passing kiss, if you like. So I have no problem with sending it off one more time. To see what happens. I keep in my mind all those popular tales of the authors who had their most famous story rejected thirty or forty times before finally getting accepted. Sometimes, it really is just a numbers game.

(while writing this blog, I came across a flyer for the very short story competition I'm about to enter. I've decided to take this as a good omen. On the other hand, while writing the last paragraph, I spotted someone pushing a ten foot wicker man down a Brighton high street. I'm being serious. I haven't yet decided what sort of omen that is. Probably best not to think about it too much)

Tuesday 26th March 2013

Another rehearsal for Three Kinds Of Me last night, the first of two plays I'm directing at the Brighton Festival Fringe. Although an earlier version was performed at the New Venture Theatre in October, this is a slightly different beast, adapted for the fringe, which means that we're still at the stage of tweaks and re-writes, discovering what it's all about, Alfie (it's not about Alfie. That was a needlessly confusing diversion). This, I imagine, is to be expected when you have a writer directing a writer in her own script. Certainly, I have to be very mindful that any suggestions or revisions I offer are done so from the mindset of a director, not a frustrated writer (even if it's actually a frustrated writer that's come up with the idea for the revision). I find it endlessly curious how the meaning of a story can change over time, even if you don't actually change the words. A single story can mean something completely different to people depending on when they see it - ie, what year or decade - and what they themselves bring to the story: if they've recently become a parent, or come out of a relationship. The final writer is the audience. I think that's already been said elsewhere before. Probably by somebody able to write the idea significantly more elegantly.

It reminds me of a story that John Cleese used to tell, about the first time the Parrot Sketch from Monty Python aired. The morning after, Cleese was stopped in the street by an admiring fan who told him how funny the sketch was before turning serious and conspiractal: 'So,' the man said. 'It was about the Vietnam War, wasn't it?'

I'm finding meanings in stories a particular challenge at the moment. This week, I have four deadlines for short story competitions all jostling for position. They're all pretty much on the last draft stage because I have been working on them before I had any inclination that I would be entering them for competitions. There is one in particular which I am rather afraid that I'm going to have to rip apart and start all over again, simply because I have no idea what it's actually about. I mean, it makes sense, and has a plot, and events happen one after the other in an attractive fashion, and it's a perfectly pleasant read, but I'm not entirely sure what the point is. I'm cheerfully confident that there are plenty of stories, books and films that have no real rhyme or reason and are nonetheless entirely successful. But I can't help thinking that this story needs a bit of bones under the meat, that it needs to be about something other than simply just the plot. Or maybe I should just bite the bullet, and post the bloody thing off before deadline. If I think it's good enough.

All of a sudden, I have two Ghostwalks this week, which depart from the same place and same time as usual - 7.30, outside the Druids Head in Brighton. This week, it's on Tuesday (tonight, if you read this quick), and Thursday. It's been a bit of a slow season so far, largely to the bitterly cold weather that continues to hang around like the lonely and slightly too sober chap at a party who's still there when all the music has been switched off. Hopefully an improvement in the weather is not too far away now, and anyway, in just a few weeks is the the Fringe.

The other thing I'm doing for the fringe is the entirely improvised show, which is going very well in rehearsals, although we only have one rehearsal this week, which is a bit of a strain. Although it's true that due to the very nature of the show being improvised, there are no lines or moves to learn, it's obviously good to keep the group together as much as possible. Each rehearsal is either adding to the tool kit, or keeping those tools well oiled and sharpened. It's dangerous to let the momentum slip for too long, otherwise everybody runs the risk of getting a bit rusty: a good improv show - short or long form - is all about trust and confidence in everybody else on stage. However, this is the only week that I expect us not to be able to meet regularly. Up until now, it's been like the first fifty seconds of a ride on a roller coaster - that very sharp incline to the highest point when you can hear all the gears working hard to get you to a certain level. After Easter, however: that's when it's full speed ahead.

Nanowrimo: Day One Is Done

A reasonably productive day, and a surprising amount of it wasn't actually concentrating on hitting today's Nanowrimo target. That being said, I'm slightly ahead of schedule, which is somewhat to be expected, as I'm currently in the relaxed mind set of a Person Who Has Had Some Time Off Work. I fully expect my ability to form coherent sentences to reduce quite dramatically from next week onwards, so the further ahead I can get on my word count now, the better. Speaking of which, there was a moment a few minutes ago when I thought I'd managed to reduce my word count quite dramatically by the simple expedient of just losing everything that I'd written today (over three thousand words), but it turned out that I'd saved it in the wrong folder. It's the sort of mistake that would make you consider pulling the plug on the whole affair right from day 1. 

But, as I say, I didn't spend as much time in front of the computer as perhaps I expected to on Day 1 of nanowrimo. This was mainly because I got to spend some time having coffee and conversation (well, hot chocolate, too) with some very dear friends. Which is not to say that the subject of writing didn't come up. In fact, I found myself at a writing group. I've been meaning to get along to this particular writing group for the best part of the year, but something had always fallen on the same day which meant that I couldn't get along to it. There was one week in the summer that I was finally able to get along, and I turned up half a hour early, armed with pens and paper. Nobody else was there. It took me almost a hour to realise that I'd arrived on the wrong date. You'd think that if I wanted to join a writers group, I would have at least learned the basics. Like reading. 

But finally, tonight, I was able to make a session, and was glad I did. The group, which meets every first Thursday of the month on the third floor of the Waterstones in Brighton are a friendly and supportive bunch, and it seems like an ideal place to kick start new ideas into life. Certainly, I came away with the first draft of a brand new short story that didn't exist in any form whatsoever before this evening. Because that's just what I need this month: yet another story to complete. 

Of course, this month it's all about nanowrimo, and 'Set Up, Punch'. As I've probably mentioned before, it's a lot more grimy pulp fiction than I would normally write, with a great deal more violence and swearing than usually finds its way into my writing (it's only day one, and already two of my characters have met rather nasty deaths). Still, the whole pulp fiction feel seems to suit the hack-it-out  atmosphere of nanowrimo. I figure I've got a couple more days where I can continue to write pretty much free form association. And then I'm going to slam quite hard into a narrative blank wall. But for now: I think I've done as well as I could have hoped. Oh, and got another short story that I wasn't expecting. Nanowrimo might be an unashamed hack job, more about the word count than the actual quality. But there are moments when you are writing, unguarded and unconcernedly for the best part of a hour, when you actually feel like a writer. 

And that, of course, is the whole point. 

The Last 200

I've come out to a coffee shop with the specific intention of finishing  up a short story that I'm working on, since I tend to work a bit better if I've got myself out of the house where there's too much temptation to stay in bed and re-watch box sets of '24' (currently re-working my way through season 4). This is important, because I've got a deadline to meet before Wednesday. The short story that I'm working on - In The Middle Of The Night - I would have been working on anyway, since I'm hoping to put together a collection of short stories on the kindle. My hope was to have them all finished by January 2013, and while that's certainly still possible,  I don't just want to rush and hack them out. After all, no-one knows who the hell I am - it's not like anyone is eagerly awaiting this book. 

The reason, therefore, that this particular story finds itself with a deadline in to days time is because I hope to enter it for a short story competition. The reasoning behind this is three fold. The first is fairly prosaic: if the story actually gets anywhere, then I can assume that it's got a chance of finding a larger audience outside those who feel contractually and emotionally obliged to tell me that they like it. Secondly, of course, if it does really well, it will have some financial reward. And if I can't get flattery, then I'm happy to take the money. Thirdly, of course, if it does really really well - ie, if it is a runner-up or even a winner, then that's obviously something that I can plaster on the promo material for the book.

So, this is why I'm here in the coffee shop. It's a 3,000 word story (not actually that long), and I've completed about 2,800 words. It isn't, as you might have thought, simply a matter of just if providing the missing 200 words. There's still a bit of shifting around in tone and texture, and, at the moment, the resolution to the story just jumps out a bit suddenly, without a great deal of lead-in, so I need to fix that. I think it's probably a relatively easy fix, however, and I'm not overly concerned about it. 

And that's why I'm in this coffee shop. With some ideas and a laptop. But not, as I've only just discovered, without the external hard drive on which I've saved the latest draft of the story. That, I've left back at home (probably on the bed, next to the 24 box set). Which means that I'm not likely to be able to finish the story today. Again, though, I'm not overly concerned, since the deadline isn't til Wednesday, and luckily I've managed to remember to bring out a hard copy of the short story collection. This, luckily enough, chimes in with the way I very often write: printing out a hard copy (or seven) as I go along, and reading it as I would if it was finished, all the while scrawling notes and annotations over the text. There's still something very alluring and persuasive about seeing the words on a page of foolscap. It makes the whole thing a great deal more accessible and - 'real' than just seeing the words on a screen. All of which, I guess, means that even though I don't have the hard drive with me, I don't really have any excuse to stop writing the story today. Which in addition means  I'm really using some delaying tactics in writing this blog. 

Despite the fact that I was paranoid that nobody was going to turn up to my first improv class, there was actually a nice little turn out. Of course, I'll need a few more on a regular basis in order for me to break even after hire costs and everything, but it's a promising start. We played a few short-form improv games, and it was a very decent evening. I'll go on about this a lot, but the main bulk of what I'll be saying is that the improv classes will be held every Sunday at the DukeBox Theatre, at the back of the Iron Duke pub on Waterloo Street, 7.00 - 9.00pm. It's £5 per workshop, and there's loyalty cards available. 

By the way, I'm going to be doing a couple of Ghostwalks this week. Because it's Halloween this week, there's a special late night one (well, at 9.00pm) on the night itself, which is on Wednesday. There's no need to book, and you can just rock up to outside the Druids Head pub (not the Druids pub, which is something else) at 9.00 on Halloween. For those of you who have been saying for the past year that you're definitely going to come one time, this would seem to be a perfect opportunity. Just saying. 

Half Way Mark

Lovely rehearsal for Three Kinds Of Me tonight, which, as I was saying earlier, is just a month away. It's in very good shape. Tonight, we ran through the first half of the play, which is roughly forty minutes. I think once we get the tone and pace right, mess around a bit with sound fx and music, it will probably still come in around the forty mark. Already it's pacy enough to feel quicker.

We had a small audience in tonight, made up of our technical crew, which definitely helps with things like tone, and with blocking (we're performing it to three sides, and not just because of the title of the play). As a director, you can often become overwhelmed by the whole business of problem solving, and trying to get the whole thing to make sense. In that regard, I have every chance of becoming something of a control freak, but it's absolutely vital to have a fresh pair of eyes on the thing that you could possibly be becoming overly familiar with. It also gives you the elbow room and strength of mind not to be too concerned if there's a couple of scenes that you haven't quite solved yet. There was a sequence tonight that I was somewhat concerned about, but after being able to talk about it out loud for less than thirty seconds, we were able to spot that the solution was easy, accessible, and actually added another layer to the play. I love it when that happens.

There's not another rehearsal for Three Kinds now until Sunday, although the New Venture Theatre are having their AGM on Saturday, which is followed by a Social, a chance to meet members new and old (or just ageing). It promises to be a good night, which somewhat surprisingly, I'll be free for.

In other news, I have other news. About a new series of Improv Classes starting up next month, but I'll talk about that in the next blog, as well as the series of short stories that, contrary to every expectation I had, I appear to have a very good chance of actually finishing ...