Category Archive

When I’m reading, I find that it’s often the smaller characters that help to build up a sense of place or tone in a story; the ones who live in the background, the walk-on non-speaking extras if you like.  The inclusion of bit-part characters can add depth and symbolism to whatever it is that’s going on in the life of your main protagonist, particularly when those characters are seen through the protagonist’s eyes.

To write well, I guess you have to be interested in people and the world around you.  I enjoy watching the mini dramas of other people’s lives – from the strained body language of a young couple drinking Sunday morning coffee in Starbucks to the full rage tussle of two small children fighting over the see-saw in a playground.  These little events are all stories in miniature and they can bring life to your fiction in many different ways.

In Glasshopper, I wrote a scene in which my main character, Jake, argues with his mother on board a ferry to the Isle of Wight, and he fumes off to walk around the dark stormy deck alone.  The morning that I wrote the chapter, I had been walking through town, past a cafe, inside which a small child was leaning into the window pressing his chubby hands upon the glass.  He looked at me as if he wanted me to put my hands up too.  I smiled and carried on walking.  Later, as I wrote, the little child made his way into my writing, as Jake passes the outside windows of the ferry:

” In the lounge seats in the next room along, lots of kids and mums are huddled around tables, colouring pictures with crayons and eating biscuits.  There’s the odd dad here and there, reading a paper, leaving the children to the mums.  One little kid sees me as I go by and presses his grubby hand against the window, smiling like he knows me.  I wave back at him, and press my hand against the glass on the other side.”

In Glasshopper, the little kid wasn’t an important character, and we never see him again.  But he presents us with a moment in which we can get a more profound insight into Jake.  Just the fact that Jake puts his hands up against the glass for the child tells us that he is a particular type of boy: we would read him quite differently had he ignored the child and marched on in his fury.

Don’t forget your peripheral characters.  As brief as might be within your work, if their appearance is crisp and memorable, they will enrich your story and make your fictional world all the more real.

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To buy Glasshopper, click here.

To view Glasshopper Book Club & Reading Group Discussion Questions, click here.

On her website, Stephenie Meyer talks openly about the dream she had back in 2003 which led to her writing the first words of her blockbusting Twilight vampire series.  It was a vivid, fantastic dream, and so captivating that the writer stayed in bed a while longer, so as to capture the scene fully before rising and setting off on the regular school run.

There’s much debate over the purpose of our dreams, and it’s a subject that has fascinated philosophers for thousands of years.  At times, they are endowed with an intense sense of emotion and if clear enough, we carry the memory of them around with us for days, weeks, even a lifetime.  Most people can describe at least one dream they remember distinctly, because it was so bizarre or frightening or wonderful.

I keep notebooks all over the place.  I have one in my bag, one in my dashboard, one in the kitchen drawer, one by my bed.  My bedside jotter is used for anything from noting down domestic reminders such as, ‘remember school trip on Friday’ to brink-of-sleep thoughts about my current project, eg ‘need to develop Tina’s physical appearance’.  It’s also the site of some of my early morning scribblings, in which I try to capture the essence of those dreams which feel important at the point of waking.  Many of them are, frankly, just odd.  But from time to time, there’s something there, something that works its way into my writing, whether it’s just an expression or a sentence, or even the inspiration for a complete scene.

I’m currently working on my second novel, which is partly set in a comprehensive girls’ school in 1980s England.  Naturally, it has led me to think deeply about my own school days, and sure enough, the story started to work its way into my dreams.  Early on in the writing of this novel, I woke one morning and jotted down a particular dream sequence.  It was tiny and obscure, and yet it appeared to me to be important.  In the course of my writing that week, I suddenly understood that the dream was the dream that my character, Sarah would have had.  It was Sarah’s dream, not my own, and I wrote it into her story as that was where it seemed to belong:

“Lately, Sarah’s dreams have been vivid, nightmarish.  Last night she dreamed that she was back at school, where Kate and Tina were trying to make her look at something inside one of the lift-up desks in Class 5C.  But Sarah didn’t want to look at it.  “It won’t bite!” Kate laughed.  Then they held her, one on either side, pushing her closer and closer to the desk, forcing her head down to look inside.  When she woke, her throat closed up and she tried to cry out but nothing would come.  Perhaps it’s a sign, warning her to stay away from the school reunion.  Or telling her to go.”

I felt elated, not just because my dream had presented me with this small gift, but because it also represented an important turning point in the writing of this particular story; the point at which my character had slipped deep beneath my skin, both in waking and in sleeping.

So, capture your dreams, laugh at them, puzzle over them, close the front cover on them.  But store them away, and watch them creep into your writing when you least expect it.  And remember, nothing is ever wasted . . .

Some men see things as they are and ask, ‘Why?’  I dream of things that never were, and say, ‘Why not?’ – George Bernard Shaw

This week is a writing exercise aimed at stimulating the creation of character and story.  I’ve adapted it (shamelessly) from a similar exercise I was set by one of my excellent creative writing tutors, Alison MacLeod, at the University of Chichester.  This particular exercise led to my writing “Ed’s Night Crossing”, a short story about a man who takes his first trip abroad on a night ferry to France.  You can read the story by clicking here.

So, to the exercise:

1. You can do this anywhere, but make sure it’s somewhere you can switch off the outside world.  Close your eyes, and visualise someone you see on a regular basis, but who is a complete stranger to you.  It could be the woman behind the checkout desk in Tesco’s or another parent in the school playground.  I chose a man who used to walk past my front door every day as I got into my car for work.  He would amble past, head down, hands in pockets, headphones plugged in.  He would never make eye contact, and yet we passed each other most mornings.
2. Really visualise this person physically.  Write down a full description, from the superficial details of hair colour and height to the specifics of posture and expression of face.  You’re creating a snapshot.
3. Now, this person is in their home.  They are packing for a journey.  What would they take with them?  You can pack up to ten items, personal effects/clothes/medicines etc, things which might tell you a lot about a person.  My character, Ed, packed his jeans, his best black t-shirt, an asthma inhaler, a book by Stephen King, a pool cue and a spare block of cue chalk.  From this alone, you could get an early idea of the kind of person Ed might be.
4. Next, you are writing about the journey itself, so you must decide on the mode of transport.  You don’t need to show them getting to the station/airport etc – just start the writing mid-journey.  My story started on board the ferry, just as the engines were starting up, and Ed was with his fellow travellers, getting beers in at the bar.  I didn’t need to write about him getting there, because this was the point at which the real story began.
5. After ten minutes or so of writing, pause.  Your character has a secret.  What is it?  Decide whether or not you are ready to reveal this secret to your reader, and continue writing.  Just know that this secret is something your character is desperate to conceal.
6. And now you’re on your own – keep writing, and see where the story goes!

Some writers love these prescribed types of exercises, and others hate them.  Whatever your feeling, it’s worth giving it a go once in a while, because sometimes the results can be exhilarating, sending your stream of consciousness into a completely unexpected direction.  “Ed’s Night Crossing” was a complete surprise to me, and I suspect I would never have written that story, or even a similar one, had I not been guided by Alison’s exercise.

I hope you enjoy trying it out.

To buy Glasshopper, click here.

To view Glasshopper Book Club & Reading Group Discussion Questions, click here.

Every four weeks my two workshop friends and I meet at a local eatery for food, wine and writers’ talk.  It’s one of my favourite dates of the month.

The benefits of workshopping your creative writing are numerous.  For starters, if you get your group dynamics right, you have access to insightful feedback and valuable encouragement for free.  When you’re writing in isolation, it’s possible to become so close to a piece that you simply lose the ability to judge it with impartiality.  And asking your spouse/siblings/parents/best friends isn’t always the answer, as they’re often apt to tell you everything’s great, just to spare your feelings.  A literary agent once told me, “I get no end of manuscripts from writers telling me that all their friends and family think their novel could be a best seller.  I really couldn”t care what their biased great aunt thinks – the work has stand alone as an exemplary piece of writing in its own right.”

An independent set of eyes can pick out inconsistencies, wonderful details and potential improvements which you might miss – the things that can transform a good piece of writing into a great piece of writing.

I’m not going to spend time repeating all the usual advice about treating each other with respect, sandwiching negative comments between positive ones or timing your feedback so you all get equal share . . . these things are fairly obvious.  Instead, I’ll tell you what has worked for me:

• Choose your workshop partners carefully.  Three years ago, at the start of my Creative Writing MA I was lucky enough to meet two talented and generous writers, whose work I admired greatly, and whose company I enjoyed enormously.  If you don’t respect the writing of a workshop partner, it’s never going to work.  You should never feel an inner groan as you move on to someone else’s piece – that’s a sure sign that you’ve got your group all wrong.
• Keep it small.  I’m in a group of three, which is plenty big enough for me.  I wouldn’t really go over four, just because it means that the workshops are either very long and drawn out, or each feedback session is cut short.  Small is beautiful.
• Separate your feedback into ‘big stuff’ and ’small stuff’.  The big stuff can be the over-arching comments, such as, “I loved the dialogue, but more physical description throughout would bring it to life.”  The small stuff is, “You’ve repeated the word ‘cavernous’ three times in the same paragraph.”
• Talk – a lot.  Some workshop advice tells you to observe silence whilst others deliver their feedback.  Personally, I think this is hogwash.  We tried it once in an early MA workshop and I nearly fainted with frustration.  When you’re given feedback, you need to question it, understand it, agree with it, disagree with it, laugh about it.  In this instance, silence is not golden.
• Choose a venue to suit you all.  We go to the same pasta restaurant every time, not because we are desperately lacking in imagination, but because the staff there are courteous and patient, and we’re able to workshop and eat at the same time, without being hassled to hurry up and get out.  I think they’ve even got a special table set aside for us now, where our laughter won’t distract the other diners too much . . .
• Enjoy it.  I’m a naturally solitary person – I love to be alone.  My workshop nights not only give me a firm target to write for, but they also encourage me to raise my head every once in a while and get out.  Jane and Juliet have become great and trusted friends, and our workshops have undoubtedly helped to shape and challenge our writing in all sorts of different ways.

Good luck with your own writing . . .

To buy Glasshopper, click here.

To view Glasshopper Book Club & Reading Group Discussion Questions, click here.

One of the greatest things I’ve learned in my time writing fiction is that almost nothing in life is ever wasted.

Take the snatches of conversation you might overhear on the bus, in the playground, through the grafittied formica door of a public toilet.  Every once in a while I’ll hear something so illuminating, interesting or hilarious that I just have to scribble it down in my pocket notebook with the thought that it might spark something creative in me – even if that creative connection comes months, even years, later.

For example, a few weeks ago I was walking back home after a trip to visit my publishers over in Brighton.  I was in one of those tense, cold moods, having sat on a train for 50 minutes in a carriage full of screechy teenagers.  As I walked away from the station, two lads of about seventeen were walking towards me, talking about their night out.  Through a mop of floppy hair the first one said, “What happened to you last night, mate?”  The second, more hungover looking lad replied, “Oh, man.  You wouldn’t believe it.  I was so wasted I thought I’d just go home.  Somehow I got myself to the station, and I stood on the platform, waiting.  But when my train came, I was so drunk I just stared at it.  And then it went without me.”  Floppy hair laughed raucously.  “Oh, man,” he sighed, before they disappeared out of my earshot.

This funny little conversation really tickled me, and I wrote it down as soon as I got home.  It was a charming, gritty insight into two strangers’ worlds, and whilst I haven’t used their conversation directly, the essence of it has made its way into the novel I’m currently writing.

So, use those overheard conversations to enrich your writing.  If someone in the doctor’s waiting room insists on speaking loudly into their mobile phone, instead of tutting and rolling your eyes like everyone else, listen in for the little gems.  It’s fun.  An innocent moment of eavesdropping can help in the development of an existing or new character, or even give you ideas for plot turns and surprises.  Carry your noteback unfailingly and never think you’ll remember what you hear without writing it down – you won’t!

Oh, what I’d give for all those lost thoughts and conversations I should have logged . . .

To buy Glasshopper, click here.

To view Glasshopper Book Club & Reading Group Discussion Questions, click here.

Naturally, in the process of creating a work of fiction a great many writers draw on their own experiences, thoughts and fears.  The best stories are found within our own histories, because there is real emotion attached to them, and where there is real emotion a naked honesty is often found.

But writing about our own experiences can be unsettling, for both the writer and the people closest to them.  When I reflect on my own life, there are all sorts of events I could write out that would make great reading – but I’m not sure I really want to share them with the rest of the world, and I fear I’d lose a few valued friendships in the process.

So, how do you draw upon your rich and varied experiences without your work becoming semi-autobiographical?  The simple words, “What if . . . ?” can transform your fictional world, freeing you creatively to draw upon your own life without directly writing about it.

To give an example, let’s pretend that in my real life, I’m a 25 year old woman (alas, I’m not), with one young child, a gregarious, useless husband and a part-time job in the library services.  Well, my life could already make for a good start to a story.  But I don’t want to write about me.  What if my character has three children?  That would certainly make life more exhausting, perhaps more rewarding, perhaps more chaotic than my own?  What if she works in a book shop?  Well, I could easily draw on my experiences in the library, and my knowledge of books to imagine that world.  What if she’s older than I am, say, 35?  Could I pull it off?  What if the husband isn’t useless, but the wife is?  What if he’s a shy, nervous character?  What if my main character is actually the husband . . . ?

Already there’s the little spark of a new world to imagine, one which draws from a real life, and yet is suddenly quite far removed from that life.  Applying the “What if?” to your writing can not only kick-start a new project, but it can also serve to keep the story going at an exciting pace, allowing your fictional character to unfold as a fully-formed, complex individual.  Now, whilst the essence of your own experiences might run right through the story like a backbone, the insecurity of portraying yourself or another living person evaporates, and you can simply write.  The character is yours, and you can take it wherever you want to.

To buy Glasshopper, click here.

To view Glasshopper Book Club & Reading Group Discussion Questions, click here.

I’m often asked how I manage to stay motivated to write.  The truth is, sometimes it’s hard.  I’m a great believer in the use of writing exercises to unblock the resistant mind, having used a good number over the years to coax myself back into productive writing.  I guess others might find this kind of approach useful, so over the next year I will be creating a new writing exercise each week, to be posted here on the website.

Happy writing!

Creative Writing Exercise # 1 :- Take a Walk

It’s a vicious circle really.  The more I can’t get it together to write, the less inclined I feel to get out and about.  The less I get out, the smaller my inner world becomes.  The smaller my inner world grows, the less inspiration I have to draw on.  Of course the answer is easy: snap out of it and get your backside out the door.

Yesterday, my husband took the kids off to watch the football match over in Portsmouth.  It was the perfect opportunity for me to get down to some writing.  So after I had defrosted the freezer, rearranged the bookshelf and baked a tray of fairy cakes, I realised that I might be trying to put it off.  It’s not that writing is something I don’t want to do – I love it.  But sometimes, well, it’s just a bit hard to get going.  Eventually, in a fit of lethargy, I took the dog for one of his (and my) favourite walks.

It was a beautiful hazy afternoon, and from the top of the Trundle I could see the cathedral, the sea, the towns and villages stretching out around me.  In the inner dip of the circular walk, an unexpected band of bright white snow lay, which Charlie-dog bounded in and out of as I marched around the ring with purpose.  I paused to take in the view, all the while thinking about my new character, Sarah.

I suddenly realised that she needed to be removed from her home setting for a period, in order for us to see her from a different angle.  She needed to be put under a different kind of pressure, the pressure of being out of her comfort zone.  I finished my walk, bundled Charlie into the car and drove home with new purpose.  I wrote for two hours, and closed my laptop, contented that my story had moved on in a new direction.

So, take a walk.  It might be a favourite walk, one which simply relaxes and energises.  It could be somewhere new, somewhere you feel more alert and uncertain.  Perhaps it’s a trip of nostalgia, around your old school grounds or the city park.  Wherever it is, treat it as part of the writing, not as an unnecessary luxury.  Your writing deserves it.

To buy Glasshopper, click here.

To view Glasshopper Book Club & Reading Group Discussion Questions, click here.