writing

Me and The Music

~ ChanAtkins ~ 3 Comments

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Me and the music and the writing, we are linked, we are circular. Each feeds into the other. My mind is always full of both. I often feel that music should be constantly with me, and when I was a kid, I tried to make this so. Music in my bedroom, music in the kitchen where I used to sit next to the radio to write my stories, and music in my head. I still recall the agony of dying batteries in a Walkman. My favourite song whining slowly to a halt. Rummaging through the junk drawer in the hope that the loose batteries rolling around at the bottom would fit, and have enough juice left to keep the songs going.

When I look back at my writing, music has always been there too. Often without me knowing, it has shaped and influenced my writing, as well as who I am. When I was fourteen I wrote a book about a boy living in 1960’s America, during the Vietnam War. There is no doubt in my mind that my love of sixties music influenced me to write this particular story, and the songs and bands I had fallen in love with, are dotted throughout the manuscript. In my head, the book was in fact a movie, with an awesome soundtrack. Songs like All Along The Watchtower by Jimi Hendrix, White Rabbit by Jefferson Airplane and Ruby Tuesday by The Rolling Stones all had their place. I had songs for fight scenes. I had songs for when the gang were running from the cops. I had druggy songs, and hippy songs, and I had Thank You For The Days by The Kinks, In My Life by The Beatles, and Catch The Wind by Donavan. In my head I could see it all and hear it all and it was perfect.

When I look back, I see everything in terms of what music was there for me. I remember buying a Bob Dylan cassette from HMV when I was about twelve. I used to write the lyrics inside my diaries and my school books. I even used to scrawl lyrics that meant something to me onto the surface of my desk at school with a compass. I remember a friend I was slightly in awe of playing me Guns ‘N’ Roses, and watching the videos for Welcome To The Jungle and You Could Be Mine on MTV at her house. I felt like an outsider peering in. It was something; but it wasn’t mine.

When I first saw the video to Smells Like Teen Spirit I thought Kurt Cobain was the most beautiful person I had ever seen. It was something I did not really understand. I bought the single on 7 inch vinyl from my local supermarket and played it as loud as I dared in my room. When I was sixteen Britpop exploded and I found something all mine. When I rewrote The Boy With The Thorn In His Side twenty years after it was first penned, I went back and made Danny’s journey through music my own. From Guns ‘N’ Roses to Nirvana, from the sixties to the nineties, with The Smiths and The Clash in between. It was my soundtrack and I am still adding to it.

Whatever music I am into most at the time, seems to seep into my writing. I had written a significant first draft of This Is Nowhere whilst listening to a lot of Neil Young vinyl. It suddenly seemed to make perfect sense that Jake’s mysterious mother Kate would have loved his music too. At the moment I am listening to a lot of Frank Turner. I have not made my latest protagonist Elliot Pie, a mad music fan, but I am curious to know how this phase will influence his character and the book.

The music has always been with me. I can’t go long without it. I can’t bear the silence or the hollowness that sometimes creeps in. A tight stomach is alleviated by jangling guitars. A worried mind unburdened by pounding drums, building up and up and up and up. The right chords, the right words, the right order, tingling down my spine, making me smile even when I really don’t want to. Music makes you move, it makes you remember how to breathe. It lifts your mood, sets you free, makes you remember you are alive and that great and beautiful things can happen.

When I was a kid I used to lie on my bedroom floor with the speakers on either side of my head. I was trying to locate every part of the song. I was trying to take it apart, understand every piece of it. I was trying to distinguish which instruments came in where, and I could never really understand it, and I still can’t, but I am still listening.

I still insist on loud music in the car. I search the CD collection before I leave the house, seeking out whatever my mood demands. The radio is on all day. Old music brings back a thousand memories. New music opens up possibilities. Makes me feel jealous of the young. If I am down sometimes I want to wallow in it, I want Creep and Fake Plastic Trees and Motorcycle Emptiness, and if I am angry I might want to stay angry, I might want Postively 4th Street or Karma Police or anything by The Smiths. If I want to be lifted up, if I want to feel instantly positive, I turn to The Stone Roses and Oasis. She Bangs The Drums and I can’t stop smiling and drumming. I Am The Resurrection as loud as can be with no interruptions, otherwise I have to go back to the start and try it again. It can’t be messed up. Gotta hear it all. Live Forever is my favourite song in the world, quite possibly. It’s simple and it’s basic but it’s got everything I need. It gets me right there. It says it all. I just wanna’ fly…

Nearly all of my writing has music in it somewhere. The Boy With The Thorn In His Side is a dark and hard hitting story, but is lifted up by Danny’s love for music. He gets to do what I have always wanted; work in a record shop. In The Mess Of Me Joe runs drugs for his brothers in order to save up for a drum kit. In the sequel he will have formed his band and be trying to get noticed.

Music helps me write. It gets the juices flowing. Lyrics inspire stories and invoke characters inside my head. I imagine that all my characters have a soundtrack; music that defines their life and their story. Songs that are all theirs. Songs they sung when they were sad and lost, songs that gave them hope and guts when they needed it most, songs they fell in love to, songs they had their first kiss to…

Me and the music, tapping away. I remember when I was nineteen, and I hadn’t gone to University like I’d planned, and I had a shit job cleaning offices, and my mother had this terrible man living with her, and all my friends had left and gone to Uni, and everything was over, everything was standing still. I remember drinking every night, alone in my room, just me and the music and my trusty old word processor. All I needed was a constant supply of CD’s and paper. I wrote non-stop, all through the night. I wrote whatever came into my head, streams of consciousness and near unconsciousness. I felt like if the music ever stopped then I would die. The music kept the words coming, one after the other, rushing out of me, releasing me from anger and disgust and fear of the future and the whole world. I could make sense of it; or at least keep the worst fear at bay, if I just kept writing, just kept listening to guitars and drums and lyrics.

Now I walk around and I don’t often like the sound of the world. I want to tape a soundtrack over it all. Life is much cooler if you are constantly singing along. If there are constantly words inside your head.

Sometimes I get a nervous feeling in my stomach and for a moment or two, I don’t know why. I can’t work it out. There is nothing to be nervous about. I am not about to do anything scary or important. But the feeling is there nonetheless. It’s like a breath I cannot take. Like the next move has been prevented and I’m stuck. It’s not horrible, or terrible, but it is strange and comes at any time, following me about my life, sudden tightness, sudden urge to take a deep long breath and try again.The other day I finally worked out what it is. It’s my stomach nose-diving, lurching, crunching up small, and its because its wondering what song comes next. What part of life is about to unfold.

Songs are stories. Songs are full of people. Songs are full of love, and fear, and regret and confusion and pure, relentless joy. My writing needs them all. The desperate ones, the depressing ones, the uplifting ones, the soul destroying ones, the ones that shine… They all help me write.

“I’d hear a song, and it would cause this utterly jolting and physical reaction inside of me. It would take me over and it would take me somewhere else. Set all kinds of things off inside of me. Some songs, they drag you down with them, they take your hand very gently and ease you out of the sunshine. They want you to feel their pain, and they want the shivers to run through you as all your hairs stand on end.And then there are the songs that set your hair on fire, and I mean, they fill you up with indescribably joyous energy, the kind that makes you believe you will live forever. Primal Scream’s Movin’ On Up was one of those for me during that time. When I heard that, or sung along to that at Chaos, my heart was exploding with hope, let me tell you, my body felt like it had wings, my soul knew that nothing bad could ever happen to any of us, ever again. Music can do that you know.”  – Danny, “The Boy With The Thorn In His Side” http://www.amazon.co.uk/Boy-Thorn-His-Side-ebook/dp/B00W8DLGKA/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1431972783&sr=1-1&keywords=the+boy+with+the+thorn+in+his+side

 

The Fears and The Panic

~ ChanAtkins ~ 4 Comments

Coming to the end of a book causes a special kind of anxiety in me. It’s like the rest of the time I am fine, smiling, getting on, doing my thing, rolling with the punches and above all else; looking on the bright side! Of course. You have to, don’t you? Only one life, and all that. Make the most of it, do your thing and be happy. I do this and I get this. But whenever I have a book finished, something weird happens to me. It’s like all the anxieties and all the panic that I manage to hold back the rest of the time, are suddenly let loose and permitted to run amok.

I’ll tell you what it feels like. Its a heavy sick feeling in my belly, right down in the pit, right down low. Its tight and knotted and it makes it hard to breathe. A breath is not just a breath anymore, something I don’t even notice. It;s something I have to think about. In, and out.

Finishing a book should be cause for relief and excitement, pride even. But even when I’ve drafted and re-written and edited a thousand times, that last bit, that last haul to the finish line, leaves me trembling with unspoken fears.

It’s this indie writers life. You might know what I mean. It’s ups and downs. Like real life, in fact. A rollercoaster of positives and negatives, of feeling on top of the world one minute and wondering why the hell you bother the next. If you let them, the fears come thick and fast. They knock you down and roll right over you. If you’re doing the whole indie thing, you might recognise some of them. The same ones rear up again and again, and never so violently as when there is a new book ready to go…

Financial fears…nightmares even. If your’re rich then you don’t need to worry about this one. You can throw as much money as you like at your books. You can hire a professional cover designer, you can hire a proofreader and an editor. You can pay out for promotional campaigns. You can buy likes and follows and boost posts and buy sponsored ads on facebook. The list is endless, I guess. But if you’re not, then the financial side can keep you awake at night. It does me. How much more money can I throw in? What is worth it? What’s a waste? What’s an investment? When will I see a return? Ever? I know for a fact I have spent more money on my books than I have made back in the two years I have been published. Sometimes I am okay with this, and sometimes this horrifies me. How can I justify it when I have a family to provide for? I’m reminded of my father’s words growing up. Don’t be a writer, he said. There’s no money in it. He wasn’t wrong.

Time. There’s not enough of it. Not in a day, not in a week. Not in a life. Life is too short for me to read all the books I want to read, to listen to all the music I want to listen to, and to write all of the books I have inside of me. Sometimes this is okay, and other times, like now, this pisses me off and panics me. I want to write faster. I need more time, but I don’t have it, not without letting something else slip. I feel like I am walking a tightrope all of the time. There are choices to be made when time shrinks so readily. I never feel like I am getting it right. I always feel like something or someone is not getting enough of me. And still the words pile up inside my head, drowning the real world out. These people, these voice, they all want to be heard, they all call out to have their turn, but I won’t ever be able to satisfy them all and keep my house and family on track too.

Promo panics. Ugh. I used to hate promo stuff, and then I got resigned to it, and then I got a bit smarter and then I quite liked it. The problem now is also time. I’ll skim through social media on my phone, (probably when I should be paying attention to something else) and I’ll see all these great posts from pages I have liked for the very reason that they post great things, helpful things, inspirational things. But then you need the time for these great things. Time to watch the video, time to read the article, time to find it again, or remember what it was. It shouldn’t panic me, but it does. What if I miss something really important? What if I forget to read something that could have really helped me? There just isn’t time to pay attention to everything. The same applies to finding an audience and building connections. I take this seriously, and have definitely made progress, but again, with everything else, time runs out. I know, take a deep breath you say, pick your battles, let some of them go. I know, I know. Just sometimes, it panics me.

Self-doubt. Well this must be the classic fear for us all. Not just writers either, but most of us as human beings. The first draft is always a horrible thing; messy, back to front, clunky drivel at times, but it’s also exciting. It’s a relief. Finally letting those voice speak, finally at last just getting it out, getting it down. Then there is the second draft and the third, and so on, and yes, it gets better. Everything is going well until the end. And then I start to question it. I start to realise how shit it is. I start to wonder who the hell would read this? I start to think forget it, just leave it, stuff it back where it belongs. My self doubt would never stop me writing, but there are times it makes me want to stop publishing my writing!

Ups and downs. It’s so weird, the way it goes. My books will sit there not selling anything, then out of the blue I will get a really lovely message on my page about an article I wrote, or a blog post. Little things can bring me down very easily, but usually something nice will happen very soon afterwards. Something strange and unexpected. I’m never down for long. An excited text message from a friend reading one of my books who is nearing the end with her stomach all in knots! A message from another friend who is reading the first draft of a new book and already wants to know what happens next, so can she please have some more chapters? An amazing review. High praise from people I really like and respect. All these things happen every week, and I always seem to get a good kick up the arse when something else has made me feel small. I don’t know why it works like this but it does. I like to think it is the Universe making sure I don’t give up. And I won’t. Well, not while these nice things keep happening anyway.

Dilemmas. Indie life is full of them. On a day to day basis I ask myself what I am doing. I often grumble and wonder why I bother. I often feel frustrated at the lack of sales.I wonder whether I should carry on as I am with each new book, or whether I should try the traditional route again, try to find an agent? Would it be worth another stab? Would it make much difference? Do I really want to put myself through that again? What does success mean anyway? Genuine fans and positive feedback? A certain amount of sales? Proving yourself somehow? Or is it something much more personal than that? Accepting your talents, as well as your flaws? Knowing that you have both, and that both need working on.

I know I will be all right once the book is out. Once it is released, I will let the panic go. I will already have my teeth into the next thing and the whole process will start again.

 

How I Write A Book

~ ChanAtkins ~ 15 Comments

A few weeks ago I was chatting to someone and the subject of my writing came up. She asked what I had written and when I told her, she was politely impressed and asked me this question; ‘so, how do you even write a book anyway?’

It’s a great question, and one I have never really thought about before. To be honest I think I’ve always been a little bit scared to think about this question. In my head, my books just seem to happen, and yes, it feels a little bit like a lovely dose of magic. I like having magic in my life and I don’t want to ruin it. But seriously though, there must be a process, even if I am not always that aware of it. Recently I’ve also become more aware of how other people write books. This is fascinating! Spreadsheets and things! Now I have to admit, I am not really a spreadsheet kind of person. I exist in chaos and I quite like chaos. But this got me thinking about my process. How do I write a book? How does it compare to others? Do let me know in the comments at the bottom! But for now, here is how it works for me;

1) I never force anything. I never decide to write this, or that. I never decide to write Young Adult or Adult. I never decide anything. Which is good, because I don’t like making decisions. It all starts with a character. The ideas are there too floating about in the background, acting all shy. But the character is clearer. The sex and the age might come first. The character traits fade in and out. I don’t pay much attention to them to start with because I am always busy with other things. I’ll be writing or editing a book already. Or just living real life, and trying not to make too much of a mess of it all. So I try to ignore them at first. It’s not their turn yet, whoever they are. They will have to wait! Eventually they get braver though. They start chatting, they come out of the shadows and they become realer by the day. Soon I have a name for them, and a whole heap of issues.

2) At this point the notebook comes out. To start with it will be scraps of paper, or the back of a notebook I am using for something else. I will make note of their name and their character and some of their problems. Conversations will be quite frequent now, especially when I am out on dog walks. They all seem to start yakking then! I try to remember as much as I can, and when I get home I will jot things down. Before long, they need their own notebook.

3) The notebook should be a neat and organised thing, but it never is. It’s starts scrappy and it stays that way. There is the occasional stab at organisation. A time line here, a character bio there. But no, mostly it is a crazy mess of what would look like scribbled nonsense to anyone else. Luckily, it always makes sense to me. I will start writing the book when I have time and when the voices have become too loud to ignore. By this time the notebook will be quite full, with possibly the entire plot outlined somewhere amidst the scrawls and scribbles! Every now and again an idea will hit me, a character will suddenly develop, a dilemma will spring up, things will link up and a story with a beginning middle and end will weave itself together. Normally it’s pretty much all there before I start writing, but not always.

4) I start writing. With my notebook by my side I will dive into this story that has been niggling me for some months now. Maybe even longer. I can practically hear the main characters clapping their hands in glee. The notebook will now develop with the book as I write it. So if there is not a timeline, or character bio’s for everyone, then I add them to the notebook as I go. The first draft is always horrible but exciting. It feels like a massive relief to finally be writing it, and I can only hope that other voices remain quite while I try to concentrate on this one. If I haven’t got the whole plot figured out, I never worry. With two of my books, The Mess Of Me and The Tree Of Rebels I really had no clue how they would end, or what exactly would happen. I had the main gist of the story and I had the characters, and that was enough to get going. The complexities of the plots revealed themselves to be on the journey, and I never panic about this. I just wait for it to happen. With some of the other books I know before I start writing what is going to happen. This sort of makes it easier, I suppose! I can write a loose plot in the notebook and use this as a framework.

5) I never worry how good or bad the first draft is. It’s just for me. It’s just to shut them up. It’s just to get it all out of my head. It’s like pulling a plug, or picking a scab, or squeezing a spot! Relief. I don’t worry about how long it takes. I don’t worry about word count or page numbers. With every single book except for The Tree Of Rebels (which is aimed at my 11 and 12 year old daughters) I don’t even worry about who the audience is. I know this will shock some people. Surely I need to know who my target audience is before I start writing? Surely I need to research this group of people and find out what makes them tick? What to they look for? What do they expect? Then I will be half way there with the whole monstrous marketing and promotional thing, right? Well no, sorry, it doesn’t work that way for me. And to tell you the truth, knowing who the target audience was for The Tree Of Rebels made it the hardest book I have ever tried to write! It took away the fun. I’m not sure why. Maybe because writing has always been such a personal and private thing for me. I guess I’m doing it for me first, to quieten those voices, to reveal those characters and help them with their load. I’ll have so much fun doing this that I sometimes have to remind myself that I do want people to read the book as well!

6) Finish the first draft and send it to a friend. I am lucky I have someone I really trust who reads my work and helps me with editing and proofreading. She is not the only person I use, but she is the first to get her hands on anything. The draft comes back to me with comments and we’ll have a few conversations about the themes of the book, what works and what doesn’t. By now I will be more than ready to get my teeth into the second draft. I can’t tell you exactly how many drafts there will be. It really varies from book to book. I will tell you that The Boy With The Thorn In His Side has had the most, by far! So that’s kind of how it works for me. I use a notebook and a pen, and only use the laptop when it all gets to much to contain. I’ve never used a spreadsheet in my life. There is nothing organised or properly planned. My head just doesn’t work that way. But somehow, I hope, it all seems to come out ok!

So over to you, how do you write your books? 11124930_964965450189387_1781543778663520427_n11127478_964965093522756_6604301044566462222_n

Is Writing Selfish?

~ ChanAtkins ~ 3 Comments

Hmm, well ask my seven year old this question right now and he will probably tell you that it is. I am certainly feeling the guilt for spending so much of my time on something that only really benefits me. When I was a kid it was so much easier! School, home, write. Weekends, just write. I lived in my own carefully constructed little world of characters and stories. I lived and breathed my stories and my characters. I raced home to be with them. I stayed up late at night banging away on my word processor. I took a notepad and pen everywhere I went. My head was full of it constantly. My mum would roll her eyes at me and tell me to get my head out of the clouds. Daydreamer, they called me. In a dream. Away with the fairies. Yep, and I loved it. But I only had myself to please.

Then came the years I let the writing slip. University followed by employment followed by children and more employment. There was just never the time. Every now and then I would grab a notebook and pen and curl up in a chair with them. Every now and then I would re-read something I had written in my younger days. People used to ask me; did you ever do anything with your writing? Do you still write? What happened about all your writing? God it was depressing. Every time I heard a question like that I felt like another little piece of my true self had been chipped away. Noel Gallagher once said ‘while we’re living, the dreams we had as children fade away’, and he couldn’t have been more right. This is exactly what happens if we are not careful. Life just simply gets in the way. There is pressure everywhere you turn. Pressure to fit in, pressure to make money, pressure to have a career, to contribute to your family and society in general. There is no time in all this to pay attention to passions that are yours and yours only.

When I was a kid my teachers loved my writing, but I was too afraid to show it to anyone else. I had no idea whether it was good or not. When people asked me what I wanted to do when I grew up I always said be a writer. People often laughed at this. My dad in particular said there was no money in this, and you needed to make money in life. I needed a plan b.

It has taken me a long time to conquer the fear I had of sharing my work. Four books published and two blogs on the go, and I no longer have this fear. Like it or don’t like it, either is fine by me. I know why I write and I have blogged about this before. I write because I have to, because it is who I am, and I have finally clawed this back after years of letting it go. I won’t ever let it go again. I am happier than I have ever been. I feel like I am living my dream. I am me again.

However, this new found obsession with writing brings its own problems, and the main one is guilt. Writing can make you money, and I am slowly and painfully learning how to make this happen, but the chances are you are never going to be rich. So there is guilt about this all of the time. I could do other things and earn more money. I could throw all this energy and time into work that pays! But I would lose myself completely.

Then there is the parental guilt. I guess all parents feel this to some degree at least some of the time. Especially mothers. If you don’t go out to work, you feel guilty for not contributing. If you do go out to work, you feel guilty if that means leaving your children. If you are self-employed things are not really any easier. You have to find a way to concentrate within the home, throw yourself into work while washing sits in the basket, and dinners need to be made. It is almost impossible to find peace and quiet in my house. It does not exist. I am writing this now while Doctor Who blares from the TV behind me, a remote control car is zooming around the room, and the dog has just opened the door and run upstairs with a bone he has dug up. Not to mention the 12 year old stood right beside me playing with my phone whilst asking me how she can become an extra in Sherlock. Arghhhh!

Inevitably I get stressed out, I get snappy, Christ, I just want to get things done! I’ve got this bloody to-do list you see! And if they make much more noise they are going to wake the baby up and then….well.

In the day, it goes like this. Up at six am, with writing on the brain. No lie. It is there all ready to go, fizzing and crackling, winding me up, already setting off a certain panic that I will not find the time. Sort the baby and the animals out, then get the other kids up. All out of the house by 8am. Back home after 9am and walk the dogs. If I am lucky laptop is on by 10am, but then I automatically feel a surge of horrible guilt for neglecting the last baby I will ever have…I do what I can before he needs changing and feeding again; usually emails, some simple promo stuff like Facebook and Twitter, links to my books etc, maybe a few other things from my promo list if I can. The rest of the day is basically taking care of the little man. Another dog walk, and kids home from school. Dinner, baths, lunch boxes, bed. The trouble is now the other kids are older they don’t go to bed as early as they used to. I have to grab whatever there is of the evening before the little one wakes up.

So when my seven year old lingers around the laptop, leaning all over me, chattering away about Doctor Who, asking me for snacks, I have to finally turn and say to him; mummy is working. The look of confusion on his face was highly amusing. No you’re not, he said in reply, that’s not working. So I had to explain to him that actually it is. That mummy writes books that make a little bit of money, and that mummy also gets paid if she writes articles about writing books! Hmm, he said, still confused, that’s not work.

Well, fair enough. How can you explain it to a seven year old? I had better luck with my twelve year old when we were looking for a new coat for her on ebay earlier. When she hit confirm on the paypal button I told her that all the money in the paypal account has come from my writing. My writing bought her coat. She looked at me and frowned. Really? She sounded as surprised as my son earlier.

The thing about writing though, is that it is with you all the time. I find it really, really hard to switch off. Even when I am making the dinner, or hanging out the washing, my thoughts are on my characters and my plots. Sometimes when my kids are talking to me, I drift off, totally unable to hear what they are saying. Just like when I was a kid, my head is off in the clouds. God I feel guilty. They know when I am doing it as well. Oh yes, they know.

Sometimes we will be on a family day out, or enjoying a pub meal, and again I feel myself drifting off. I am thinking about a new promo site I found earlier, or I am listening to my characters converse in my head. I want to grab a pen and write it all down before I forget. But then I feel them all looking at me….

Well you know you can’t win. Whatever you do. Writing is selfish. I know it. I can’t justify it. It is never going to make us rich or famous. I do it because I want to and I have to, because it is my dream, because it makes me who I am, because it makes me feel happy. It is pretty much benefiting me and only me. It takes me away from my kids, and makes me rush them into their beds. How awful. I sometimes tap away at the keyboard with the baby on my lap, trying to write while he tries to hit the keys. I have a constant gnawing terror that one day when they are all grown up, my kids will turn to me and say their main memories of me are me sat at the laptop, tapping away…

So there it is. Writing is selfish and so I am. I have to try to strike a balance. I have to try not to let one important thing slip. My writing means the world to me, but my children are only children once. I hope it might teach them a thing or two that is just as important as spending time with them. I hope it teaches them that living your dream is not simply a dream. That actually you can do whatever the hell you want in life, write, paint, draw, teach, sew, knit, grow things, whatever makes you happy, and if you are strong enough and work hard enough you can also make a living out of it. I hope it teaches them to follow their dreams and stoke the fires of their passions rather than let them peter out. I want to tell them that they do not need a Plan b, or a better paid career. I want to tell them they can do whatever the hell they like and just be happy.

And I also just promised my seven year old I will definitely, definitely play Doctor Who figures with him on Saturday…