Epilogue

So here we are.

365 days on from the moment I recklessly committed myself to write a crime novel in one year.

And what a year it’s been.

While I always hoped I would make it, now I’m here with 500 sheets of A4 paper next to me, I can’t quite believe I’ve written a novel. It’s not been easy; in fact, it’s been very, very hard.

So how have I managed it?

The invaluable advice of Kate Mosse’s 52 tips for writers has unerringly come to my rescue http://www.mosselabyrinth.co.uk/advice/intro.asp. My thanks to Greg and Kate Mosse for their permission to use their year’s worth of tips.

Scrivener http://www.literatureandlatte.com/scrivener.html. Simply the best writing software on the planet. It helps you write by not getting in the way. Full screen mode had been my home for much of the last 12 months.

Calow Classics http://www.calowclassics.net/ for providing the soundtrack to my year.

Writers’ & Artists’ Yearbook http://www.writersandartists.co.uk/. Their blog competition kept me writing when I most needed it.

Everyone (except that really weird woman from Denmark) who has taken the trouble and time to email me. I have been quite amazed by the reception my blog has generated; something that is a testament to how many people are in a similar situation, chiselling away at the coal face of words.

...and of course my wife & friends (the circle - you know who you are).

...and finally.

As promised, the title of my book. Hopefully this time next year, Amazon, Waterstone’s, Blackwells and the rest will have a new title on their shelves.

Death’s Disciple.

But for now I’m having a week off.

As I lovingly caress a pint of beer in some remote village pub, I will think about the last twelve months. I will think about how hard it’s been, how much fun it’s been and how amazed I am that I have made it this far.

But most of all I will think about the sheer unmitigated joy, 52 weeks on, of typing those two final words.

The End.

Week 52 - The End (of the Beginning)

This has been a bad week. In fact, it’s been a terrible week. If this week had been a record, it would be a Celine Dion album on which she is backed by Kenny G.

But it’s also been a good week. In fact it’s been a wonderful week. If this week had been a record, it would the Beatles’ Revolver; Dylan’s Blood on the Tracks or Jacqueline du Pre playing Elgar’s Cello Concerto.

This has been week 52.

Throughout the last seven days I have worked a number of hours that would make a junior doctor think it had been a long week. I have burned the candle at both ends, in the middle and now am just left with a sad lump of wax.

Nine days ago, I was far behind where I should have been. It called for drastic measures - and that is what it got.

In all my life I don’t think I have ever yawned as much as I did this morning (obviously excepting sitting through Powerpoint presentations and “O” Level maths).

I have subbed my final draft, I have re-written parts, I have changed sections. Sometimes just a word, sometimes whole paragraphs, once an entire page. I have worked in the morning, I have worked when I should have been doing something else (no change there), I have worked in the evening and I have worked in the wee small hours as my wife lay in the next room dreaming of Manolo Blahnik shoes and Colin Firth (hopefully separately).

And has it been worth it?

(insert drum roll).

Yes.

With a day and seven hours until my deadline, it looks like I’m going to make it. Bar a few changes tonight and a name change tomorrow (to avoid the law courts), I am finished.

52 weeks, 365 days, 94,000 words.

A novel.

Tomorrow - on day 365 itself - I will post my final blog. On it, I’ll let you know the title of my book and also what I plan to do next. Because, shocking as this is right now, writing the thing is only the first half of the journey...

Week 51 - Building Blocks of Success

Do you remember when you were a small child and you had one of those brightly coloured toys that was made up of different shaped holes? You had square blocks, round ones and so on and you had to fit the right shaped blocks into the right shaped holes.

Early learning at its best. Except even then I wasn’t overly fond of playing by the rules and I can vividly remember trying to hammer a round peg into a square whole.

How about that for a sign of things to come?

For the past eight days that’s what I’ve been doing. With the exception of a brief reprieve on Saturday to pick up some CDs from Calow Classics, all I have done this week is work.

If my name was Jack, I would be a very dull boy right now.

It must be said that there is a sense of the fate about it all. As inevitable as a Thomas Hardy heroine’s bad luck, I have too much work to fit in the available time. With just a week and a day to go, I am drowning in final draft pages, notes and those little scarps of paper I always meant to type up but now litter my desk like confetti from a Royal wedding.

And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Why? Because if you have no deadlines, if you can carry on and on like an Oscar acceptance speech, if there’s always more time then chances are you will never finish anything. Which means you’ll never be in with a chance of publishing anything...

Let’s be clear. It’s incredibly tough, I have bags under my eyes that would probably exceed an airline’s carry on quota and the last time I took time off Gladstone and Disraeli where squaring up to one another; but I can’t think of a better way to spend my time.

Unless I get my Fisher-Price garage down from the loft...

Week 50 - Sweet Sixteen?

It’s not just time that is running away faster than the Prime Minister from his Chancellor; it’s my thoughts.

As my total of weeks slams into the fifties, I am trying my level best not to think about that week 53. The week beyond the year. But like taxes, death and my wife’s ever-expanding shoe collection, there’s a sense of inevitability about it all.

Suddenly, now that the finish line is in sight, I am starting to think about the next stage. Selling the thing.

...but not yet. As of today, I still have 16 days left. Sixteen days to finish the final draft and open that bottle of something special that has been waiting patiently for the last year.

But how close am I? Well - as ever - I am behind where I need to be. There’s certainly more than 16 days’ worth of work to fit into those few remaining hours.

It was, of course, ever thus. Where would be the fun if it all went to plan?

So for the next two and a bit weeks, it’s time for caffeine-fuelled, bleary-eyed, hermit-like work madness.

By this time next week (Blog 51), we’ll probably know if I’m going to make it. The following week (52) we’ll know for sure.

And then...on 20th September as the clock chimes the end of my year-long odyssey, I’ll let you know the title.

Week 49 - Notes from a Greek Island

The days have winged heels, Homer said (the Greek fellow, not the yellow one).

This week has been one of jet lag without the benefit of actually going abroad. The jet lag was caused by a Bank Holiday here in the UK which crept up on me and messed up my already fragile plans.

As predictable as traffic jams on a Bank Holiday, is the fact that I am running out of days at an alarming rate. Then along came that extra day’s holiday and where did I find myself?

Surrounded by thirty-seven women.

Now I would like to claim that these were Novel Blog groupies; but they weren’t. They were - and believe me I counted them - the number of women who entered the cinema I was sitting in with my wife before another man came in.

I don’t think you need a PhD in Cinematic Theory to realise that this can’t have been a James Bond film. No it was...Mamma Mia!

I always worry about those exclamation marks. They seem to say - this is going to be loud and screechy. And it was. The hoards of women surrounding me wept, clapped, sang and even danced as the film unfolded before my cynical eyes.

Of course, I didn’t enjoy the film. True, I did get cramp in my feet which manifested itself in what someone could be forgiven for thinking was foot tapping; and the silly smile that kept crossing my face must surely have been a result of too much fibre in my diet. And what some believed to be laughter as Julie Walters strode across tables while singing Take A Chance On Me was definitely caused by me choking on one too many Malteesers.

That’s not to say the experience was a total waste of two hours (and let’s be honest, two hours in the presence of Amanda Seyfried is hardly a waste).

I was struck how much the plot resembled a crime novel. There was a list of suspects (i.e. possible fathers), a set of clues and red herrings and finally a denouement with a twist.

Looking at it this way, I can satisfy myself that Monday wasn’t a day lost to the thief that is time, but rather a research trip that just happened to be made up of dozens of slightly insane women having the time of their lives.

When all is said and done, my plans didn’t meet their Waterloo. They actually made another step towards my goal; and as planning goes, that’s the name of the game.

Week 48 - Battle Weary

Looking at the calendar this morning, I had one of those moments when the sheer enormity of your situation really hits home.

It’s now less than one calendar month until the end of my year-long novel writing journey. In less than four weeks it will all be over...but will I have a completed novel?

I know one thing for sure, it’s going to be close.

Throughout the past year, Kate Mosse’s 52 tips for writers has been a frequent source of inspiration and this week she has done it again. Her tip 48 is on “Fine Tuning” http://www.mosselabyrinth.co.uk/advice/48.asp and that’s exactly what I am doing. Having read through my novel again I am about to embark on the final draft - essentially small corrections and hopefully a little bit of polish.

For anyone who has made it this far - this close to the end - her words really resonate. There is definitely a little bit of battle fatigue setting in; energy levels can seem at an all time low and the thought of re-reading that particular scene again makes you want to desert and run for the hills.

But that would to be snatching defeat from the jaws of victory on a level of which the English cricket team would be proud.

I think - I hope - that I have left enough time to work through the final draft.

Sheer force of will is what’s required, along with a lot of hard work and probably too much caffeine.

Maybe then I will be able to avoid a batting collapse and make it through the worsening light to stumps.

With just four blogs to go, it won’t be long until we have the answer.

Week 47 - Beginning of the End

“The moving finger writes and having writ, moves on.”

Too right Omar (and Agatha).

There’s been a lot of that this week as my red pen has skimmed through the pages of my second draft. Mostly it's been typos, but now and again I have found inconsistencies that have so far escaped my notice.

The worst moment was when I realised that I had left a strand dangling that I had completely forgotten about. I say strand, more like the contents of a Lancashire textile factory (when they still existed).

It shows the value of this two-week process and has been quite an eye-opener. Some parts of my novel I have actually enjoyed re-reading and even found myself getting caught up in the plot.

Other parts not so much.

But that, I guess, was ever thus. In fact, it raises a point relevant to a number of emails I’ve had from people following the blog. These can be summed up from Suzanne in Surrey who asks how I am feeling about the impending arrival of week 52 and what that means for the book that's been such a major part of my life for almost a year.

What she’s talking about is letting go. From comments I have read as well as things I’ve read on other blogs, it seems that one of the main barriers that prevents new writers from completing their book is that they are not working to any time frame.

Even if they manage to reach the end of their story, there is always the opportunity for a re-written chapter here and a change to structure there. Without a deadline, the story will just go on and on...

This may be one of the main things that separates the professional from the amateur. The professional HAS to stop at a certain point and hand the book over. He or she knows that the book could always be a little better, but what good is that if it never gets to sit on a bookshop’s shelf?

It’s all about knowing when to let go.

Which is what I’ll have to do in five short weeks. It’s the only way it’s going to land on a publisher’s desk.

Of course, it won’t be easy.

It’ll be murder.

Week 46 - Campanology

For the past week, I’ve been hearing things.

It’s been like my very own Turn of the Screw, with Henry James’s dense prose passed through some cerebral oscillator to emerge on the other side as a cacophony of bells.

Or to be more precise, I’ve been hearing that moment just before the bells ring. Like the beginning of Time on Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon when you know there will be dozens of bells ringing out their discordant alarm and you brace yourself for the shock that is coming.

This can mean one of two things. One: my wife has been playing too many Neil Diamond albums; or Two: my deadline is approaching faster than you can say, “Oh, God. Not Sweet Bloody Caroline again.”

It’s probably both.

As I come to the end of week 46, even my failed algebra brain can work out that the end is approaching. I have spent the week going through my second draft armed with nothing more than my trusty red pen.

The good news is that it has been deployed into action considerably less than at the same point in my first draft. The bad news is that it is still making its mark on pretty much every page.

The key, as any Home Guard Corporal can tell you, is not to panic. I’m still on track and I need to take solace from the fact that the book isn’t as bad as it might have been. Some parts - whisper this only - border on the printable.

I have another ten days of red pen action, before I spend the remaining five weeks of my 52 on the final draft.

Deadline day is 20th September. Until then I need to stay calm and continue to work my way through my 52-week plan one step at a time, placing all the various pieces together to form the final work. When I look at it this way, it stops the whole task from looking too daunting.

After all, it’s just another brick in the wall.

Week 45 - Temperature's Rising...

There it has sat. A brooding presence; sleeping for now, but easily woken. Its yellow mass, while seemingly benign, concealing passions, betrayals and deeds most foul...

As you should be able to tell from that florid paragraph, I am now seven days into my ten-day “lay-aside” period. I think I must be suffering withdrawal symptoms from writing every day. I cough and extended metaphors spring forth unbidden.

I need to get out more.

It’s funny though how habit has trained my mind in a daily writing mode. Of course that can be nothing but a good thing - normally - but for the last week my world has been one long twitching cold turkey.

Seven weeks remain. Just seven out of 52. It’s all starting to get a little tense. But I have resisted the temptation to take a peek at that manuscript because I know how important those final seven weeks will be.

Come Monday morning, I will be sitting here with red pen in hand as I prepare to make changes for the final draft.

The clock is ticking. Its morbid chime resonating like the footsteps of death that walk the mist shrouded alleyways of my mind...

I definitely need to get out more.

Week 44 - Read on Lizzie...

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a novel in need of a publisher must be in want of a third draft.

So there it is. Sitting on my desk, feeling all pleased with itself.

487 sheets of yellow A4. A prologue, 33 chapters and an epilogue. 97,000 words. 43 weeks’ work.

And it’s still not finished.

On Tuesday evening I pressed the “print” button and sat back for much of the following hour as page after page were spewed from my printer.

For the following ten days, that’s where it will stay. A brooding presence; a splinter in the finger of life.

The plan is that I put the novel aside for ten days so that when I return to it, it will be with fresh eyes. That’s the plan. The reality is that we’ve moved beyond that point. That was all well and good for the first draft; that white livered prissy relation. The first draft was quite happy to sit out the ten day cooling off period, like the fourth sister in Pride and Prejudice, fully aware she’s never going to be asked to dance and so sits there quietly watching but not taking part.

But time has moved on.

The second draft is an altogether different proposition. The second draft is more like Elizabeth Bennet, Austen’s striking prototype feminist who knows her own mind and will not be bowed by her parents’ wishes.

While I know I will leave the second draft alone for ten days, I also know it won’t be easy. It’s sitting there now; aware of its stature while knowing that it’s not quite the finished article. It still needs me to complete it - just as Lizzie needed Darcy to help make her all she could be - but it’s not going to sit there quietly.

It’s on my mind throughout the day: could the first chapter do with just one more re-write; is the prologue “there” yet; does character B arrive early enough; can I afford the ink it takes to print another draft? These are the questions that dance around my head like characters from a Regency ball.

None of this is helped by the fact that the weather has suddenly gone all hot and humid. I’m never at my best in hot weather; it seems to melt my ability to concentrate. Perhaps, before my wife returns home from work, I might go for a quick dip in the lake.

Of course, I’ll be needing my wife’s help soon. She’ll be the first person to read the novel and I need her to be able to remain fully focused. So it’s probably better not to mention those two words that have been known to buckle her knees and start her incoherently babbling.

...and what are those two words? Second draft? New novel? My husband? No alcohol?!

Sadly not (although the last one comes close).

They are, of course, Colin Firth.

Week 43 - Chic(ken) Lit

This week I have written a chapter of my book.

Nothing out of the ordinary there, except for one thing: I already had all my chapters completed and have spent the last five weeks editing and refining my second draft.

During this process it became clear that the book was missing a certain something. At first it was difficult to pin down the missing ingredient; a bit like when you fancy some fried chicken, there’s no Colonel Sanders emporium to hand, so you end up in one of those “southern fried chicken” places. It should taste the same, but it doesn’t; and besides, even the flies look nervous.

And so it was with my novel. Finally I realised that there needed to be an extra scene to bridge some action and act as a conduit for my plot to travel down.

So I started to write the scene…and write…and write. Before you could say, “Of course I’ll go large on the three piece meal,” I had written a long chapter. What’s more, it was great to get back to creating. The editing process is fine in its own way, but there’s nothing like creating something from scratch. It was fun to return to my characters and send them in just one more direction.

Now that’s done – I have reached the end of my second draft. At the end of the weekend, I will be printing it out and then placing it in my bottom drawer for ten days before I embark on the final draft.

Another part of my 52-week journey is over and the final one is about to begin. But before the work of the final draft, there are a few days to enjoy the completion of my second draft. I just need to decide how to celebrate.

Anyone for a Bargain Bucket?

Week 42 - Mobile Anticipation

On Tuesday morning I received a text message from my mobile phone provider to tell me that Apple’s new iPhone would be available to order from 8am. The new phone would be sold on a strictly first come first served basis, as demand was expected to be high.

I read the text, thought about all those people who would be besides themselves with excitement, and then went back to work.

That afternoon one of the news sites I subscribe to had a story about O2’s website crashing due to the millions of people trying to order the new phone. The company soon issued a statement saying that due to unprecedented high demand, there was essentially little chance of getting your hands on the new phone over the coming weeks, but the wait would be worth it.

Picture those gadget obsessed tecno-geeks (I know - those in glass houses...). They must have had their day/week/life ruined by that message.

Why? Because anticipation is a powerful master. It can turn normally sane people into gibbering wrecks. I once attended a launch party for Apple's Tiger operating system and one of the tie in treats was a bottle of Tiger beer. The only catch was that you had to roar like a tiger to get your hands on the drink. As I was weighing up personal dignity versus alcohol, my wife brushed me to one side, made a noise that could have got her the next Frosties commercial and promptly grabbed the beer.

The anticipation had got to her and she went to lengths beyond her normal character to get something she could have bought for 75 pence at the local supermarket (then again, the fact it was alcohol may have been the bigger motivator).

The point is that we like to be teased a little and have our sense of anticipation raised, but there has to be a satisfactory conclusion; we need to be sated. This is equally important in the books we read, arguably nowhere more so that in the crime novel.

Can you imagine reading The Murder on the Orient Express to find the final pages missing? Torment unimaginable. Similarly, would we mourn the unfinished state of Dickens’ last novel so much if it hadn’t been a prototype murder mystery?

The fact we need to bear in mind is that the reader wants to be teased; they want to have the carrot of crime dangled in front of them as we lead them through the byways of our plot; but they want...they need...they demand that they get to eat that carrot before the end of the book.

I was reminded of this duty to deliver on the unwritten contract between reader and author, as I was writing an additional scene during the final stages of my second draft. The book seemed to be lacking the level of anticipation that would keep a reader turning the pages and I realised why. So this week I added the scene and set up another level of anticipation.

All I need to do now is deliver on my promises later in the novel by adding another scene that offers the right level of resolution.

Hopefully, by the time the novel is published, everyone who reads it will feel happy at the outcome.

Even the techno-geeks, who might have got their new phone by then.

Week 41 - Back to Square One

Now that I have turned 40 (that’s weeks of the blog) and I am beginning to head towards the end of my novel, I thought that there was an obvious topic for this week.

Beginnings.

Last weekend I reached the end of my second draft a whole two weeks ahead of schedule (probably helped by the early exit from Wimbledon of a certain female Russian player). It was time to sit back and take stock. What do I actually think of my novel now it’s in a second draft form?

It’s better - much better - than the first draft; but then again, I’m a better fast bowler than my Grandmother was...it’s all relative....

While the book has certainly improved, it is clearly not “there” yet. The early chapters still seem to be in need of some work; probably as they were written first, they’re not of the same standard as the later chapters.

I have also identified three new scenes that need to be written, which I plan to do over the next ten days.

But most striking of all is the prologue. We all know how important the beginning of a novel is, which is probably why I have re-written the prologue EIGHT times.

Last week marked re-write number nine. Interestingly, I did not exactly re-write it as cut huge chunks from it. It has gone from 1500 words to around 400...and the odd thing is that it’s about three times better. Go figure, as the Americans say.

Kate Mosse discusses how important the start of a book/chapter is and uses examples such as George Orwell’s 1984 (for my money his Coming Up For Air has the best opening line in literature) http://www.mosselabyrinth.co.uk/advice/15.asp

My prologue is certainly not up there with the likes of Orwell and Dickens, but after it’s ninth re-write it’s getting there.

And that’s a beginning.

Week 40 - A Question of Ring Roads

This morning, stuck on Sheffield’s new Inner Ring Road, my passenger asked me what I was doing this weekend. It was the kind of question that is asked without any real desire to elicit information. It’s what linguistic professors call phatic conversation.

“How are you?” is a classic example. No one who asks really wants to know that your knees crack with a sound reminiscent of a starter’s pistol; that the egg sandwich you had for lunch is repeating more often than Dad’s Army on UK Gold; or for that matter that you’ve been feeling a little down of late and could do with a hug.

Thus it was this morning when I responded to the enquiry about the impending weekend by saying: “Well actually, I’m going to see a tree.”

The rest of journey passed in silence.

To be fair, it was probably not the answer they expected – “oh, nothing much…” would have been nearer the mark – but then they did ask…

As it happens, that’s exactly what I’m going to do. Last Christmas my mother was gifted a tree to be planted in her name by the Yorkshire Dales Millennium Trust. This weekend, I am taking her to see it on an open day.

All well and good, I hear you say, but what’s that got to do with writing a crime novel?

Admittedly, I have taken a rather tortuously convoluted route to my point (although it has nothing on Sheffield’s new Inner Ring Road), but at least I have arrived where I want to be (unlike Sheffield new Inner Ring Road…)

As I head towards the end of my second draft (and the denouement of my plot), the descriptive passages recede to be replaced my more and more dialogue. It’s a natural evolution of the writing process and helps increase the sense of immediacy, but is does bring the quality of your characters’ dialogue into sharp focus.

More so that anywhere else, it is vital that the dialogue is realistic. Any false notes would bring the reader up short and instantly diffuse the tension. So how do you make sure your dialogue is as realistic as possible?

Simple – listen to people speak. There’s no substitute for it…but remember, you can be too realistic. If you wrote exactly how people speak there would be dozens of “errs and umms…” as well as countless contradictions.

Selective realism is what we’re after as writers; so in the case of dialogue, you will also need to take on the role of editor.

After all, when someone asks you what you’re doing at the weekend, there’s no need to tell them you’re going to see a tree.

Especially if you’re stuck on Sheffield’s new Inner Ring Road…

Week 39 - What's It All About, Malfi?

Among all the emails I routinely receive in a week (African “businessmen” asking me to let them have my bank details so I can become rich; offers of help to improve sexual prowess; press releases for tinned fruit...) there was one from Ian in Dundee.

It was a request for help. Apparently, Ian is writing a crime novel and although he has a synopsis and has completed a first draft, his second draft is adrift in a sea of uncertainty.

And he thinks I can help.

I’m flattered, but I can’t help but think that sometimes this blog gives a rather rosy view of the state of my own endeavours. That’s probably for two reasons: firstly, I am always trying to put a positive spin on my week’s work, after all, no one wants to read a weekly sob story; and secondly, I tend to write the thing on a Friday afternoon - a time when it’s almost impossible not to be approaching a level of unrestrained bliss.

The truth, of course, is that this whole second draft malarky is no picnic. Or at least it is a picnic, if it resembles one of those school trip picnics when I camped in an ant-infested field, got sun burnt and David Hutchinson threw up all over my potted meat sandwiches.

One of the problems Ian seems to be suffering from is a common one: when you’re writing your first novel, you really have no idea what to expect. Yes, we can guess it will be hard work; we accept we probably won’t get quite as much sleep as we’d like; and the manager at Starbucks is probably going to wish we spent more time buying drinks and food and less time nursing our small ( sorry, tall) black coffee that went cold a few hours earlier.

But beyond this, we don’t really know what to expect.

I referred Ian to Kate Mosse’s tips for writers: http://www.mosselabyrinth.co.uk/advice/intro.asp These are always instructive, but I especially thought that her week 39 tip might help. She discusses John Webster’s Duchess of Malfi (if you haven’t seen/read it, do) - and makes reference to the famous speech where the Duchess inverts our expectations to such dramatic effect.

This is often a good idea. When I have a character who isn’t going anywhere and has become about as interesting as an insurance seminar, I make them do something out of character that will surprise the reader. Now I am not suggesting you turn your mild mannered spinster into a drug crazed snow boarding assassin, but perhaps she could have been a spy in the war; or have once been suspected of a terrible crime...

It doesn’t have to be too dramatic, but it will breathe new life into your work and may just get your book back on track.

After all, that’s the ultimate aim: to finish the book and hopefully sell a few copies and perhaps even make enough money to write the second book.

Speaking of getting rich, now where did I leave my bank account details...

Week 38 - Second Drafts and Other Assorted Topics

As I reach the two thirds stage in my second draft, the Q word is starting to raise its head.

That’s Quality of course.

Structurally, the book is beginning to pull itself into shape; characters have been embedded and the plot gaps and contradictions have been ironed out.

But is it any good?

If I am honest with myself, I would have to answer: “I don’t know.”

That, of course, is one of the central problems we face as writers.

It’s an odd thing, but I often read published novels and just accept that they’re of a certain standard because they’ve been published. But when I think about it, their dialogue can be clunky; the plot resolution can be as satisfying as watching a movie via dial up internet access; and the characters are as memorable as that Powerpoint presentation you sat through last week on paperclip overspend...

Yet the operative word in all that is, “published.”

Assuming the author’s father/husband/old school friend happens not to own the publishing house, the chances are that they thought it was good enough.

So who’s wrong?

The answer is no one - taste is about as subjective as it is possible to get (just look at teenagers and their bottom revealing jeans, or the whole of the 1970s for that matter).

The simple fact is that we are not always the best placed people to assess our work. It’s a bit like learning the guitar: we know how it should sound - and we know how it sounds when we hear it played well, but when we strum the strings, it sounds different.

We need to develop our inner ear...we need to have some belief...and sometimes we just need to let rip like an Eric Clapton encore.

I think I’ll dig out that Derek and the Dominoes album.

Week 37 - Poop Poop

Today I said goodbye to an old friend.

When I say old, he was only two years old; and when I say friend, I really mean a car.

Our two year old Land Rover has been replaced - a victim of ever increasing road prices, tax and repair bills. Not, I concede, the greatest tragedy in human history, but slightly sad all the same, because I didn’t want to change the car.

Not that there’s anything wrong with the new car - in fact it’s a car many people would probably prefer to a Land Rover: sleeker, nippier and more stylish.

But that’s my point.

While the new car is the kind of car people would expect people of my wife and mine’s age to own, the Land Rover always said: my job is what I do, but this is where my heart lies...the great outdoors.

Yes, it’s only a car; but it made me think about the whole writing process (bear with me, the link’s not as tenuous as it first seems).

I am now almost half way through my second draft and as I sit here in Starbucks, it occurs to me how we are often not what we appear to be. Not I grant you, the most original thought ever produced by a cognitive being, but then it is 7.30 in the morning.

From all the emails I get (ignoring the rather dubious ones I get from a Spanish woman who suggests I send money as she knows a publisher in Spain) most people who are doing what I am doing - writing a novel - are not full time writers. They work in banks, council offices, travel agents and so on.

When people they work with see them on a day to day basis, do they have any idea what they’re thinking about? If they wonder at all, perhaps they would guess they’re thinking what to have for dinner or what they would do if they won the lottery.

Would they ever imagine that they are trying to figure out how to strangle someone with piano wire; or how high a cliff can be for you to survive being pushed over; or how your boss’s recent vapid comment could provide a clue to his identity as a murderer...

Would they be surprised? Would they care?

Possibly; possibly not. But that’s not the point. The point is that as writers we live in a largely internalised world and one of the things this (hopefully) teaches us, is that the least likely person may be penning some serial killer classic or diabolical crime (have you ever seen anyone look less like the kind of person who can think these things up than Agatha Christie?).

We know that how we look does not relate to what we do or write. It seems like an obvious lesson, but one that many people seem to have forgotten in our homogeneous times.

We are not what we do to pay the rent, we are what we want to do to pay it; just as we are not the car we drive, but where we want that car to take us.

Which is why I’m sorry to see the car go.

Just like when people find out that you’re a writer, the car surprised people and upset their expectations.

And it was great for driving through puddles.

Week 36 - Humble Beginnings

As I was making the fundamental error of trying to work on my novel while a certain curly-haired nature presenter was waxing lyrical on the television, it occurred to me that creating a second draft is a strange experience. It makes you wonder about your frame of mind when you wrote the first one. I’m finding that some pages contain paragraphs that are near-perfect and don’t need as much as a semi-colon moving.

Others seem to have been written in a drunken haze by a short-sighted chimpanzee.

No wonder you always hear that no writer writes a good first draft. I’ll take comfort from that, even if I imagine the likes of Ian Rankin and PD James don’t have to make quite as many changes as I have.

Of course, it’s satisfying to correct such sentences/paragraphs/pages and there’s nothing like the feeling that you’ve really bottomed that particular section. Yet it can be time consuming. I read recently that J.R.R Tolkien’s son said of his father that his life was a constant battle against time. I certainly know what he meant.

As it happens, I am still managing to hold onto the coat tails of time; but as the weeks pass, it becomes more and more difficult.

One of the ways I try to counter this is working at the same time every day. It helps fool the brain into thinking a particular time is work time and it seems to be working...so far...

Another tip - taken from Kate Mosse’s Tips for Writers - is to speak your dialogue out loud. This not only helps make your dialogue sound more natural, but it also helps get you through those times when you’re struggling to stop your mind wandering. It makes for a great change of pace and never fails to re-focus my attention on the novel.

Unless, of course, Kate Humble’s on television.

Weeks 34 & 35 - Dodging the Draft to the Lighter Side of Life

I’m still scratching.

After deciding that a week away would be just the thing to clear my mind and recharge the writing batteries, I settled on the Cairngorms. What could be better than a week of isolation to forget all about the pressures of deadlines, second drafts and all the other assorted madness of daily life?

The Scottish mountain range – now a national park – certainly didn’t disappoint; but there was just one problem. Even though I had left my laptop and all my papers behind, try as I might, my novel had somehow hitched a ride on my consciousness and had followed me all the way up the A9 to spend the week with me.

Like President Clinton, although I thought I had successfully avoided the draft, it kept coming back to haunt me.

There I was, surrounded by beautiful scenery, the sound of spring birdsong and midges the size of oranges and what kept popping into my head? Was my murderer giving themself away by doing this or should they do that? Is Chapter Two too long; why am I no nearer coming up with a title?..

What my week surrounded by heather did (that’s heather with a small “h”, just in case you’re wondering), was make me realise the extent to which writing a novel takes over your subconscious. Like the midges, however much you try to pretend they’re not feasting on your Sassenach blood, they’re always waiting for their next slurp of O Positive.

Not that I should complain. After all what’s the alternative? No ideas…no sudden inspiration for a new character…no new plot strands that demand attention with all the subtly of a Capercaillie lek?

I’ll take the midges anytime.

As, I am sure, would have Peter Harvey – Sheffield journalist and author – the news of whose death greeted me on my return from north of the border.

For years Peter wrote a column six days a week in the Morning Telegraph and even in retirement, he still managed to file a weekly piece. A family friend, Peter was the embodiment of a writer who produced the goods time after time.

Unlike the midges, he will be missed.

Week 33 - The Deadline Redemption

As predicted, this week has been a flurry of late nights, far too much caffeine, and many bleary eyed mornings (apologies to the woman whom I almost sent flying when my sleep-walking self failed to notice her as she emerged from M&S at 8.15am carrying a week’s shopping.)

What is it about deadlines? It’s not as if I don’t face them on a daily basis; so why is it I always get there with only seconds to spare?

The term "deadline" apparently comes from the line around the edge of prisons which if the inmates passed, they would be shot. Sound like some editors I have known.

I would recommend Donald Murray’s Writing to Deadline (available from Amazon) for anyone struggling to hit those all important dates/times. While predominately aimed at journalists, most of the book applies to all kinds of writing. After all, fiction writers may not have daily - or hourly - deadlines, but they have deadlines all the same.

I met my deadline - just - but ended the week with no time to spare as well as feeling as if I haven’t slept in days (possibly because I haven’t slept in days).

My reward is a full week off. The novel is going away and I am going to try not to think about it. Then I have 10 weeks to polish the second draft - getting to the meat of the thing and attempting to re-write it so that it starts to resemble something a publisher may actually want to buy.

Of course, as my 52 weeks begin to run out, the deadlines will loom larger and panic will begin to set in (again). Being positive, it’s possible that I might finish the next section ahead of deadline. But then again, it’s possible I may open the batting for Yorkshire this summer. I have a strange feeling I needn't wash my cricket whites just yet.

There is a secret about deadlines that many journalists and writers tend not to air, because it is traditionally an area we moan about (and let’s face it, we like a moan). It is this: deadlines are actually fun. Without them, I for one, would probably never complete a single piece of work. There is a rush about writing to deadline. It’s exciting, it’s thrilling and it works.

Any old fool can jump off a cliff with a bungee rope tied to their ankle, but if you want a real adrenaline rush, write to a deadline. There’s nothing like it to get the creative juices pumping and even more importantly, to get the job done. We need deadlines and it never fails to amaze me how smoothly the words flow when you have an editor jumping up and down, demanding the work within the next ten minutes...even if your editor is you. It’s what separates us from people who put down their work - finished or not - at the end of the day and walk away. Stress-free perhaps, but where’s the fun in that?

It all reminds me of an old Peanuts strip. It’s the last day of the long summer vacation and Charlie Brown is desperately trying to find someone - anyone - who has not started the book they were given to read over the summer. Of course, he’s the only one. Lucy tells him that she read the book in the first week so that she would have the rest of the summer free without the task hanging over her. Charlie Brown fumes and slopes off to a late night session with Gulliver’s Travels.

Lucy, I often think, is the kind of person who will go on to a successful career in something respectable. Charlie Brown, on the other hand, will probably end up a writer.