Evaluating Masterclasses - Part 2

Ken Follet’s talk on the history and development of the paperback thriller was a step beyond those of his contemporaries, providing nuggets of sound advice (namely, the ramping up of suspense or the change in the course of the story every 4 to 6 pages). However, the presentation was little more than a documentary. Even the Q&A session didn’t allow much of a two-way discussion. It was interesting and the ground work covered was clearly a “need to know” for those following in the footsteps of previous thriller writers, but it might better serve the general public as a one hour television programme.

Ken’s talk fell into the category of informative rhetoric, a category shared by the two agents (Ben Mason and Luigi Bonomi). Their formidable knowledge of the business and their statistical facts about professional publication were as brutally honest as Jim Crace. They shared advice that may be plucked from the pages of the Writers Handbook or the Writers and Artists Yearbook and discussed the steps from writing to publication. Guidance that, while essential to all new writers, I found had little significance to me at the time; having the good fortune to know a literary agent (who has answered all my questions) and currently being in no position to approach an agent, let alone publication.

Yet, they were of more immediate use to me as a writer (who would be looking for representation) than Robert Ronsson’s practical applicator masterclass on self publishing and how best to promote and market oneself. I don’t intend to self publish. So, while this talk was invaluable and its field of reference deep (information a writer looking to self publish wouldn’t find elsewhere), it was of far less importance to me.

Another practical applicator, Ann Lingard’s presentation on research, covered the collaborations between authors and the science community. It raised interesting points about the usefulness of SciTalk (her online project) and the importance and relevance of research to a manuscript as a whole. She explained that research should be used to enhance the world of one’s story not stultify it with detail. She discussed the creation of characters with a science background: they are human beings with human needs. The plot doesn’t have to revolve entirely or at all around their role. “A story about an accountant,” she says, “doesn’t have to be about accountancy”.

Ken Follet, too, discussed the level of research he has carried out for each of his books and how that provided an extra element for a readership to hang on: readers love to think they are learning something. However, his talk didn’t provide the moment of epiphany generated by Ann’s, which demonstrated how research can help us learn things about the characters. Where and how the character works can be a great way to show the character to the reader, providing the writer with many more scenes in which to develop their characters or themes – veritable gold dust.

By contrast, the hands on, tear-it-apart and look inside it, classes provided by James Roose-Evans (on playwrights) and Linda Thompson (breaking down a BBC script for ‘Casualty’) spent as much time on practical discussions as they did on anecdotes. These practical applicators could be argued as being limited in their appeal to one such as myself: not wishing to write for stage or television. But, that is to ignore the accessibility and opportunity presented by all the masterclasses, as I have mentioned above: ideas are transferable; media feed into each another.

When Linda spoke of ‘Casualty’ having one main plot and two sub plots, and that the themes of each mirror the others to create cohesion and synchronicity, her words were just as important when considering the use of subplots in a novel (mirroring subplots, in my opinion, not being essential though they do lend weight to an argument). And, when James suggested a playwright needs to know everything about his characters, not just from a background point-of-view, but also where they were before the current scene, and where they will be afterwards, he provided us novelists with insight: we have a vast number of considerations that may not reach the page but do provide depth (not just for the characters but for the scene and location).

Rather than having little regard for the messages and words of wisdom shared in some of the masterclasses, I understand that the presented knowledge feeds into each other. I’ve catalogued the discussions and will return to them when they become relevant to me.

That said, by far my most useful and informative masterclass has been the skills implementation of Jim Crace’s prose stripping. Hands-on writing-driven teaching holds, for me, the most essential learning elements. With Jim’s deep and extensive look at the inner workings of sentences, word choice and structural design, the relevance of his cynicism and realism from back in the January finally made sense. By getting the students to reconsider the way they critique and write, and their choice of words in any given sentence and then to apply that, he freed our understanding of the craft of writing in a way that the other masterclasses didn’t.

Skills implementation highlights something I have come to appreciate with regard to many of the questions I, and others, have posed to the agent I know. We cannot waste our time on decoration when the structure needs work. Neither my work nor my ability is yet ready for publication and I need to focus my attention there.

A masterclass’s effectiveness is dependent upon the mindset of individual students. Their variations of style are as important as what is said or shown on a slide. A set of stilted, classroom led lessons poring over cold hard facts and “how it has all been done before” does little to garner audience participation or memory after the event. Acting during James Roose-Evan’s playwright discussion, and stripping sentences of another student’s work with Jim Crace have stayed with me. And, while the practicalities and usefulness of each masterclass greatly differ, they each have their purpose and their place. Not just in instruction but in awareness and the suggestibility of how to open doors.

Evaluating Masterclasses - Part 1

This is the second essay from my NAW Professional Development Portfolio. Comprised of two parts, it is my personal view of the masterclasses I have attended - which means it is not a reflection of the quality or content but my perception of how useful those masterclasses have been to me and my learning:

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The masterclasses have covered a wide range of discussions and skillsets. But, I have found that many aspects of these discussions have been rhetorical, anecdotal, or statistical in nature. Only a few have had practical analysis.

A second issue hinges on the timeliness of a masterclass and where the student is (in their own head). A student involved with reassessing their style or troubled by how exactly they should weight the pace of their narrative is not going to find a talk on the current trends and necessities of submissions to agents of any relevance – which does not diminish the quality of the talk itself. It does mean that areas of perceived irrelevance may lead to the listener overlooking an important message about core skills. Furthermore, much of what has been said that was not of a statistical and set-in-stone nature may be thought of as a one-off or very personal situation for the speaker.

The masterclasses I’ve observed may be categorised into one of the following types:

• Anecodotal inconsequence (this is how I did it)
• Informative rhetoric (this is how it is)
• Practical applicator (this is how you can do it)
• Skills implementation (try this for yourself)

However, there is always a message of some significance in every masterclass. While the categorisations above don’t necessarily make one more important than another, I have ordered the categories, as I perceive them, from least to most effective. The practical applicator and skills implementation types are more applicable to my current needs and mindset, which are: choosing scenes for their appropriateness and relevance to a story and maintaining brevity by avoiding irrelevant description that does not further the action or narrative.

Talks and classes falling into the category of anecdotal inconsequence may enthuse one listener but bore another. Their topics and situations are not directly replicated by, or transferable to, the circumstances of the students – but are unique to the speaker and their subject.

Barry Turner was one such speaker, whose positive and affirming discussion opened our course in January 2007. The encouraging tale he told of his own introduction to media and onwards into writing was interesting but indicative of the time at which he started out – the launch of television and radio. It had little or no significance other than anecdotally. Again, this by no means diminishes what Barry had to say for his “carpe diem” boldness really excited the students.

The next masterclass was the polar opposite of Barry’s. Jim Crace talked us cautiously through our intended directions and interests and mulled over the difficulties of our labours of love. His was a very sobering discussion, making it clear that we needed to be the passionate ones about our work, that we aren’t guaranteed success, and that some people may have the inclination to write, but not the ability. It ended somewhat bluntly with his admission that he would, in two books time, stop writing altogether! What were we to make of this? Do writers have a self imposed shelf life, only so much in themselves to lend to paper?

The different stances of these two speakers seemed to say far more about their outlook on life, their journey to publication, and successes or setbacks than they did about the audience’s own future endeavours. In Jim’s case this had a greater sense of realism given his interest in the education of new writers. Whatever their positions, cynical realism or intrepid optimism, perhaps both messages were affirming and bookend every masterclass and lesson that followed: encouragement to strive for what we want to achieve matched alongside (not against) our egos stripped of all naivety. That this may be a good thing does not necessarily mean they were of any proactive assistance to the studying writer.

Working for a library service I have attended several author events and talks (Tracey Chevalier, Jodi Picoult, Salley Vickers, Colin Dexter, Lionel Shriver, Freya North, Cynthia Harrod-Eagles, Ann Widdecombe). All were pitched at a readership level, with interests in the writers’ origins and the concoction of characters and plot. The anecdotal inconsequence never focused any deeper than biography or research, i.e. never touching on the elements that comprise a certain paragraph: on changing subjects, using a metaphor to infer a character’s point of view, or relating a memory that provides synchronicity to the unfolding scene.

The anecdotal inconsequence of Catherine O’Flynn’s masterclass was symptomatic of those other writers. She has an innate ability to write without consideration for how she does it. She has a set routine that she maintains but she doesn’t appear to worry over the disparate skills necessary to juggle the creation of a story. As with the other writers her talk never entered into deep discussions on the complexities of maintaining reader interest, while levelling their narrative for clarity, pace, action and dialogue.

The masterclasses have covered a number of subjects, from self publishing to the expectations of an agent to the operations of the Times Newspaper. We have been handed the broad canvas of the industry’s workings as well as views of the many doorways that might provide access. However, I am reminded that, short of being a celebrity, the only thing that truly sells a manuscript to an agent or publisher is the manuscript, and thereby the talent of the writer – everything else is decoration. In my particular case – a single-minded view to becoming a novelist – the decoration, aside from being informative, is irrelevant. Counter to this is the argument that these masterclasses are meant to refocus my attention and reinforce the lesson that Jim, in particular, went to great lengths to explain: no-one can do it but me.

Though, again, that is not to diminish the masterclasses, since all the speakers that have taken the time to prepare and discuss their subjects with us have been supportive and they have been open to students contacting them at a later date.

Julie Cohen - Masterclass in Character Development

Actually, this took place a couple of Fridays ago, and I'm only just getting on with the write up now - boy am I out of sorts.


Anyhoo, we here at Bracknell Library had the author Julie Cohen over for a bit of a conflab and spin through how she creates characters.

But first:

Julie is an American living in Reading and started out writing three books for Mills and Boon. As we all know, that's a very specific writing format to fit into, so good on her. Now she's written 9 of them and 4 (of what I'd call) proper books.

She's clearly set on her road of romantic novel writing (more specifically quirky-chick-lit) fairly well, but what does she have to impart to the unpublished author?

Well, she took us on a whirlwind tour of methods for creating characters - you know, fully-fledged, rounded, conflicted, interesting - that sort of character.

We covered eight ways (some longer than others), but first we had two postits and a coin. So, Julie went round the table handing out two alphabet letters per person, which took two loops. We each wrote down the two letters we'd been allocated on one postit and handed that to the person on our right.

Next we came up with a number between 1 and 100, wrote it on the second postit and passed that to our left.

Finally, we tossed the coin and chose our character's sex: heads for female, tails for male and if it landed on a body part or akilter, that meant a robot or asexual or something odd.

Which gave me D. R. A 73 yearold female.

Bear with me, this is just the setup.

I chose to call my character Deane Robards

1. The Basic Description

For this part we were asked to describe our character in anyway we pleased, as long as we used the words extraordinary and yellow. (The words are a way of getting your imagination working - they don't have to be included and they don't have to be extraordinary or yellow).

Deanne sits in an upright chair, keeping her back straight to fight the spasms - a result of her circus days. She has drawn on eyebrows and must constantly wipe her brow to stop sweat stinging her yellowed eyes. She sits quietly for the most part, on the porch of her terraced home, seemingly asleep to the world. But she never sleeps. Not even when it is time to do so. She sits on her porch, still and silent, and seemingly dead, but for an extraordinary ability to greet every passerby long before her ears should have registered their approach.

2. Showing

In this exercise we were asked to walk our characters into a room and get them to pick up an object (of our choosing).

Deane pushed the door open with her cane, let it swing wide and surveyed the bedroom. Everything was still. Everything was as it had been the day she found Bill. She stared at the bed covers, thrown aside by the paramedics and tried to imagine Bill as he had been, asleep, not dead. She couldn't do it. The dresser opposite was still a clutter of creams and curlers, the vanity mirror still tipped back against the wall so that shafts of light lined the ceiling. And her glasses... It was useless to try and see them from outside. The curtains were closed and she had no choice but to go in. She took it slow. Short hobbling steps. The cane used to be a big help, but these days the pains in her legs made it almost too difficult to walk. But she kept going, trying not to look back at the bed again and finally at the dresser she stopped and peered down. Had to push aside some of the mess with the cane. And there they were. She plucked them off the dresser and clutched them to her chest as she turned back to the door, avoiding the sight of the bed. From this angle, she remembered, it looked like an empty cadaver on a mortuary slab.

As you can see I was more interested in getting the character in there than picking up the object - boy does my mind wander - and I had to finish the exercise while Julie talked about the next one.

3. Symbolism

We were asked to consider the importance (emotionally) of our objects.

In my case, the glasses were needed so that Deanne could see if she'd won the lottery - her home was remortgaged to help her kids out (and they've deserted with her money), but she can't stay in the place where she found Bill dead. She needs to win the lottery so that she can pay off her debts and move out.

4. Setting

Obviously, this is about describing the place where the character lives... or rather, locates themselves.
5. Conflict

What does the character want more than anything? This is answered in the Symbolism. And what stands in their way? In this case, Deanne not having her glasses... and then not winning the lottery.

6. Good Quality Versus Worst Quality

Two qualities in a person create conflict.

I.e. A very generous person either: i) puts others first always, or ii) always wants something in return.

i) This leads to the character playing second fiddle to others and never getting what they want, or exhausted because they never have any "me time".
ii) This leads to a need in the character. An expectation that others will always play their part.

The good and bad quality are intrinsically linked helping to round out your character. The character must change the good part of their nature in order to remove/make better the bad part.

Check out Julie's little chart on this:


7. Voice

Obviously, this is about dialogue or writing in the first person. Getting a sense of the character, the way their mind works, colloquialisms, etc

8. Other ways

• Put character in a place they don't belong
• Meet a character with different goals
• Meet a character with same goals but different methods
• Give them an impossible task
• They make a horrible mistake
• They're forced to confront their past
• They lose everything
• They win something they don't want
• They get unexpected/unwanted fame

The interesting thing about Julie is that whatever she writes as she gets a sense of character, she throws out once she starts writing the book, and never refers to her notes again.

I guess she writes fast enough so that it doesn't exit her frontal lobe before she's done.

Critically Reviewing 3 How-To Write Books

So there we have it, you can now access my full essay on Critically Reviewing 3 How-To Write Books:

• Part 1
• Part 2
• Part 3

I hope it gets you thinking ;)

Masterclass with the Agent Luigi Bonomi

Some facts

The market is overcrowded – very competitive.

• of 200,000 books sold per year, 190,000 sold less than 3000 copies.
• of 85,000 new (first-time) books published – 60,000 sold an average of 18 books
• it costs a publisher £7500 to publish a book (printing, marketing, design, distribution) and that doesn’t include any advance – generally it is reckoned that 20,000 must be sold to cover costs

As a result lists are being dramatically cut.

The new writer therefore has to stand out. The question is how? First look at the market – what is selling?

The market is divided between literary fiction and commercial fiction (a distinction that is beginning to dissolve)

• Literary Fiction takes about 5% of the market. Important to have a big concept, big theme, not parochial small town ideas. Often what sells it is Prizes, and programmes like Richard and Judy (which is ending). Original structure and good writing is important – e.g. The Book Thief.
• Commercial Fiction takes about 95% of the market. Despite reports sales are vibrant – but in specific areas – sci-fi is quiet, crime is overcrowded, thrillers and romance are thriving. The pending recession suggests that like in the 80s (look at trends then) ‘sex and shopping’ is a likely to make a comeback. Other strong areas: (post Dan Brown) adventure and history (with esoteric references), male relationships (with father, with son, with woman).
• Children’s market is strong – especially 7-12 years

How do you get an agent?

The agent’s goal is to find the next talent – but they are overworked so they aim to reject – to weed out. The writer’s aim is therefore not to give the agent a chance to reject you.

Provide – a synopsis (3-4 pages maximum), 3 chapters or less, 1 short page covering letter. Luigi’s agency receives approximately 5000 submissions a year (100 a week). – of these they will look at 60 (5 a month).

What happens when a submission is received?

The parcel is opened. If there is anything more than a simple rubber band for binding it is rejected.

The cover letter is read. If there are any spelling mistakes or it is badly presented it is rejected.

The first paragraph of the first page of the text (not the synopsis) is read – then the second paragraph – if it looks interesting it is put aside, otherwise it is rejected.

In half an hour he will process 40 submissions and put aside possibly 4, of those he will read pages 2 and 3 – and probably reject – resulting in perhaps 1 a week.

He will then read that submission (the first three chapters – or less).

If he likes it he will ask to read the rest of the book.

There will be no feedback or suggestions re-revision – though if he is really interested he may send it to a reading agency for a critique.

The language, style, rhythm, sound – is very influential. So it is important to listen to other people reading it (reading aloud to yourself is valuable, but hearing other people read shows better how it will be received).

Then plot, storyline and characters.

‘Me too publishing’

There is a tendency for (especially big) publishers to follow a successful trend. He gave the example of Atlantis by David Gibbins. This was initially rejected by many publishers, so was sold to a small publisher. It became a best-seller, and the big publishers went back to the agent to ask for some the same (not similar but exactly the same!). Then they went back through the slush pile to find something – and did.

Agencies
The Agents Association has a list of accredited agents – and it is best to look for agents on the list (marked in the Writer’s Handbook).

If you are lucky enough to have different agents interested, look at how you feel you could work with that agent, the types of book they have sold, their market share etc.

The agents work really starts when they take you on – then they or an editor may work with you, though the publishers too will often want a further level of editorial input.

The relationship is essentially with the agent – not the agency. If the writer work on different types of book it is acceptable to use a different agent – though often in consultation with the initial agent.

The going rate is 15%, though there are moves to try and increase this. Advances are very variable – and there has been a suggestion that the agent’s commission should be on a sliding scale linked to the advance.

The Writers Yearbook , and the Writer and Artists Yearbook have lists of agents – but to find who represents a specific writer look initially in the acknowledgements page of the book or contact the publisher (or Google the writer).

Small versus large agencies

Small agencies are more responsive, more accessible, and you get to know the team – and they may promote you harder.

With larger agencies you may have less contact, more competition but possibly larger advances.
However in most cases you will go with the one who will take you on.

Are Agents proactive in looking for new talent?

The masterclass wasn’t a proactive exercise to find new writers. He stressed that people should not think that agents are charities or see promoting new writing as their role. They simply don’t have the time for that. They operate a business.

Remember however that the selection is very much a matter of personal taste – so it is important to send out to as many agents as you can. Don’t worry if agents have rejected you in the past – they will not remember your name.

- My thanks to Roger for his notes

Masterclass - Catherine O'Flynn

Her first novel, ‘What Was lost’, was long-listed for the 2007 Man Booker Prize (it’s also just won the Costa First Novel Prize)

Catherine told us about her previous jobs (which included a brief stint as a postwoman, which is something the press have picked up on for some unknown reason), the most important of which was in a branch of HMV in a shopping centre (Merry Hill) in the West Midlands. While working there, she became interested in the contrast between the shops during the day and during the night, for both customers and staff.

Each night when she got home from work, she would scribble down notes and thoughts about her experiences – this I think was some time in 2003. These notes helped her to structure her story and write up a full synopsis. She then moved to Barcelona for some time with her partner, and being fortunate enough not to have to work she was able to spend a lot of her time honing her story and beginning to write the novel.

Having already written a thorough synopsis and extensive notes about different characters and outcomes, the actual writing part came fairly easy to her. She cockily announced that the writing part of it would be relatively simple, and went for it.

She prioritised what she thought were the easiest and most fun parts before tackling the trickier bits, a method she found to be very helpful since by the time she’d reached those trickier bits, she’d already built up enough writing experience to feel confident enough to tackle them.

The book became stalled with her agent as they’d suggested changes she didn’t want to make. This was resolved by a friend’s recommendation that she change a key relationship between characters in the story, and also slow down what had, up to then, been a very sudden and rushed ending. This she found to be very helpful, and everyone was happy.

Her partner had also been very helpful with her writing, being a patient listener to each day’s writing every evening (helped by the fact that they didn’t have a TV, so had to find other ways to entertain themselves!) Though he seemed to invest a lot of emotional energy in the book himself, disagreeing with certain recommendations friends and publishers had made. He also told her at one point that he thought her idea so good, if she didn’t write it, he would.

She eventually went with the publishers Tindal Street as they struck her as independent and a company who really look after their writers. Unlike some larger publishers, they push their writers and books much harder for industry prizes and awards and expend a lot of energy to promote them creatively.

In her novel, ‘What Was lost’, Catherine found that she preferred writing from the POV of a 10-year-old female character – Kate – she found it the easiest to write of all the voices, most of whom were adults.

Jeff, NAW student, said that he enjoyed the disembodied voices that occasionally dropped in and out of the narrative; though this was something Catherine herself liked a lot, the agent and publishers didn’t, but nevertheless decided to keep them in.

As far as the sources for her inspiration and abilities are concerned, she simply reads a lot – this she thinks is the best font of her talent. Otherwise she only did one actual writing course, some sort of Open Arts college (?) which was a distance learning institution. Her university degree was in Anthropology, and her first job in journalism, perhaps her only other job which had anything to do with writing.

- My thanks to Mike for the write up.

Masterclass - The Necessities of an Agent, with Ben Mason

Shiel Land Associates are a literary agency based in London, England, boasting a number of big name writers and celebrities:

Including Peter Ackroyd, Melvyn Bragg, Stephanie Calman, Steven Carroll, David Cohen, Anna del Conte, Elizabeth Corley, Seamus Deane, Erik Durschmied, Alan Garner, Robert Green, Bonnie Greer, Susan Hill, Richard Holmes, HRH The Prince of Wales, Mark Irving, Simon Kernick, Richard Mabey, Steve Rider, Martin Riley, Tom Sharpe, Martin Stephen, Jeffrey Tayler, Andrew Taylor, Alan Titchmarsh, Rose Tremain, Phil Vickery, John Wilsher, Paul Wilson, Chris Woodhead and the Estates of Catherine Cookson, Patrick O'Brian and Jean Rhys.

Before you ask... their website doesn't work - not very forward thinking in this day and age I know, but we can't assume reasons for this. Many agents still haven't got a proper web presence.

Ben Mason, one of their agents, who came to speak at NAW this week, has 45 clients that he looks after personally. Having started from a psychology background Mason is primarily interested in finding unpublished newcomers . Most agents, he says, are 40+ years-old, have high levels of workload and their client lists are full, and though all will say (as publishers do) that they aren't looking for new clients, none of them can be so picky as to not entertain a submission pile.

Getting new authors off the ground, he says, required far more effort than an established author. The breakout novel, the new book, it needs a hard push and cannot rely on any of the tactics in place for those established in the trade - not in word of mouth, prime shelf positions, marketing, tv or radio time.

The Agent's Primary Role

Mason's main aim today is to prove why an agent is more important to a writer than a publisher (a publisher, of course, is essential but there is a time and a place... do pay attention).

Authors are their own best editors. They know the work, should know their own style and are best place for critiquing their own work. There are always holes and in particular, as Mason pointed out to us, our work on the NAW course isn't intended for the marketplace yet and we aren't pitching to that level. The agent will help prepare the full submission package, assisting on editorial input.

Agents know publishers. They understand the breakdown of these companies; who works where and for whom. The book... your book, the agent knows, will be broken down by five separate units within a publishing house, each of them considering whether or not the book is worth publishing. It is essential, therefore, to be able to boil everything down to single or double sentences. If you can't pitch your work concisely then you're not necessarily going to appeal to anyone and the entire submission will fall through the floor.

After the big submission to the publisher, the agent will guide you through the process of publication and the contract (which has become more and more difficult what with audio books, eBooks, and all the foreign rights). The agent hopes to carve up the rights allowing them to be managed separately between the UK and Commonwealth (inc: Australia and Canada), the US, and Foriegn Rights (translations - selling rights in Germany, for example, can generate as much as those sold in the UK).

The author is given an advance, which is payable in segments; money on signature, on final publication, on release and on the separate rights. This can be released over as much as 4 years. It therefore helps to generate buzz, and requires a great deal of understanding and knowledge on the agent's behalf.

The author's work is edited by the agent, working with the author for a time before even attempting contact with a publisher, so as to ensure the best possible iteration of the book. Once accepted, the book is edited by the in-house editor (which can possibly be a tricky process as publisher's are buying the author's book and have a lot more authority). Editors are creative people, says Mason, and not business people. Working relationships between writers and editors can be great but have to be a match in order to work. If the editor's demands for the work doesn't meet the author's then the agent may need to support and massage the author. Just remember that publishers are gamblers. They take a gamble on every new author and new book they release.

Jacketing

The book jacket is very important and it isn't the case that the author gets to choose. gave examples of some authors wanting their child's artwork on their cover... but it's not possible. Authors headed for publication are in a business environment, despite their creative roots, and though covers may be a bone of contention, the author has (again) sold the book to the publisher. Waterstones and Tesco now have the power to tell a publisher that they don't like the cover of a book and the publishers do go back and redesign and reprint.

Harry Bowling released a book in which, on the first page, the child of the protagonist is killed off. The publishers made the brilliant decision to depict a child in a parent's arms on the jacket! Go figure.

Marketing

Publishers, says Mason, don't generate big expenses for marketing, adverts, the web or book clubs - these are all useful and available, but for the first time author much of the onus for this is put back to the author. Author's are advised to create their own web presence and get them selves about (it's worth a look at Robert Ronsson's Masterclass on Self Publishing for some brilliant and pertinent advice in this respect). There are book signings, festivals, and Mason places much emphasis on authors building relationships with other authors (there is nothing like networking).

The Selling

It is important to get on with the marketing as soon as possible. Waterstones in particular have a short shelf life for those books not selling well - and a book that doesn't sell well in hardback isn't going to get accepted for sale as a paperback. And despite the trade bodies growing into the web market place (Amazon in particular) the high street is still the main location for book purchases.

The process of selling begins with the surveying of certain (key) buyers in the book trade, to find out what they think of the "product". Testing the buyers' reactions is essential. The publishers are trying to appeal and please. If, for example, Waterstones buys 3000 copies for a new writer, this is considered good.

The Slush Pile

Shiel Land receives roughly 300 unsolicited manuscripts a week. The majority of them are decided upon in their first lines or on the weakness of the covering letter. Mason has received bribes, chocolate, pictures and more. Even our own Peter Cox has received a manuscript in a glass case (it turned up smashed).

In your covering letter you should attempt to communicate your own identity (whether or not that is similar to other authors). Show your place in the market (you have to do your research here, both in terms of where your book goes on the shelves but also which agent, particularly within an agency, is the right fit for your genre). Avoid CVs, an agent's interest lies in the writing, so get straight to it asap. A 1 page synopsis is preferable and it doesn't have to give the ending - this of course is all at the whim of the agency, and you must do your research and submit what is requested.

Literary or Genre

The industry doesn't, Mason says, talk about literary and genre delineations, however literary books are far more difficult to publish. The problem with them is that they can inspire or be really awful. The signal from the trade buyers may be to commercialise the cover.

Literary writers, says Mason, must be brilliantly inventive. Don't get blinded by panic half way through and beam the characters to the moon (more wildly wacky ideas have passed his eyes). These works must contain their creativity.

And, for every definitive way in doing things there are others. The independent publishers were set up as a way of railing against the conglomerates (an Orion for every Random House), and are more prepared to try Literary works. Mason gave us an example of one book that he'd loved that had sat in his bottom drawer for five years - no one wanted it. On the off chance, two weeks ago, a guy he knew had left a publishing house to set up his own, and Mason submitted the piece to him only to discover the guy loved it. Sold!

Agents can accept on the basis of a single page, or on three. A submission can be made, accepted and then the agent receives 1 chapter every month from the author, edits it and waits for the next. MG Harris was accepted by Peter Cox based on her writing, her initial maniscript was scrapped and she had to write a new one.

Publishers, unlike agents, want a completed manuscript. As Mason puts it, agents represent people, but publishers publish books.

Sales

2000 copies sold in hardback is considered a respectable first sell for a new author. The review of a book in trade magazines and papers used to be on hardbacks only, but this is changing. Note: it is not respectable for an established author to sell only 2000 copies.

20,000+ sales in paperback is thought of as respectable for a first time author, but books have a small window (shelf life). If they aren't selling, they will be pulled. And, as with the hardbacks, this number is only respectable for the first time author.

Remember that submitting to an agent gives you support. An agent can often work for an author for free for up to two years (working on spec) with no idea that the book will sell to anyone. That is invested trust you don't get from a publisher.

Contract

A final note, contracts and authors are protectected by the Association of Authors Agents. And quite often these contracts can include a 6 weeks termination aspect. Either side may, at any time, end the agreement with 6 weeks notice.

Masterclass - Putting the Science into Fiction with Ann Lingard

Ann Lingard's former life was as a doctor of science. And while she has become an author (her latest book, Floating Stones, was released in 2003 on eBook) she hasn't set aside her scientific life as something separate and to be forgotten. She incorporates all her experience into what she writes, often going on to learn more so as to infuse her writing. On her website, she says:

‘As a scientist myself, I feel that scientists often get a ‘bad press’ in novels - only rarely are they portrayed as likeable or even fairly ordinary people. I hope I’ve managed to change that perception in the fiction that I’ve written - ‘scientists’ (a very generalised term!) are interesting, dreary, infuriating, warm-hearted; they fall in love, they have families, worry about mortgages and blocked drains, have hobbies or watch too much TV … they’re human!

And that played a big part in her masterclass, an informative presentation on the real world in which science exists and the website she set up to get writers and scientists talking.

www.scitalk.org.uk

SciTalk is a project to help scientists and fiction-writers - playwrights, poets and novelists - to meet, and talk, one-to-one and face-to-face.

Scientists need to show writers — poets, playwrights, novelists – the wealth of possibilities that are opened up to fiction by using science and scientists in their work. Just as a novel with an accountant as a main character need not be about accountancy, a novel with a scientist need not be about science. Scientists need writers to show that they are 'normal people' from all backgrounds, with normal concerns.

Ann told us three stories, all of them relating to the need for facts and realism when trying to bring science into your work.

In 1854, Philip Henry Gosse, the renowned marine biologist, was travelling to Ilfracombe by paddlesteamer from Bristol. He and his wife were moving there to a town house his wife had picked out with the help of God(!) It was dark by the time they pulled up at the quay at Ilfracombe and with the paddles flaying, the wheels churning, the night suddenly lit up. A green glow, unnatural and shocking, eminated from the waters around them. Gosse ran for home and collected a glass jar from their apartment. He returned to collect some of the strange coloured water and took the sample home. Still and by lamp light the water was again translucent. The green had faded. But, he took it into a dark room and struck it, and as if by magic, the lights returned, tiny green halos flowering before his eyes.

In the water were tiny jellyfish plankton that react to the darkness and, it seems, to being churned or struck. Aequorea, they have become known, have a green fluroescent protein that has revolutionised modern genetics. By extracting the gene from the jellyfish, scientists have been able to insert it into the dna of lab mice, attach it to another gene that they are testing and check to see if it is switched on. Other tests have included, attaching the gene to the development of nerve cells in zebra fish to see their development.

We've moved on a great deal since the Victorain age - taking big strides away from it in fact, what hasn't changed since then are the opportunities. There are lots of places in scientific environments where one can build relationships between characters. Science can take the front or back seat in any number of situations an author wishes to employ to keep the narrative going. It doesn't have to all take place in a white lab. It doesn't have to be stilted.

As authors we can take into account culture and the style of the scientific discipline. Science can exist in the form of field work (a life split between different places), or otherwise constantly on the move. Also, scientists can be any age, and even those that have retired don't necessarily give up their passions.

Lingard's speech really centres on the notion that many writers adding scientific elements to their prose do so in a generic manner, moving away from the narrative to deliver their evidence or make the big reveal. She proceeded to show us some photos of different environments: a cell biologist in a sterile, orderly molecular biolab, filled with jars, painted white, with all the white-coat trimmings. There also we saw a palaentologist in an office of cluttered desks, stacked with papers. The only equipment we could see was a microscope. Geologists, we saw, who'd left academia, can travel the world, sub-cotnracting to oil and gas companies. Out in the middle of nowhere with a pipeline and a digger. They go to international conferences, they go home, they travel.

Remember, says Lingard, that scientists are first and foremost people. There are group leaders in the teams, researchers, technicians, phd students. They have lives and it's not all science. They are ordinary and not to be mistaken for the cliche of Dr Frankenstein or Igor. They could be existing on soft money (a three year contract) and be concerned about their dependents and where their next pay cheque is coming from.

Here, from the Armstrong and Miller Show is a very different example:

http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=gqZaLCB9KtI&feature=related

A friend says of the piece:

Apart from the white coats, shirts and ties (none of which most bioscientists bother with unless they really have to, most don't own a tie)...and calling each other 'Doctor' and 'Professor' (its all first names, whoever you are)...but the screaming, threats, pressure and hysterics and not far from what I've seen with some lab leaders...

Lingard suggests the following points:

• Science doesn't have to be difficult (don't bog the reader down with information). Distill it and use elements not didactics. Subtlety.
• A story with an accountant doesn't have to be about accountancy.
• Readers like to "get to grips with modern science". Any writer covering a science subject is going to generate reviews interested as much in that science as in the prose.
• Science use can be topical and can give you the edge. Look at the possibility of the next big thing - global warming, new fuel sources, genetic cloning
• Use SciTalk. Currently there are 150 scientists covering a broad spectrum of disciplines, vetted specifically by Lingard and they can not only provide you with pertinent explanations of how things work, but advise on where the wall between reality and fiction can be fudged.
  

Masterclass - Self Publishing (Olympic Mind Games) by Robert Ronsson

Robert Ronsson started writing his latest (and first) release in response to a competition for Saga magazine in December 2005 - I was planning on entering it too, but apparantly I wasn't old enough - the brief was to write for children (proving that it doesn't matter how old you are, you can still relate).

He didn't win, but that was only a minor stumbling block. He submitted the completed work to a self-publishing company called Pen Press. They have this to say:

Self-financed publication is no longer regarded as the final option to get into print but as a viable and sometimes preferable alternative, and we have authors on our lists who have actually turned away from potential deals with mainstream publishers in favour of publishing themselves using the bona fide and quality services we can provide.

And though Ronsson had to stump up his own cash for the project, this is no vanity publishing business. Pen Press, Ronsson says, has a quality hurdle. It doens't just print every author that darkens its door. And, they don't just leave it up to the author to manage the deliverables. Pen Press provides a basic editing service to ensure the manuscript is free of general errors (they won't go into any prose stripping or discussions on plotting/pacing/narrative). They print and assist in distribution and provide marketing support, though, again, it is up to the author to pay marketing costs.

Ronsson says that if you are looking into self publishing and, like him, you are more interested in generating official sales, rather than a quick buck, then check that the self-publishing house does provide distribution. If your book can get onto the Gardners lists then you can practically get your book sourced and sold to anywhere in the UK - the next step is to convince the shops to buy it. And that requires marketing. Ronsson says that with Pen Press, as long as you are active and doing something Pen Press will reciprocate, and assist where they can.

So, first off, their plan for world domination required an Elevator Speech.

Elevator Speech

The Elevator Speech is a blurb of the book. Something succinct, fluid and easily given to brief alterations so as not to sound stilted but delivered simply off the tongue. You have it on a card and you leave it by the phone, just in the off chance that the media phone up asking questions. You can immediately run off the elevator speech without stumbling.

His book, Olympic Mind Games, has the following elevator speech:

It’s 2012. The world is in terrible danger and Jack Donovan, 13, is the only person who knows.

He has to hide out in London’s Olympic Village if he’s going to emerge from the shadow of his super-achieving twin sister and defeat the forces committed to the world’s destruction.

Marketing / Charity

The next step was to secure ways of getting the book out there, and since the book places itself at the Olympic village, uses the subject of sport and is generally very active, Ronsson and Pen Press looked to a sports charity. The idea was to give £1 from every book sale to the charity and in return the charity would assist in promotion. Ronsson says that the key is finding something topical, mainstream and positive to link your work with. How can it benefit people?

Brickwall

That was before the charity questioned the use of the Olympic within the title. So it was that the Olympic commitee were questioned on the matter and a furore was unleashed in which at first they wanted to put the kybosh on the whole thing, arguing that Olympic is registered to them!

As it stands, a simple search on Amazon proves that 4,305 books have been published with Olympic in the title, 103 DVDs, 34 Video Games and 179 Music items. It appears that the Olympic team had been a little lax in enforcing their brand.

Anyhoo, the BBC ran a news item on the story, here. Ronsson had a choice. Here was a chance to really put his work out there on the edge. He'd created controversy. How could he use it? But hey could sue him. His decision wasn't an easy one, but based upon the following decision, he and Pen Press went ahead with the title:

• We have right on our side
• Print with the title we wanted
• Be prepared to pulp the first print run
• Try to get public opinion on our side

Courting the Media

By coincidence alone, Ronsson had previously met a BBC journalist on a train to a football match. They had got chatting and now as the publication of his book was starting to teeter into an abyss, he called in a favour - and they might be able to get him on the air to talk about it. This became his first mistake. When the media did call Ronsson was in the wrong place at the wrong time. They wanted him to come to them... that day. But he'd already made other plans and had to turn them down. Unfortunately that meant his story was already old news. They might be able to fit him in the next day, but then, newer stories would probably crop up and he'd no longer be relevant.

Ronsson thought fast, and by a fluke of guess work, contacted BBC journalist John Humphreys who hosts the Radio 4 Today programme:

Did you know that the word 'Olympic' has been copyrighted? If you wanted to call your next book My Olympic Struggle for Political Honesty you wouldn't be allowed to until the year 2013 when the London Organising Committee for the Olympic Games (LOCOG) loses its protection.

Ronsson had planned carefully, ensuring that his e-mail said exactly what it should, and it was enough. Humphrys came back to him:

fascinating ... worth following up... I'll alert my editor
JH

They went to interview, with Humphrys first warning Ronsson that the worst that could happen was that the Olympics sue him - what the hell?!

15 Minutes of Fame

• BBC Radio Hereford & Worcester (3 Minutes)
• BBC Radio 4 Today (5 Minutes)
• BBC TV Midlands Today (5 Minutes)
• BBC Radio Hereford & Worcester (2 Minutes)

The story was picked up by Guardian, Telegraph, Bookseller, Writers’ News, and by the end of it, even the New York Times had run a brief story:

WORD GAMES London 2012, the organizers of London’s coming Olympic Games, had a problem with Robert Ronsson’s science-fiction novel for children, “Donovan Twins: Olympic Mind Games.” They sent the author e-mail warning him not to use Olympic in his title, saying it was a breach of trademark rights (bbc.co.uk).

Undaunted, the publisher Pen Press printed 300 copies of the book, which has to do with aliens, not sports. The organizers relented somewhat. Given the small press run, a spokesman told BBC News, it would be “disproportionate to take a heavy-handed approach.” But he said London 2012 still found the title “disappointing” and that it hoped to reach an “amicable solution.”

Mr. Ronsson said he found the group’s actions to be “extraordinarily strange.”

The world is a small place after all. And all this free promotion has meant three print runs. At the height of it all his book had reached the top 500 on Amazon's book sales.

The Grind

With the limelight switched off, Ronsson still had work to do. Self-marketing requires a lot of on-the-road action. You've got to court your local outless, he says, and I've discovered that's at least a 50 mile radius - bookshops / newspapers / radio stations. In fact, he says, local press love to hear about a local author. Independent bookseller too, giving them the opportunity to host events. You can't be a shrinking violet.

The three main booksellers he tried were WH Smith, Waterstones and Borders, and of the three, for a self published author, the only one worth attempting is Waterstones. This is, he says, because Waterstones allows managers to pick some of the books they stock. The other two don't and whilst Waterstones even provides a budget for its managers to read a little wider (so as to deliver the best options to its customers), the other two are blinkered to the possibility.

In this money-dominated business (aren't they all - sigh) there is little place for the small author trying to break out. Just the other day there was an article about the lack of dangerous publishers - if you look at the best seller lists it would seem we've entered a time warp and gone back at least 20 years (same old authors in the fiction lists). And that pile of books you meet as you enter Waterstones... the publishers have paid a grand amount to get those stacked there. They don't just appear in the 3 for 2 by serendipity you know.

Know your demograph

Ronsson has it slighlty easier than most. He's pitching to the biggest market, where the bucks are made. But it's still not an easy ride. He's had to put himself around quite a bit:

• Literacy Hours in Primary School
• Guide Scout Meeting
• 6th Form Creative Writing Workshop
• ‘Chatterbooks’
• School Christmas Fair

He's working his audience, getting himself in there with them. The key is not to stop.

Why all the work?

Specifically in Ronsson's case, he's attempting to generate as many physical sales as possible. They are recorded by Gardners, which means that he can take that data to a mainstream publisher and negotiate for them to take him on. It's all business.

He can argue now, after a big sale in Bewdley, that he was the best selling author in North Worcestershire. Also, after a Reverend from Cornwall read the book, he purchased 8 copies for his family, making Ronsson the best selling author in the far-west. It all adds up.

What's next

He has a plan, and it's geared towards cashing in on the foundations he's already built. But it would be unfair of me to speak of those here.

Masterclass - Prose Stripping with Jim Crace - Part Two

Before I go on with a breakdown of the elements of my 1,000 words, Jim still has much to tell us of the art of writing - as a means for consideration with prose stripping. Read on...

Specificity

When we write of the lovers on the back row at the cinema, cuddling up to one another because the girl is afraid for the maiden on the silver screen, who is fleeing from the grotesque monster that refuses to die, we don't simply tell the reader that the couple are watching a film. We are specific. We tell them that the characters have gone to see Alien, or the Fly, or whatever it is. That they've gone to the Paramount, which has sat on the corner of Western and Third since the fifties, withstanding two arson attacks and the red scare. We give the reader detail, and whenever possible we name a noun, a theatre: the Old Vic; an audio appliance: a Walkman; the make of his jacket: Harris Tweed; the cheese they're eating: Yorkshire Blue.

We do this to bring the world alive. These are details that more than likely, the reader will forget immediately, but whilst they are there - like the immense work put into cinema these days by Industrial Light and Magic, Weta Digital... and others - the reader can feel immersed.

As, Francine Prose states (in her wonderful - you must go buy it - Reading Like a Writer):

... God is in the details, we all must on some deep level believe that truth is in there, too. Or maybe it is that God is truth: Details are what persuade us that someone is telling the truth - a fact that every liar knows instinctively and too well.

It's funny that I should bring this up twice in two days - I digress now, in a particularly Sebald-like manner - for while discussing Sebald's work The Rings of Saturn, I read out the passage above. Why? Well, let me tell you (don't you hate narrators that speak like this? It's so condescending): Sebald's work, as previously mentioned, is faction - it details facts and figures that link in with its themes, but it goes into scenes and locations that Sebald would have no knowledge of, even in research (and thus he makes up descriptions of thought and observation). And he'd do this... he does this, to ensure that the reader is invested and ready to hear the facts that Sebald wants to impart. By lacing the prose with details he provides the reader with something on which to hang their thoughts, their subjectivities and their memory.

But remember, that gratuitous references in metaphors/similes or merely observations, must serve a purpose. Certainly, the Yorkshire Blue, the Walkman, the Harris Tweed all inform on choices made by the character(s) involved; and they may also advise on place and time.

Bees in the Head

Countering specificity is bees in the head syndrome. Providing the reader with too much imagery, too many character names and/or too much specificity renders the reader in a comatose state. They can no longer concentrate on the narrative. As an authoritative author, you must lead the reader gently through the narrative, providing names and details in a timely fashion.

Tenses
When getting down to writing the default mind-set we enter into is past tense. Whenever we talk to others about things we've done, seen, etc, it's always in the past tense - that's how we relate stories to one another:

This morning I got up at 5:30 and climbed into the car at 6. It was so cold, but after five minutes on the road the feeling returned to my toes.

Trying to retell the story in the present tense, especially to someone you're talking to, is slightly at odd with the norm:

It is morning and I climb out of bed. The clock reads 5:30... It's 6 and I get into the car, finding it cold but my toes are warming up now that I'm on the road.

It doesn't work person to person, but does on the page, giving a sense of immediacy between writer and reader.

But the past tense is baggy; it can be construed in different ways, easily misunderstood, and complex. Jim told us this:

Groucho Marx is now seventy. He's an old man, but he still loves to socialise. He's out one night at a party and as the evening draws to a close he gets his coat and makes for the door. The hostess sees him going and stops him on the threshold to wish him goodnight.
"Did you have a good time?" she asks.
"Yes I did," says Groucho, wagging his cigar and raising his eyebrows, "but this wasn't it."

The present tense isn't a generous tense. It's not wide-angled. It's restrictive. But it has its advantage. In the example above the joke is told in the present tense - as most jokes are told. This is the default tense for jokes, giving the audience the impression that the information is unravelling right at that moment, that it is happeneing at the same time that the comedian is telling it.

However, the crux of the joke - the dialogue - regards past tense: Did you have a good time, and, Yes I did, but this wasn't it. And by its very nature - the comedic missunderstanding between Groucho and the hostess - highlights the bagginess.

Masterclass - Prose Stripping with Jim Crace - Part One

So, finally, I've had my prose stripping session with Jim Crace, author of 9 books (and only 2 left to write - allegedly).

S, first off, what is prose stripping all about?

Essentially, it's about analysing the final draft of someone's work and niggling at the word use. This comes after planning, critiques, and draftage, but, as Jim says, before at least two more edits (the editor's editing and then the line editor's editing). There can be more drafts before that; obviously dependent upon what the prose stripping brings up.

But, before I give a run down of what happened to my manuscript, I want to cover some of what Jim discussed with us.

He began by talking about redundancy of words - the main focus of prose stripping. In a previous group (some years ago) one of the students began a story with:

The Black and white magpie flew across the empty field.

Obseving thusly:

1. Everyone knows magpies are black and white
2. Everyone knows that magpies fly

So, what is this sentence really telling the reader? Nothing. Jim advised that not every sentence has to work to multiple effect, giving colour, subtext, description, narration, etc, all at the same time. Were every sentence like that the reader would be overwhelmed. But, a sentence can't be so brazenly loaded as the magpie one above with the most obvious elements that do nothing to inform the reader.

The same student also wrote something like:

Whenever the two of them fought there seemed to be a bonfire always there in the backgarden, emitting smoke.

Top marks to those of you raising your hands to say, emitting smoke? What else is a bonfire going to do? Exactly! Apparantly in Jim's group at that time, the entire class flapped their hands like magpie wings to signify the redundancy.

The student was sent away with the text to reconsider and rework - a difficult, sometimes anxious, time for any writer, but, as Jim says, an essential time. We must all spend time going over our work like this after the final draft, considering our purpose. When the student came back, she'd changed nothing... but two letters. See how much this alteration changes the meaning (whether it's an obvious meaning or a personal one provided to the reader):

Whenever the two of them fought there seemed to be a bonfire always there in the backgarden, knitting smoke.

The reader now has a domestic image of knitting set against the argument. The notion of someone hunched over working furiously at their needles. An idea of the branches and twigs on the fire acting like needles, and the smoke becomes a scarf reeling off into the air.

"Metaphor," says Jim, "never works unless the reader is on your side." The metaphor needs to be easy for the reader to grasp; which is to say (as Solvejg has often pointed out of my own writing) that a metaphor is usually better stated with regard to a concrete noun/verb instead of abstract ones.

Jim says that once he's done with his book he heads off to a stationers in search of a cruel pencil - a pen or pencil that looks vastly different from the usual kind one might purchase for normal use in writing or editing. Something tactile, colourful, oddly shaped; anything that can help the writer put on a different head - the head of cold objectivism towards their own work.

"Don't set yourself too many tasks at once with your editing," says Jim. "Split the work up. Go at it first to identify the faults, but don't repair it until a second pass. First mark up what doesn't work, then once that is done, go over it again; so that you're not doing too much, trying to change hats."

We touched briefly upon different authors and how they layout their manuscripts differently - opting for different ways to attach characters to dialogue, to separate passages of time, the way their characters think, etc.

Jim says that the author's ability to change the layout of their manuscript is their unacknowledged armoury - it's a great support in helping narrative flow and reader understanding, and should never be undervalued. It is interesting therefore that today I am reading the charity book - The Book of Other People (edited by Zadie Smith) - and in the introduction she comments on these features of layout in respect to the many writers that have been involved in the project (a bunch of short stories solely about characters):

There is, however, an element of their character that has been removed: the fonts. Publishers standardize fonts to suit the style of the house, but when writers deliver their stories by e-mail, each font tell its own story... There are many strange, precise and seemingly intimate tics that disappear upon publication: paragraphs separated by pictorialsymbols, titles designed just so, outsized speech marks, centred dialogue, uncentered paragraphs, no paragraphs at all.

In response to the beginning of one of the other students' opening lines we then went on to discuss attributing dialogue to the character speaking. Some people attribute using he said/she said, but others, for example, Iris Murdoch in The Green Knight, chooses not to attribute much of what is said at all. There seem three ways to do it - and though this is by no means didactic, writers should consider using each sparingly:

1. Naming a character in dialogue (in two way conversations this allows you to deduce the speaker by who they are speaking to)
   
   "Why, thank you, Marie, I'd very much like to get out of this wet dress."
   
   
2. Attributation (in these days of avoiding he growled/she simmered, he said/she said can become really monotonous)
   
   "I don't think I like where this is going," said Harold.
   
   
3. Adjacent action (forgoing he said/she said in favour of the character acting)
   
   "Count me out. I've never been so humiliated in-" Karen turned away from the table and stared at them all in the dark reflection of the city, her hands balled in her lap.

Really great writers can of course develop a rhythm in the language of different characters that the reader knows for certain can't be anyone speaking. And of course, in a conversation that goes on for more than a couple of lines the author can omit any reference for a period because the reader should be able to maintain their own knowledge of who is speaking - though they do need gentle reminders from time to time to prevent having to go back in search of who said what!

James Roose-Evans - Playwright Masterclass

James Roose-Evans and our Head of English shared a quick luncheon before coming to join the masterclass, in what seemed to be an exclusive restaurant. The only patrons at the time they were given a brief but defining example of character. Two waitresses appeared, one suggesting that a few of the tables be re-laid for new customers. The other replied, ‘I’ve never laid a table before’, which, as James said, is very Alan Bennett.

The Head of English suggested he introduced James to start proceedings, to which James replied, ‘Like being at my own memorial service.’ A dry wit, a very interesting man, and something close to what I’d imagined of a double-barrelled name, though far less pretension – a man of his generation, I’d say.

A playwright and director for countless years, James is a legendary figure of theatre. He directed the premier performance of Pinter’s “The Dumb Waiter”, and has a lifetime of truths to impart on the subject of theatre; firstly: that the negative side to being a playwright is that even by sending self-addressed envelopes for return of manuscripts won’t generate responses for the new time writer – there are few opportunities, but many applications. Like writing a novel, it is a lonely exercise, however there is a distinct buzz generated at the point when the playwright starts working with others.

A special relationship exists between the actors and an audience, James says. One actress once told him it was like riding a horse. She’d listen to the audience from the wings, gathering their temperament being galloping on. Then on stage, she’d know whether at the end of a scene she could simply ride off, or whether she needed to dig her heels in a bit longer.

Authors must allow actors to interpret the work and the characters. They must step back and allow this development. In the 1700’s the author used to read all the parts to the cast, giving them a run through of the whole play as intended. One example of such a case was with Shakespeare, when having read one of his plays, an actor threw down his script, lamenting, ‘How am I supposed to do it better than that?’ Now, an author doesn’t have this voice. An author’s presence can inhibit actors from expressing and developing.

John Gallway has stated (as many and various people have over the years): ‘Character is situation.’ James takes up his encounter at the restaurant with the two waitresses – an idea – there is an empty restaurant. A girl enters. Where does she sit? Does she try different places? Does she sit by the window, or in the middle? Then, once she’s settled, a man arrives. Where does he sit? Immediately there is tension, questions. How will they interact if at all? “Choice – dilemma – tension,” says James. Lastly, for this scene, the waitresses arrive, and of course one of them “hasn’t laid a table before”.

Inspiration, suggests James, comes from listening to dialogue. Maureen Lipman’s husband Jack Rosenthal took inspiration for creating London’s Burning back in 1986 when he had building work done on his house by two moonlighting fireman. Every tea break they had he was there quizzing them about their fire fighting lives, developing his idea from the research. “An ear for dialogue,” he says, “is most important.”

Hugh Whitemore wrote a play on a nunnery, wanting to capture the day-to-day life. He and James spent time in a nunnery as they developed ideas for the play, and having an ear for dialogue and being adept at remembering speeches, when the head nun explained the meaning of what it is to be a nun, he was able to take that verbatim and place it pivotally within the play to encapsulate the meaning in a way that neither he nor James could otherwise have done. But, theatre is as much about action as it is about dialogue. Life must be shown.

Over the years, James has seen many actors play these actions to astounding results, namely in the use of movement and silence. Eleanor Dousa, he says, had one scene in which she shows her emotion and her inability to communicate its grandness by the way she rises, walks across the other character, attempts to touch them and can’t do it, before retiring to the far end of the stage to stare out of the window. “Authors must never underestimate what an actor may discover in the silences and the pauses.”

When James saw John Hurt doing Beckett’s Crapp’s Last Tape, Hurt told him: “The thing I’ve discovered about Beckett in my rehearsals is that his work is long silences broken by words.”

The author must know everything there is to know about a character so that when the actor asks: “What am I doing?” there is always an answer. When Hugh Whitemore wrote “Breaking the Code”, about the code-breaker Turin, he learnt a lot about mathematics. Patricia Routledge also stayed at a nunnery for three days, as James and Hugh had done, to develop her character. For the Mother of Calcutta, one actress spent all her time serving in charity work to develop her role as Mother Theresa.

James says that he has gone through plays page-by-page to learn about each character. He will write down everything within the play that tells him about the character, whether it’s their own dialogue, the dialogue of others, or direction – anything that helps to boil down the understanding of the character. He gives A Streetcar Named Desire as an example, believing the 1996 version directed by Peter Hall was a mistake: In the play Blanche Dubois is hounded out of town for seducing a young boy. The key scene is when a newspaper boy calls when DuBois is alone in the house. Hall’s version had a balding newspaper man!

DuBois fears ageing. When James was developing a stage version in South Africa they worked on that scene over and over, never quite getting the mood. They trained all night, and finally the actress broke down in tears, finally she had understood DuBois’s feelings, telling James that she had imagined what the boy would look like in ten years and what she would look like in ten years – the crux of the character.

This takes James to his next point. A playwright needs to know everything about his characters not just from a background point of view but:

1. Who am I?
2. Where have I come from? (physically, mentally, long term, medium term, short term)
3. When is it? (time, date, seasons, traditions, beliefs)
4. What is the weather like?
5. What can I see?
6. What’s next door?
7. Where am I going? (physically, mentally, long term, medium term, short term)

A playwright must know the life of a character off stage before and after each and every scene.

Shakespeare, James points out, slips in so much information at the beginning of Romeo and Juliet answering in a very deft way, in that very first scene, all those questions. Derek Jacobi, when he first played Turin in Hugh’s “Breaking the Code”, acted out the first two long scenes – dealing in large with a break in. At the end of the second scene Turin breaks into a monologue demonstrating his mathematical knowledge, his love for numbers. The audience wouldn’t necessarily understand anything that he said, and the director wanted to cut at least some of it. But Derek portrayed Turin with such conviction that the words were meaningless beside what the audience would learn about Turin’s beliefs and desires, and his inner character.

Writing a play, says James, is about the importance of one central character with strong motivation, and a situation that creates blocks and obstacles to thwart them. Arthur Miller always said that a play “explores and resolves a conflict”.

Subtext, says James, is of utmost importance also, backing of course, every other screenwriters point of view when they say, if a scene is about what it’s about the author has failed. There are an infinite number of ways to say “I love you”, which James put into practice by roaring it as if it’s his last chance to make the object of his affections understand him, and then following with a tender, quiet and thoughtful version. Both versions are passionate, and yet they come from different places, different characters with different motivations – different interpretations.

The use of banal statements can be a technique for exiting a character, for example one who can’t deal with a situation or emotion – “I’m off to make some tea.” James notes that often times that character returns with a new vigour to their emotions, a new thing they have to say – having dealt with their weakness.

There is an importance in gesture also. James gives two examples. One in The Doll House, Nora, sits clutching at the arms of her chair, her knuckles white. She calmly gets up and leaves the stage – her emotions so greatly strung that we imagine she’ll offload them off stage. The other from King Lear. One actress, playing Reagan, had developed a gesture of stroking the back of her hair, preening as a cat might, absentmindedly. Then, when she says “Pluck out his eyes” that hand darts out in the same movement before her, but quickly now, venomously – character defining.

When Stanislavsky was playing the role of Uncle Vanya he invested much of his time in studying Chekhov’s text to appreciate the full extent of his character, but when Chekhov arrived he wasn’t quite so sure and asked had they read through all of it? Of course they had, but Chekhov pointed them to one particular line: ‘ Vanya orders his cravats from France.’ At the time a Russian looking to France would be the kind of man who wants to be an artist. The fact that Vanya has this wish changed his persona for Stanislavsky.

The ballet dancer, Vaslav Nijinsky, remembers James, had raw bleeding thumbs. He was a man so highly strung and tightly wound that he’d stand and scratch at his thumbs with his index fingers, like a clockwork mechanism, and the blood would run.

JM Barrie, says James, used to shake hands by handing the other person’s hand back to them. So once they clasped hands, rather than actually shaking he would piston their arm back towards their shoulder as if to say: ‘And your hand, sir.’

James places importance upon Anchors also, relating the space on stage to “Blocking”. A character using a door, a chair, a sideboard to give them life, to make them work. Instead of them all looking like “unsuccessful people at a ballroom dance”. For example, in one play a character spent an entire scene knitting. At the point when they put that knitting down to speak the audience knew it would be important. In the nunnery, one actor spent weeks rehearsing wrapping apples in newspaper so that on stage, they could speak their lines without looking down – being in the moment, being the character.

Returning to subtext, James opens the door and discusses Threshold Conflict – the psychology of leaving a room. “I’m going now and I’m not coming back”. He leaves.

Then, he comes back, goes up to a seat and says: “I’m going now.” He turns away, melancholic, patters to the door before turning back. “And,” he says, thoughtfully, somewhat hurt, “I’m not coming back” The key is not to give away the meaning of a line too early.

James suggests writing that synopsis first, no matter how brief. Write it – this map, this skeleton – and paste it to the wall. Keep coming back to it, asking whether the scene serves the purpose. Alan Ayckbourne says “start as late as you can without leaving the audience perplexed”. Learning to edit yourself as a writer or speaker is very important. “Edit, edit, edit,” says James and then recounts a friend who he’s had to tell off for her lengthy babblings – not a pleasant experience, but then everyone’s eyes glaze over whenever she speaks.

Binky Beaumont, James says, would only be present for the first preview of a play – he’d not watch rehearsals. And rather than watch the actors, he’d watch the audience picking up when they lost interest.

It was Virginia Woolf who said: “Observe perpetually, observe the onset of old age.”

Robert Frost would ask: ‘How do you say “oh”?’ Imagine the difference between toothache and someone stepping on your toe.

Rounding off his talk, James mentions the use of giving focus to prepositions and “and, but, because”, etc. To use them for a tumultuous pause – which give the audience something to hang off, wake them up, build suspense.

Some people speak a poem or speech through several times out loud without pause, trying to speak it in different ways. By the last read though, it is believed that the true character of the piece will have been discovered.

Shakespeare: ‘Silence is the perfect’st herald of joy I were little happy if I could say how much.’

F Scott Fitzgerald had this short example to try different ways of expressing the dialogue (the key being that A doesn’t know the contents of the cable):
A: There’s a cable for you.
B: opening cable. It’s my father. He’s dead.

Ken Follet - Suspense Masterclass

Here on the NAW we get the occasional master of arts to come give a talk on their most reverred subject. Last Tuesday it was Ken Follet's turn - super-successful (well he has monogramed shirts - either that or he'd just had a tattoo done on his left nipple that was bleeding through) thriller writer. Thanks to Bobbie D for doing the write up that follows. It saves me having to do any work. Much appreciated Bobbie.

Tuesday 12 June 2007
Trailer:

I’ve been reading thrillers for longer than I’ve been writing them. Over time, I’ve put my ideas on how thrillers work and why we love to read them into a lecture – The Art of Suspense.

Starting with the first real thriller – Erskine Childer’s ‘The Riddle of the Sands,’ and covering the works of John Buchan, Zane Grey, Agatha Christie, Ian Fleming and Thomas Harris (amongst others) I trace how thrillers have developed. The historical events that helped drive the development of thrillers, the effect of the Dreyfus trial, Hamlet as an assassin, the impact of the world wars on how we see ourselves ... this history of the thriller will be of interest to students of literature and would-be writers.

A good idea for a novel is one that will generate between 50 and 100 dramatic scenes. Pride and Prejudice has 61. Some ideas only give you 2 or 3, and are not enough for a novel.

The defining characteristic of a thriller is that the protagonist is in danger. (Detective stories are not thrillers, they arouse curiosity rather than tension.) Sometimes the villain is in danger, or the danger alternates between hero and villain. If the villain has a fair chunk of the action and point of view, he needs to be charming or readers will be turned off.

The Riddle of the Sands (Erskine Childers) 1903, was the first ‘thriller’. It had the pretence of a factual basis, revealing anxiety on the part of the author. Robinson Crusoe, written early 18C. when the novel was a new form, also pretended to be factual. Follett did the same thing himself in 1978 when ‘faction’ was a new form.

A display of expertise (in Childers’ case, of North Sea sandbanks, etc.) helps because this diverts the reader’s attention from the implausibility of the plot. All the best stories are unrealistic (says Follett). To fake the expertise plausibly, you need to research, if possible hands on, e.g. in his most terrifying case, flying lessons.

The tensions (in a thriller or any novel) have to resolve, and this is almost always physical, e.g. a fist fight or sex. Look at Anna Karenina – hundreds of pages of irresolution and dilemma, resolved physically by throwing herself under a train.

The Riddle of the Sands had no women characters at first, but Childers was persuaded to put one in, which he described as ‘a horrible nuisance’.

Childers wrote only the one book before he was shot for treason in 1922. Next came John Buchan (The 39 Steps) acknowledged by Ian Fleming as the creator of the genre.

As well as putting the protagonist in danger, a good thriller also threatens a greater danger (Riddle of the Sands – to England, 39 Steps – to Europe). Why? Because (1) it enlarges the concerns of the novel; (2) it makes the hero more admirable; and (3) it gives more opportunities for suspense because the hero will risk himself for the greater good.

The hero’s social class is usually somewhat elevated – readers like to identify upwards (says Follett), in general fiction too. Clubland heroes began with Buchan. Lower class heroes are acceptable if they are good at cutting their betters down to size, e.g. 1950s novels like Saturday Night and Sunday Morning.

Buchan set his thrillers outside, and used any excuse to take them to Scotland, whose landscape he described beautifully. But he didn’t do this gratuitously – landscape in a thriller must have a function: to set the mood or further the plot – e.g. establishing that there is nowhere to conceal oneself.

E Phillips Oppenheim (from 1900 to 1939) invented indoor thrillers (The Mysterious Mr Sabin). Weak plots; the vicarious high life is the main attraction.

Many thrillers include ‘the conversation with the Prime Minister scene’ about halfway through. The hero meets a VIP, e.g. the President of the USA, who tells him, ‘Everything depends on you.’ This is an efficient way to add tension and veracity to what’s at stake.

Zane Grey invented the Western genre (again men in danger with a violent resolution). The thriller and the Western are essentially literature for men. Affluence in the 20C enabling publishers to create niche markets.

William le Queux, another bad writer, invented the spy thriller. This grew out of the Dreyfus case and the build up to WWI.

Joseph Conrad (The Secret Agent) invented the psychological thriller, where the issue isn’t who but why. Hamlet is a psychological thriller: it’s what’s in his head that prevents him from killing his uncle, not physical obstacles. Crime and Punishment is a psychological thriller. There are action scenes and dangers in both of these, but their purpose is to increase the tension in the mind of the protagonist, more than to threaten him physically.

• Bulldog Drummond is crap – ‘snobbery with violence’.
• Leslie Charteris (The Saint) is okay.
• Geoffrey Household (Rogue Male) – a classic. Simple but effective.
• Somerset Maugham (Ashenden), and Graham Greene (The Third Man) – modernist disillusionment. Both these writers had connections with intelligence in war. The moral dilemma has more importance than the chase scenes, which, as in Dostoevsky, are there to heighten the psychological tension.
• Eric Ambler – Marxist thrillers – invented real violence that actually hurts, which became standard.
• Edgar Allen Poe – mystery detective stories, heading towards the hybrid detective thriller, exemplified by Dashiell Hammett and Raymond Chandler. Thought of as an American genre, although Arthur Conan Doyle got there first with Sherlock Holmes.
• Dennis Wheatley – WWII thrillers, the agent behind enemy lines, a situation that yields constant tension.
• Mickey Spillane – a great writer, hardboiled punchy prose; but his attitudes stink.
• Hank Jansen – prosecuted for obscenity.
• Ian Fleming (James Bond) was privately into S&M. The hero becomes promiscuous and romantic, and the action has an edge of sexual sadism. Vivid, immediate prose.
  The heyday of the spy story was the cold war and the nuclear arms race. It was comforting to know that James Bond was out there, keeping us safe.
• Len Deighton, John Le Carré (The Spy who Came in from the Cold). Lower key.

Post cold war, new arenas have been found – organised crime, science, assassination plots, serial killers (Thomas Harris The Silence of the Lambs is brilliant and is second only to Follett in making the hero a woman), lawyers in danger (Grisham), religion (Dan Brown).

The thriller is arguably the defining literary form of the 20th century. Why? Follett’s theory is that all boys lived with the possibility that they might have to fight and die, and reading thrillers was a vicarious way of facing and dealing with that fear. The advent of women heroes reflects women’s entry into police and army, etc.

Q. Thriller an Anglo-Saxon form?
Waterstone’s manager said, Scandinavian market huge. Also South American and Cuban.

Q. Why do more women than men read fiction?
A. Discussed but not resolved. (Bobbie’s theory: that men tend to be more interested in facts and women in psychological and philosophical issues; and fiction takes liberties with the former to explore the latter.)

Q. Topicality?
A. Over-rated and ephemeral, no substitute for literary merit. It is fine to explore and expose an issue, or use fiction as allegory, but it has to work first and foremost on the level of a good story.

Q. Have you written any books that are not thrillers?
A. Yes – The Pillars of the Earth, about the building of a medieval cathedral, something that interests him personally. Timescale too long to lend itself to the thriller form. About to bring out a sequel – also not a thriller. Over time it has sold better than any of his thrillers.

Q. Research?
A. It constrains at first. But then it (1) liberates the imagination, (2) generates ideas, and (3) supplies the details that give the books the grain of everyday life and lift them out of ‘comic strip’ unreality of his first ten (unresearched) books. He was lucky to be published with those, but they have sold okay.

Q. Harder to get published now?
A. Not really. New small publishing houses continue to spring up, as ever. Many fail. A few succeed, grow and get swallowed up by conglomerates. More spring up.

Q. Pace of modern thrillers cf. e.g. The Riddle of the Sands?
A. Yes. Stories used to unfold ponderously. Now they must turn in some major or minor, but significant, way every 4 to 6 pages. Much influenced by film and TV. But it’s not completely new. Pride and Prejudice turns every 4 to 6 pages.

Q. What’s it like being filmed?
A. Thrilling (sic) to see actors, even in a bad production, embodying the characters you have created. But tense (sic) and often frustrating because the writer has no say, and the director and screenwriter can mess with and occasionally destroy the story logic.