Just finish me off already

It’s no secret that, in writing a novel, as in most things, starting is a lot easier than finishing.  Being in the middle of writing a novel is easier than finishing it.  Hell, all of it is easier than what I’m doing right now: finishing it.  I’ve been finishing this book for a long, long time now.  You may have noticed.  I’ve tried to blame the length of this last part of the process on a lot of things: not having enough time to write here in frantic London; fussing with the genre; being distracted by other projects; being distracted in general.  Truthfully, getting this manuscript into shape has been like a war.  I don’t know if other writers have a hard time finishing their work.  Some must. 

One of the challenges with writing as opposed to other art forms, painting or performance for example, is the temptation to work on one piece of writing your whole life, just making it endlessly better and better.  How long did Flaubert take to write Madame Bovary, 40 years?  There has to be a point where the writer says, “This is it, this is good enough, I’m done with it.”  I can’t remember who first said this, but the quote goes, “No work of art is ever finished, only abandoned.”

The one novel I’ve finished took a long time.  At one point, I thought I was finished, and after a few days of drunken exultation I read this “finished” product and realized with a weariness like Frodo carrying the weight of the ring to Mordor that I wasn’t done yet, and that there was still so much more work to do before the end.  I put that manuscript away for a few years–I was too miserable even to look at it–and when I decided to work on it again, I found I had really changed as a person, and I wouldn’t have written that same kind of novel anymore.  It was more excrutiating at that point to have the novel just sitting there unfinished than to get back into it, so I worked on it for a month, and got to the end.  You’d think I would have learned from that whole experience.

I’m not sure I want to admit this, but I’ve been working on the opening paragraph, opening page, opening chapter of this new book for months now.  It’s like I have a speech impediment and I can’t get past the first stuttering start of one simple sentence.  I think I’ve written about twenty different versions.  The beginning of a book is so important, especially when it has to catch the attention of an agent and/or publisher, but really, while I’m stuck trying to solve the first few sentences it’s belatedly dawning on me that I can’t actually submit to anyone just one paragraph, no matter how perfect it is.

If you’re still reading this post you’re probably saying to yourself, “This dude can’t finish his book–he can’t finish a blog post either!”  True, true. 

Here’s a link to Joe Abercrombie’s blog, where he’s reprinted a recent interview which I found pretty interesting: http://www.joeabercrombie.com/news.htm.  I have to say that the second book in his trilogy is good, but not really as good as the first one.  I haven’t read the last book yet, but I will.  A lot is being made of Abercrombie bucking the conventions of the fantasy genre because his characters are rough around the edges.  I hate to say it but Stephen Donaldson has already been there.  Still, I really do like Joe Abercrombie’s books so far, they’re a lot of fun.

OK, back to work for me.  Let’s see if I can make that dodgy first paragraph better than ever!

Good article on Fantasy

I’ve just started reading the omnibus edition of Mark Chadbourn’s trilogy, Age of Misrule, and coincidentally, he’s just written an excellent article about fantasy literature for the Telegraph.  Here’s a link to the article: http://www.telegraph.co.uk/arts/main.jhtml?xml=/arts/2008/04/12/bochadbourn.xml&page=1.  It’s a pretty good summary of the way I look at fantasy, so it’s nice to see that reflected in someone else’s manifesto of the genre.  I’m about 100 pages into Age of Misrule and I am completely addicted!  I am going to go read it right now!

One of the key things to note in Chadbourn’s article is his assertion that Fantasy is now the biggest genre in publishing!  I think he’s right–if you look at the number of books coming out every year, fantasy novels make up a pretty sizeable portion, especially here in the UK where the genre has a higher profile than in the US or Canada.  Something Chadbourn doesn’t mention is that part of the genre’s new popularity has to do with those Lord of the Rings movies, I think, anyway.  The success of the movies really created a hunger in the public for more fantasy stories.

Another reason is simply the quality of new writers in the field: some of the best books I’ve read recently have been fantasy novels.  The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters by G W Dahlquist; Joe Abercrombie’s First Law trilogy; Scott Lynch’s Lies of Locke Lamora; Daniel Abraham’s incredible Long Price series–these are some great, great books.  The fantasy genre may be more popular than ever because we all want to feel a deeper connection to myth, etc., but when you get right down to it, people may just be reading a lot of fantasy now because, well, it’s good stuff!

Zippedy Doo Dah

Hey there.  Well it’s all peachy in London.  Hard to be in a bad mood, even in the London rain, after a gorgeous week spent in Italy.  I’m too lazy to put up pictures of the trip, but it was pretty nice I have to say.  We stayed for the most part in a third-floor apartment in Cortona, a medieval-era town on the side of a mountain: our window had a view across what must have been a hundred kilometres of Tuscan countryside.  Just stunning.  I recommend Cortona to everyone.  Beautiful place.

Wandering around Tuscan villages; viewing great works of art in Florence; standing in the Colosseum in Rome–there’s nothing like travelling to amazing places to make you grateful for the opportunity to be alive, and to garner some inspiration for writing. 

The Year of the Book turns toward summer; the Book itself lies somewhere between my notebooks, the laptop, and my brain.  The world is alive with Possibility.

SFX.com has just published an interview with the agent I have targeted as the first recipient of the manuscript, when it’s ready.  Here’s a link to the interview: http://www.sfx.co.uk/page/sfx?entry=literary_agent_interview_simon_kavanagh.  When will the manuscript be ready?  Whenever I damn well feel like it.  Soon, soon.

Agony of the Deadline of the Self

Alright, so I’m not going to make that stupid deadline I set up for myself last week.  Please hurl your nasty comments like rotten vegetables upon me.  On the plus side of life, Sarah and I will be in Italy in a few days, and I will be sipping cappucinos in piazzas across Tuscany (well, in Florence and Siena, for starters).  Take that, Deadline!

In all honesty the ridiculous deadline experiment was a positive thing: I stayed up a few nights this week writing feverishly, hopelessly determined to send things away on Friday.  I think I’ve done more writing this last week than I’ve managed in the last few months.  There’s nothing wrong with that.

However, most of the writing I’ve done recently is on something other than the big Book.  I know, I know.  When Sarah reads this she will freakin’ punch me in the face!  What can I say?  I’ve been sidetracked, and I can’t say I’m unhappy about it.  One of the many, many ideas that I’ve been kicking around for decades has recently been very much in the front of my writer’s brain.  It’s refreshing to work on something other than the Book.  And I can’t help but look at the partially-finished and ragged-in-places manuscript of the Book and think: this isn’t great yet.  It’s not.  It’s just not great yet.  I don’t know what it is about writing fantasy.  There are so many cliches to avoid and well-worn paths not to take.  I am being very, very careful and meticulous about the end product.  It is just that important to me not to write some piece of shit wizards and warriors story where you can hear the roll of D&D dice behind every plot-twist.  So… the Book needs more work.  More work!  Eventually, I’m confident the Book will emerge and it will be good (that sounds like it will realize itself on its power, wouldn’t that be nice).  Of course, in the here and now, in the Year of the Book, it is something of a setback for me to look at the manuscript with clear eyes and say to myself, not great, not great.

So I’m off to Tuscany.  Screw you, writing career, I’m going to go enjoy myself.  I will have pictures and adventure stories (featuring wizards and warriors) when I get back.

Ciao.

Deadline of the Self

That title doesn’t make sense, but it sounds impressively ominous.  What I’m talking about is a Deadline.  For the Book.  I’m slogging away at it, and the first three chapters are nearly ready to send away to my Literary Agent of choice in London (that’s the Mic Cheetham Agency, check it out at http://www.miccheetham.com/; I will be proud to be rejected by the Agency that represents China Mieville and Iain Banks) but I think I need a bit of incentive to get me going.  Public shame if I don’t finish is a great idea.  Shame and humiliation are always excellent motivational tools.

So–my deadline will be Friday, April 4.  If I don’t have the first three chapters sent off to the Agency by then, please write in your humiliating comments.  I will probably delete them, but send them in anyway so that I have to look at them.  If the comments are imaginative and really horrible, I may well post them.  If I actually do finish the first three chapters and get them sent off, then: send in your humiliating comments!  It’s up to you really, you could send encouraging comments as well if you like.  Yeah, like you’d do that, you crazy person.

Why would I tell Princess Anne that I’m a writer?

I currently work for the Royal College of Anaesthetists, office stuff, nothing special–but one of the surprise benefits of this job has been an invitation to a royal dinner for the anniversary of the College, which took place at St James Palace in London last week. 

For some reason I’m not sure I fathom, I was selected as one of the staff allowed to meet Princess Anne, the Queen’s daughter.  So Sarah and I dressed in our best–I rented a tuxedo–and arrived at St James Palace (we took the tube, but a horse and carriage would have been more appropriate) where we were ushered into the Picture Room to await the royal personage.  We found ourselves drinking glass after glass of really amazing champagne while standing underneath a massive oil portrait of Cardinal Richilieu, who looked down at the drinks reception with an expression of calculation and contempt.

Then Princess Anne appeared.  It is strange that I’ve been writing these past few weeks about Queens and Princesses, though the ones I’m thinking of are young and beautiful and rule in an imaginary world.  I have to say, though, that Her Royal Highness Anne, the Princess Royal, did have a certain commanding presence about her; and she was one sharp lady, too, fully engaged and not sleepwalking at all through what must be really boring royal duties.  Upon meeting Sarah and me, she fixed me with a shrewd look and said something like, “And what stage of your career are you at?”  I had been told that she may or may not ask a question; to be honest I was expecting to be asked about being Canadian, so I was a little unprepared to talk to her about my career.  My career?  Well I launched into some disjointed soliloquy about writing a novel and working full-time at the College to pay the bills, etc.  Apparently it went over alright, because our conversation continued and no security guards pounced on me for being an idiot.   She then asked where it was I called home, and I said Canada, and she asked where in Canada, and I said Edmonton in Alberta, and she said that many English enjoy visiting Canada, and I said not when it’s -40 there for months on end.  Yes, I basically betrayed Canada by resorting to the only fact anyone knows about our country: it’s cold there.  I could have said our soldiers are the only ones tough enough to patrol the worst areas of Afghanistan; I could have said we count as our own some of the best living novelists in the world and I hope to be one; I could have said that Jasper is one of the most beautiful places in the world and I’ve hiked many of its trails–instead I basically said to Princess Anne that winter is cold.

Overall the experience was surreal and exhilarating, a once-in-a-lifetime kind of thing.  The rooms we dined in were designed by Christopher Wren and last decorated sometime in the 1800s.  Gold-framed mirrors on the walls reflected the light from gold-gilt chandeliers and silver candelabra on the tables.  White-gloved waiters rushed to refill every empty glass of wine.  Many times throughout the dinner I looked up from my plate of perfect roast beef with a minor shock of dislocation, shaking my head and thinking helplessly, Where the Hell am I again and Why am I here?

There are pictures that were taken of the event but apparently we’re not aloud to share them with the public.  Normally I would just put them up here anyway, but I don’t want any home office secret agents showing up at my door and deporting me from the UK for antisocial acts that offend the royal family’s honour. 

Run for Cover Letter

So I’m working on my cover letter to send out to literary agents and publishing houses along with the manuscript of A War of One (still working on the manuscript, though; I’ll be sending out the first three chapters of the book and they have to be absolutely flawless: gleaming, sparkling, shining diamonds disguised as chapters of a book).  I thought I’d put an early draft of this letter here on the blog; see what you think.

“Attention: Literary Agent or Publisher,

Dear Person who Holds Absolute Power over Me and my Future,

Hey there, you good looking person, you.  Having a good day?  No-one really understands the difficulties and hardships of being a Literary Agent and/or Publisher, do they?  I’ve enclosed a Cuban cigar and/or box of Belgian chocolates just for you, so that you can take a break from your troubles and just relax for a moment or two.  By the way, I wrote a book.  I’m not asking for too much, just that you read a bit of it, I mean it’s no big deal that I’ve spent about three Goddamned years writing these few words–no, no, I’m not complaining, and I’m not completely alarmed and dismayed that all of the work I’ve done comes down to you being in a good mood or not while you read the first sentence of my manuscript and then decide on the fate of all of my hopes and dreams.  Oh, I forgot to mention: if you’re a Receptionist or an Assistant and you’re reading this, my phone number is 0746579789, I will give you £50.00 if you give this envelope to your boss, really I’ll do pretty much anything you want, I’m not even joking.  Now let me continue: Mr. or Ms. Agent/Publisher, please God please consider my book.  If I could be there in person to give you a massage, I would be, but not a creepy massage, more like what you’d get if we were both on ecstasy in a nightclub–and we could go to a nightclub and take ecstasy, if that’s what you’re into, I’m open to anything–as long as you’re open to reading my BOOK!  READ IT!  JUST READ IT!  Don’t make me cry.  I’m really sensitive.”

There.  I think it’s professional, puts me in a winning light, and promotes my work.  I’m pretty much set.

At a Calçotada with Gaudi’s Haircut

For a while now I’ve been meaning to write about the trip to Spain that Sarah and I took a few weeks ago.  So, here’s a ridiculously long blog entry about it.

One of the reasons we moved to London was to take advantage of some of the cheap flights from here to European destinations.  It’s a bit stunning and it’s really quite cool to be able to hop on an hour and a half flight and visit a completely different culture.  I guess I’m used to travelling Canadian distances: an hour and a half flight from pretty much any city in western Canada gets you… well, nowhere–Edmonton to Calgary maybe, and I don’t think Calgary qualifies as a different culture, though there are a lot more cowboy hats there than in Edmonton.

We stayed with our good friends Rob and Espe in a small city called Reus, about 100 km down the Mediterranean coast from Barcelona.  Reus is maybe most famous as the birthplace of architect Antoni Gaudi–it’s quite a nice tiny city, actually.  The inner part has been recently closed off to motor traffic, so it’s now an attractive district of cobbled streets, pleasant squares, and boutique shops.  Walking around Reus was a good introduction to Catalonian Spain, a good preface to Barcelona–in both these cities, every little plaza shaded with palm trees and lined with cafes and bars is an open invitation to take a moment and relax, to sit and talk politics and art, to sit and drink a few pitchers of sangria.  It’s such a different atmosphere to London, where, if you’re relaxed, it can only mean that you’ve had enough gin/beer at the pub to go slack and limp in your chair, after which someone you work with and whom you may or may not consider your friend helps you get on the right night-bus home.

Barcelona is as beautiful as you’ve heard, a city of beautiful buildings, new and old, and of course home to the weirdest building in the world, Gaudi’s Sagrada Familia, which we made a point of seeing.  I’m no architectural expert but I know a masterpiece of imagination when I see one.

I stood for long enough beneath its spires to feel like the cathedral was bending space around itself–certainly it gives the impression of bulging from within like a heart about to beat or a lung holding in enough air to unleash a scream.  Gaudi was a devout Catholic and the building is a cathedral, after all, but it struck me as more of a monument to reality-defying madness than anything expressive of typical Christian ideas.  One more bit of trivia about the Sagrada Familia–obviously I was fascinated by this building–it’s unfinished, but they’re still working on it even now, though Gaudi himself died in 1926–he was run over by a tram, literally penniless and destitute after devoting the last few decades of his life to working on just this one building.  I think construction on the Sagrada Familia is supposed to be finally complete in 2026, but there’s something right about it being a work still in progress, a continuing explosion of ideas and styles, facades and spires.

The other Catalonian experience I want to mention is the calςotada.  While we were staying in Reus, Espe and Rob took us to a Catalan-style barbeque, called a calςotada.  The name comes from what they eat at the barbeque, calςot, a kind of spring onion or leek, roasted in a stone oven and then peeled and dipped in a garlicky sauce: tasty, actually.  Espe was kind enough to provide me with a link to a better description of the stuff: http://www.iberianfoods.co.uk/catalonia.htm.

It was quite an experience to be welcomed at a local barbeque where the wine and tequila was flowing.  Here are some pictures from the day:

That’s Rob and that’s me, on the right, with the strangely-sloping hair–really it’s as if Gaudi designed my haircut, he constructed a house that looks like a breaking wave, and my hair is apparently likewise inspired.

A modest bottle of wine being happily shared around.  This picture was taken just before two men at the gathering broke out into spontaneous singing and dancing–one of them the guy pouring the wine in the picture above.  “Is there always singing at barbeques in Catalan?” I asked Espe.  “No, I think everyone’s just drunk,” she said.  And Rob, who’s from Lloydminster originally, said, “Could you imagine a barbeque in Canada where two guys suddenly get up and start singing and dancing?”  I said, “Everyone would probably just leave.”

Alright Now

OK.  I’m back from a week or so in Spain, back in London, back to work, all systems go, time to work on the book book BOOK! 

Except that I’ve spent the weekend playing Settlers of Catan and going to movies at the Brixton Ritzy (Juno and My Blueberry Nights).  Actually, at the moment, whenever I turn on a computer, I find myself inexorably drawn to www.mousebreaker.com, playing any one of their hundred varieties of football video games.  Apparently clicking the mouse so that a cheaply-drawn striker silhouette kicks a ball into a net over and over a few hundred times is more rewarding than finishing my novel.

Maybe it’s not a part of anyone else’s writing process, I don’t know, but it’s important to me to be able to spend time sloughing off the heaviness of the real world before floating off into a made-up reality.  Taking a walk works, or listening to music on the headphones for a bit and zoning out–right now all that I listen to is British Sea Power–but it gets to be a problem when you have limited time and the “zoning out” part of the creative process winds up being all that you get to.  That’s just procrastination, the enemy and nemesis of at least this one writer.  Sometimes it’s so much better and easier just not to write at all rather than sit down and get to work.  Work is hard; playing video games is a little taste of what awaits us all in heaven. 

Alright now.  Seriously.  Time to get to work.

I enjoyed watching Kevin Spacey beat up Jeff Goldblum with a phone.

Sarah and I saw Speed-the-Plow at the Old Vic theatre last night, and it was a riot.   Keyser Soze and New Jersey from Buckaroo Banzai, on a stage together–what more can I say about that? 

I forgive you, Kevin Spacey, for Pay it Forward and Repeat of Superman.  You are once again a fine actor as far as I’m concerned.  Jeff Goldblum, you remembered your mantra (that’s from Annie Hall–Goldblum’s at the L.A. party and his only line is, “I forgot my mantra!”–sorry, I’m trying to be cool in my first blog entry, I’ll stop it now). David Mamet’s dialogue is as razor-edge as ever; these two famous guys obviously had a blast perfoming it, and it was a thrill to watch. For me, the opportunity to see a play like this stands as yet another defining moment of London’s greatness as a city. 

Of course, no London experience would be complete without something going horribly wrong–London may be a great city, but it is also often ridiculously difficult.  I suggested that Sarah and I meet after work at Waterloo Station, and both of us separately lost our way inside the station: I emerged from a six-storey stairwell across the street from where I was supposed to be, and Sarah called me on her mobile phone from a tunnel on the other side of the station.  When we found each other, half an hour later, we were laughing–you have to laugh–but in the war of London vs. Us, it’s just one more triumph for the city of confusion and conflict.