Writerly Updates

I haven't yet heard back from either of the agents who are reading ECHOES at present (one partial, one full), so there are no updates on the publishing/not-being-published front yet. However, I do have a significant update re. CLOCKWORK.

Point of view.

I started writing it in first, but it's suddenly struck me that it might do better to be in third person instead. This is obviously a pain in the rewriting sense, but fortunately I haven't written much of it yet. This may seem like a small change to be making to some, but it's actually quite important. I often write in first person, but I have written in third before, and there are advantages and disadvantages to both. In writing ECHOES, first person put me in my protagonist's head, and the reader spends their time there too. And I think that works. I think a lot of the book's strength (in my biased opinion) is in Echo's voice, thoughts and the way her character and feelings are so clear right through.

With CLOCKWORK, with a lot of secrets at work and a prickly and ruthless yet fiercely loyal heroine, I think the third person will work better. I need other characters to see my heroine, to have the reader see her through their eyes. I need to get into my male protagonist's head. And, with a lot of the book relying on humour, I think that works better when there are multiple perspectives. It's an oddly powerful feeling.

Let's see how it goes.

How do other people feel about this? What's your preferred point of view, to read or to write? 

Ho, ho, self-control

I began trying to get to sleep at about 3 AM last night, but it must have been closer to 5 when I finally did. And this afternoon, I woke up at about 1 PM, but only got out of bed at half past 2. 

The reason I tell you this is not because I expect those facts to be particularly scintillating, or even because I fancy having another whinge about my insomnia. It's because I thought I'd mention exactly what was going on in those intervals between bed/sleep and waking/getting up.

I was thinking about a book. More precisely, I was thinking about the sequel to ECHOES. I can't begin to describe how exciting it was to lie there and have characters talking to each other in my head; to have scenarios form themselves; to be chilled by a frightening moment; to get teary at a particularly sad one; to have scenes write themselves out (always far, far better than when it actually gets to paper/screen). It's been so long since I've had my characters and scenes clutter my head up so vividly, and it made me long to get up and start writing the book.

Only, I've told myself I won't. Not yet. Not until I've written a first draft of CLOCKWORK at least. This is going to take enormous amounts of self-control and willpower, but I have to do it, because I can't get caught up in an ECHOES-sequel just yet. 

The thing is, if ECHOES doesn't get anywhere, I need to have something to start working on/pitching next. At some point, you move on to the next book, and keep the others in the back of your mind. It's really the only thing that makes rejection easier to take, and it's a lot of fun to get wrapped up in another adventure; it makes letting go of the first smoother, easier.

Well, if the only thing I have waiting is a sequel to the novel that's getting nowhere right now... that's not exactly going to help. So. I must wait. I've got to crack the hard nut that is CLOCKWORK, and wade deeper into it. 

But, happily, there's nothing stopping me from letting ECHOES' cast and crew run rampant in my head...

First Lines and Attention Spans

Sparked off by this great contest on the DGLM blog, I got to thinking about first lines of novels and our attention spans. Are we really so short of time and attention that if the first line doesn't grab us, we won't read the book? I don't know. I think that, when browsing books at a store, I do glance at the first page and see if the voice wins me over. But ninety per cent of the time, I buy a book because it sounds good, and I'll overlook a less-than-shining first page or line. 

And really, the very fact that I can't think of my favourite 'first lines' from books seems to suggest I don't pay much attention to them. I know the old classics, of course, like A Tale of Two Cities or Pride and Prejudice, but I wouldn't list these lines among my personal favourites.

As a writer, I think I'm fairly bad at first lines. So, in this post, I'm going to put down a few first lines I've just thought of. Intriguing ones, hopefully. I've already posted and tweeted the first one elsewhere, and it's what kicked this thought process off. But here you go. These are the first lines I'd like to start a novel with. Maybe one day.


I sat down to tea with Death, Desire and Rage.

I thanked goodness the week was over: it had started with killing my grandmother and had ended with a valet's broken nose. [This, incidentally, is a short version of the first paragraph of CLOCKWORK, which, by the way, I haven't yet written any more of yet.]

He left as abruptly as he'd arrived.

Oh, dear. 
 

I think I like the first one best. 

So, bombard me. What are your favourite first lines? If you write, do tell me about the first lines you've used. It's a fun thing to think about.

At-Home Haircuts, what a treat

So, about an hour of my weekend was spent cutting Steve's hair. It had gotten a bit long (read: it looked like a mushroom) and he begged, pleaded, demanded I do something about it. So I did.

I chopped, hacked, and generally did what I felt like. I had enough spare hair in my hands for an excellent toupe. I left him with a tiny bald spot at the back (easily hidden because his hair tends to be rakishly messy all the time), and no hair in front of his ears. You know, the really short sideburn bit boys have next to their ears? Yep. I kind of removed that. I didn't mean to. Hopefully, it will grow back speedily.

I write books better than I cut hair. I think. 

I just want people to know that.

Tomorrow, I will be cutting nobody's hair. But I will, hopefully, be handing in my dissertation and washing my hands of it forever. And I will, hopefully, be immersing myself in writing more of CLOCKWORK. It's been so lonely and neglected this week.

Clockwork

Am not terribly inspired blog-wise today, sadly. Instead, I'm generally ticked off, haven't yet cleaned and need to, and feel a little bit like I'm under a microscope and all my cells are being dissected wrong.

So, instead of rambling at you today, I offer the first few paragraphs of my new novel, at the moment tentatively titled CLOCKWORK. I began this yesterday, in a burst of inspiration courtesy of a steampunk-ish art print (more on that later), and I don't know where it's going to go yet or whether it will, in fact, go anywhere, but I suppose that's the exciting part about writing! 

Here it is. Think of the story pitched as 'an unlikely bargain is struck between a girl with a clockwork heart and a boy who finds things.'

I climbed out of the taxi and wished the week would end. Now. This very instant. It had been, oh, interminably long. And full. Things had moved so quickly. On Monday, I’d killed my grandmother because she had asked me to. On Tuesday, I’d attended her funeral. Wednesday, I’d learned that she had left nearly all her money to my uncle Robert, better known to high society as Lord Fallow, and I was now on the cusp of penniless. On Thursday, Lord Fallow had informed me ever so politely that he wished ‘his dearest aunt and niece’ to leave our home, now his. And just earlier today, Friday, I’d given Lord Fallow’s valet a broken nose.

It really wasn’t my fault. What kind of man loomed around kitchen corners in the half-light of dawn and didn’t bother to shout out in warning? With no other implement handy, I had grabbed the nearest frying pan and hit him. Full in the face. The end result of which was a hefty doctor’s bill in Lord Fallow’s hands, a wounded valet, and a demand that I leave the house immediately.

What was more, my heart had stopped four times in the week already. Not once, not twice, not three times, but four. I’d never known it to wind down so fast. It was obviously time for drastic action.

I closed my eyes as the taxi left. If I listened hard, I could hear it, the sound that kept me company late at night. The ticking, in my chest. Tick, tock, tick, tock, on and on it went.

I opened my eyes and turned to look at Great-Aunty Rose, the only real family I had left, who stood unsteadily on the pavement next to me, her umbrella in one hand, her gloves in the other and her pistol in her handbag. She was never at her best on her feet. Old age and everything. Her expression was pursed and prim, and her merry eyes gazed reproachfully at me. 

Note: the novel's not actually steampunk. It's urban fantasy, set in the future sometime, during the reign of Queen Victoria II. Yes, you read right. A re-Victorian age.