There is no roadmap for writers. There’s no arrow saying “You are here”, with a lot of other signs pointing to other places you may or may not want to go. You can only look back at where others have been and learn. Then you must go into the unknown, the places marked on the map “Here there be dragons”. This is the only way to progress in your journey, because to stay on the well-trodden path is merely to revisit what has already been done. Exploration will find your unique voice.
There is no right way to write. Read: novels and screenplays; learn from others, see what they did and then find your own voice.
The books will tell you about structure, about beat, about subtext: all very necessary particularly the last one if you write screenplays. But don’t let them take over your own ability to tell a story. There are only three real cardinal rules. Every story must have a beginning, a middle and an end. You must engage your audience immediately, keep them engaged throughout, and then finish off with a bang, or at least give them an ending that leaves them guessing. But whichever way you do it, there’s got to be a “wow” factor. Your reader or cinema viewer has got to put down your book or walk out of the darkened theatre thinking they’ve had their money’s worth and are going to tell someone else about it.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Thursday, March 20, 2008
I am a writer
I am a writer because…
I am a writer. I have self-published six books and have two more with an agent. These two have Big House names written all over them.
I am a writer. I have received both kudos and criticism. I like the kudos more.
I am a writer. If you don’t enjoy my words, that only means that you don’t enjoy my words. Nobody made you Literary Critic God.
I am a writer. The fact that I earn my living from a day job subtracts nothing from this fact.
I am a writer. My heart goes pitty-pat at the sight of new editions of Writer’s Market and Roget’s Thesaurus.
I am a writer. When my computer goes pffft, or the electricity fails, I resent the loss of my word processor more than I care about the Internet access or television.
I am a writer. I cannot imagine not writing.
AND - I am the last boss I’ll ever have. Of course that doesn’t take into account my agent, my editor, my publisher and the people who read my books, who all think I work for them. Actually, it’s the other way round. In their own way each of them works for me.
I am a writer. I have self-published six books and have two more with an agent. These two have Big House names written all over them.
I am a writer. I have received both kudos and criticism. I like the kudos more.
I am a writer. If you don’t enjoy my words, that only means that you don’t enjoy my words. Nobody made you Literary Critic God.
I am a writer. The fact that I earn my living from a day job subtracts nothing from this fact.
I am a writer. My heart goes pitty-pat at the sight of new editions of Writer’s Market and Roget’s Thesaurus.
I am a writer. When my computer goes pffft, or the electricity fails, I resent the loss of my word processor more than I care about the Internet access or television.
I am a writer. I cannot imagine not writing.
AND - I am the last boss I’ll ever have. Of course that doesn’t take into account my agent, my editor, my publisher and the people who read my books, who all think I work for them. Actually, it’s the other way round. In their own way each of them works for me.
Monday, March 17, 2008
Typewriters
Today’s generation can’t comprehend the aggravation of having to use manual typewriters and eraser fluid. Those were the times when writing was a labour of love, literally.
Imagine pounding out screenplays and novels with two fingers, emptying bottles of eraser fluid. No cut and paste, no insert, no spell-check, no page numbering, no perfectly turned out product from a laser printer. In the pre-computer days writing was about love of writing and perseverance, about producing something that looked like a manuscript dug up after half a century in the ground and handing it to a typist in the hope she, yes she, could read it and produce something an editor wouldn’t chuck in the garbage. If we still had to do that, there’d be a damned site fewer manuscripts and screenplays written, and the ones that were would come from the heart, written in heart’s blood.
Writers today have no idea what it was like before computers and word processors. It was a constant battle; stabbing at a mechanical keyboard, eternally reaching for the whiteout as you stumbled around with two fingers, cursing a wishing you’d had the sense to go to typing school, but remembering that if Hemingway could do why not you. People wrote because they really wanted to and were prepared to put up with the inconveniences. And because there were none of the conveniences we take for granted in word processing, if you changed you mind or wanted to revise a chapter or a page it meant typing the whole damned thing again, or scribbling endless little hieroglyphics in the margins, pasting fragments till the manuscript looked like one of the Dead Sea Scrolls. I tell you, the writing life back in those days was for the dedicated few.
Publishers actually had what were called slush piles and had readers whose job it was to sift through all those unsolicited manuscripts from hopefuls like me just in case the next Steinbeck or Hemmingway was lurking in the dust. Publishers actually encouraged authors: today if you don’t have an agent and send an unsolicited MS, it’ll end up in the shredder.
There’s a saying which probably contains a lot of truth. “Everyone has a book in them, and in 99% of cases that’s exactly where it should stay.” As I said, I blame the computer. Today, anyone can slap together a few of hundred pages and call it a book, and the sad part is it’ll be beautifully presented thanks to those word processors. Look at bookstore shelves: there are hundreds and hundreds of books that will never make a penny, and many are so badly written it’s frightening. But what’s more frightening is why any publisher would want to risk their reputation by turning them out.
Life’s a mystery. Writing is part of life. I just wish sometimes the computer had never been invented and then only those writers who had the passion to write and maybe had something worth reading would make it past the shredder.
Imagine pounding out screenplays and novels with two fingers, emptying bottles of eraser fluid. No cut and paste, no insert, no spell-check, no page numbering, no perfectly turned out product from a laser printer. In the pre-computer days writing was about love of writing and perseverance, about producing something that looked like a manuscript dug up after half a century in the ground and handing it to a typist in the hope she, yes she, could read it and produce something an editor wouldn’t chuck in the garbage. If we still had to do that, there’d be a damned site fewer manuscripts and screenplays written, and the ones that were would come from the heart, written in heart’s blood.
Writers today have no idea what it was like before computers and word processors. It was a constant battle; stabbing at a mechanical keyboard, eternally reaching for the whiteout as you stumbled around with two fingers, cursing a wishing you’d had the sense to go to typing school, but remembering that if Hemingway could do why not you. People wrote because they really wanted to and were prepared to put up with the inconveniences. And because there were none of the conveniences we take for granted in word processing, if you changed you mind or wanted to revise a chapter or a page it meant typing the whole damned thing again, or scribbling endless little hieroglyphics in the margins, pasting fragments till the manuscript looked like one of the Dead Sea Scrolls. I tell you, the writing life back in those days was for the dedicated few.
Publishers actually had what were called slush piles and had readers whose job it was to sift through all those unsolicited manuscripts from hopefuls like me just in case the next Steinbeck or Hemmingway was lurking in the dust. Publishers actually encouraged authors: today if you don’t have an agent and send an unsolicited MS, it’ll end up in the shredder.
There’s a saying which probably contains a lot of truth. “Everyone has a book in them, and in 99% of cases that’s exactly where it should stay.” As I said, I blame the computer. Today, anyone can slap together a few of hundred pages and call it a book, and the sad part is it’ll be beautifully presented thanks to those word processors. Look at bookstore shelves: there are hundreds and hundreds of books that will never make a penny, and many are so badly written it’s frightening. But what’s more frightening is why any publisher would want to risk their reputation by turning them out.
Life’s a mystery. Writing is part of life. I just wish sometimes the computer had never been invented and then only those writers who had the passion to write and maybe had something worth reading would make it past the shredder.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
Introducing Maxim Gunn
This blog being about the Maxim Gunn adventures, and not being a blockhead, I thought I’d give you a chance to read a couple of pages of the first story “Maxim Gunn and the Chaos Project”. So, first the blurb, and then...you never know, you might like it, so read on.
Maxim Gunn, agent extraordinary, takes on one last official mission before resigning from the Organization. Wanda Liszt, arch criminal: dark, beautiful and deadly, has found Sheba’s Necklace, the legendary rope of emeralds that bestows great powers on its possessor. Her plan: Chaos in Africa, after which she, as Great White Queen will pick up the pieces and rule the greatest empire the world has ever seen. Gunn is ambushed by a Mongolian archer, fights a starving jaguar, wrestles a monstrous freak, and pits himself against an albino swordsman in his desperate efforts to thwart her. The explosive climax takes place in the Swiss Alps.
CHAPTER ONE
“I swear,” Maxim Gunn announced, with feeling, “that after the next job I’m going to quit.”
Cynthia Ffoote took a chocolate from the box at her side, unwrapped it carefully and popped it in her mouth before replying indistinctly. “I wish I had a pound for every time you’ve said that.”
Gunn unfolded from his arm chair, and stood by the window, hands in pockets, looking onto the street below. “This time I mean it.”
“So, you mean it. And what would you do?”
Gunn shrugged. “God knows. But look at all those people down there. They lead normal, productive lives. No nasty surprises except at income tax time and hardly anyone ever tries to kill them. They’re perfectly safe and happy.”
“And mostly bored out of their skulls,” Cynthia replied.
“Why should they be?”
“Not much excitement in the average nine to five job, you know.”
“I’ve had enough excitement to last a life time. And who said I’d do something boring?”
Cynthia closed the chocolate box firmly, got up, and went to stand behind him, chin on his shoulder and arms around his waist.
“I can't see you behind a desk. You wouldn’t last five minutes.” She peered into the street and said. “Look at that man down there, the one in the dark suit with a raincoat over his arm. What d’you think he does?”
Gunn followed her gaze and picked out the object in question. “Respectable business man. Happily married. Two kids and a dog, and spends two weeks a year in Benidorm.”
“Yes. Something like that, I suppose. But the sun’s shining, not a cloud in the sky, and he’s carrying a raincoat. That tell you something about him?”
Gunn twisted round and grinned at her. “He doesn’t take chances.”
Cynthia gave him a triumphant smile. “Exactly. You want to be like that?”
“No,” Gunn replied, firmly. “But there are a lot of things in this world that aren’t dull, and I’m still going to quit after the next job. It’s very definitely time to say, ‘Up the Organization.’”
The girl rested her dark blond head against his chest. “I’ve got to admit there are times when I wish you would.” She pulled away and looked up into his eyes. “But I don’t think you will. I don’t think you could. I think you live for the excitement. It’s what makes you what you are, and it’s what you’re good at. Wouldn’t you miss the people you know?”
Gunn kissed her forehead. “You don’t miss people in this kind of life; you just remember them. Anyway, you’ll see. And while we’re on the subject of seeing. Did you...?”
“See the man watching the house? Yes. Who is he?”
Gunn’s eyes widened. “I’ve no idea. But no doubt we’ll find out.” He looked down at her from his six foot two height, blue eyes twinkling. “I wonder why anyone would want to keep an eye on me?”
Cynthia’s face took on an unusually cold expression. “So long as it’s not that woman.”
“Wanda Liszt? Do I detect a hint of jealousy?”
Cynthia put her hand on his arm. “She frightens me, Maxim. She’s ruthless, and so cold; and you know she wants revenge more than anything.”
Gunn laughed, delightedly. “She does add a bit of zest to life, doesn’t she?”
Cynthia shook her head in mild exasperation. “See what I mean? The minute there’s a thought of something happening you’re up and running to meet it head on. You’re hopeless.”
Gunn tried to look offended. “But I haven’t done a thing,” he protested. “And anyway, while there are people like her in the world I’ll...”
“You’ll never quit. And just for that, you can take me to dinner tonight at that new place. I hear it’s very good, and very expensive. Your lies are going to cost you, Maxim Gunn.” She glanced at her watch, and gave a sharp exclamation of annoyance. “Damn. I didn’t realize it was so late. I must fly.”
As she gathered her things, Gunn asked. “What’s the great rush? Something vital, like a hair appointment?”
Cynthia’s look was withering. “If you like, I’ll turn up for dinner in curlers.”
Maxim Gunn, agent extraordinary, takes on one last official mission before resigning from the Organization. Wanda Liszt, arch criminal: dark, beautiful and deadly, has found Sheba’s Necklace, the legendary rope of emeralds that bestows great powers on its possessor. Her plan: Chaos in Africa, after which she, as Great White Queen will pick up the pieces and rule the greatest empire the world has ever seen. Gunn is ambushed by a Mongolian archer, fights a starving jaguar, wrestles a monstrous freak, and pits himself against an albino swordsman in his desperate efforts to thwart her. The explosive climax takes place in the Swiss Alps.
CHAPTER ONE
“I swear,” Maxim Gunn announced, with feeling, “that after the next job I’m going to quit.”
Cynthia Ffoote took a chocolate from the box at her side, unwrapped it carefully and popped it in her mouth before replying indistinctly. “I wish I had a pound for every time you’ve said that.”
Gunn unfolded from his arm chair, and stood by the window, hands in pockets, looking onto the street below. “This time I mean it.”
“So, you mean it. And what would you do?”
Gunn shrugged. “God knows. But look at all those people down there. They lead normal, productive lives. No nasty surprises except at income tax time and hardly anyone ever tries to kill them. They’re perfectly safe and happy.”
“And mostly bored out of their skulls,” Cynthia replied.
“Why should they be?”
“Not much excitement in the average nine to five job, you know.”
“I’ve had enough excitement to last a life time. And who said I’d do something boring?”
Cynthia closed the chocolate box firmly, got up, and went to stand behind him, chin on his shoulder and arms around his waist.
“I can't see you behind a desk. You wouldn’t last five minutes.” She peered into the street and said. “Look at that man down there, the one in the dark suit with a raincoat over his arm. What d’you think he does?”
Gunn followed her gaze and picked out the object in question. “Respectable business man. Happily married. Two kids and a dog, and spends two weeks a year in Benidorm.”
“Yes. Something like that, I suppose. But the sun’s shining, not a cloud in the sky, and he’s carrying a raincoat. That tell you something about him?”
Gunn twisted round and grinned at her. “He doesn’t take chances.”
Cynthia gave him a triumphant smile. “Exactly. You want to be like that?”
“No,” Gunn replied, firmly. “But there are a lot of things in this world that aren’t dull, and I’m still going to quit after the next job. It’s very definitely time to say, ‘Up the Organization.’”
The girl rested her dark blond head against his chest. “I’ve got to admit there are times when I wish you would.” She pulled away and looked up into his eyes. “But I don’t think you will. I don’t think you could. I think you live for the excitement. It’s what makes you what you are, and it’s what you’re good at. Wouldn’t you miss the people you know?”
Gunn kissed her forehead. “You don’t miss people in this kind of life; you just remember them. Anyway, you’ll see. And while we’re on the subject of seeing. Did you...?”
“See the man watching the house? Yes. Who is he?”
Gunn’s eyes widened. “I’ve no idea. But no doubt we’ll find out.” He looked down at her from his six foot two height, blue eyes twinkling. “I wonder why anyone would want to keep an eye on me?”
Cynthia’s face took on an unusually cold expression. “So long as it’s not that woman.”
“Wanda Liszt? Do I detect a hint of jealousy?”
Cynthia put her hand on his arm. “She frightens me, Maxim. She’s ruthless, and so cold; and you know she wants revenge more than anything.”
Gunn laughed, delightedly. “She does add a bit of zest to life, doesn’t she?”
Cynthia shook her head in mild exasperation. “See what I mean? The minute there’s a thought of something happening you’re up and running to meet it head on. You’re hopeless.”
Gunn tried to look offended. “But I haven’t done a thing,” he protested. “And anyway, while there are people like her in the world I’ll...”
“You’ll never quit. And just for that, you can take me to dinner tonight at that new place. I hear it’s very good, and very expensive. Your lies are going to cost you, Maxim Gunn.” She glanced at her watch, and gave a sharp exclamation of annoyance. “Damn. I didn’t realize it was so late. I must fly.”
As she gathered her things, Gunn asked. “What’s the great rush? Something vital, like a hair appointment?”
Cynthia’s look was withering. “If you like, I’ll turn up for dinner in curlers.”
Welcome to the writers life
This is a thing of bits and pieces, of quotations, aphorisms, thoughts and other unconsidered trifles of the writing life. Feel free to comment, add your own thoughts and ideas. Stay away from destructive criticism, bad language and vulgarity: life hands out enough of those and nobody needs them here.
First quote: Dr. Samuel Johnson said, “No man but a blockhead ever wrote, except for money.” It’s a good point. The trouble is that it’s so hard to get anyone to pay you for your efforts. Still, roadblocks never stopped a writer from trying, and Winston Churchill said, “Never give in, never, never, never.” And to that end I’ll direct you straight to my website at http://tauruspub.net/ – which is Taurus Publishing.
Links to Mobipocket.com – this is the easy one because the Reader software is free. Anyway, just search for Maxim Gunn and you'll be able to take a look at the six books available. Who knows, you might even buy one.
The other link is to Amazon.com and so to the Maxim Gunn books. Take your pick, but I recommend Mobipocket – Amazon owns them anyway.
Stay tuned – there will be more.
First quote: Dr. Samuel Johnson said, “No man but a blockhead ever wrote, except for money.” It’s a good point. The trouble is that it’s so hard to get anyone to pay you for your efforts. Still, roadblocks never stopped a writer from trying, and Winston Churchill said, “Never give in, never, never, never.” And to that end I’ll direct you straight to my website at http://tauruspub.net/ – which is Taurus Publishing.
Links to Mobipocket.com – this is the easy one because the Reader software is free. Anyway, just search for Maxim Gunn and you'll be able to take a look at the six books available. Who knows, you might even buy one.
The other link is to Amazon.com and so to the Maxim Gunn books. Take your pick, but I recommend Mobipocket – Amazon owns them anyway.
Stay tuned – there will be more.
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