tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22354664340534358522024-02-19T03:58:33.454+00:00Jane Purcell: Freelance MumWorking mothers of teenagers know why animals eat their young. A blog about squeezing one around the other.Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16329937118727831213noreply@blogger.comBlogger225125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2235466434053435852.post-76575448939466947562012-09-24T13:27:00.001+01:002012-09-24T13:27:12.042+01:00I've moved!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Hello!<br />
<br />
I've been seduced away from Blogger to Wordpress because even though with blogging (as with life) content is all - I really like the clean layout of wordpress. Unfortunately it has taken ages for me to even start to get to know Blogger and now I'm faffing about with wordpress - pressing random buttons and widgets. So if you want to carry on reading my witterings, please come on over to: <a href="http://lyndajanepurcell.wordpress.com/">http://lyndajanepurcell.wordpress.com/</a><br />
<br />
You'll be very welcome!<br />
<br />
xxx</div>
Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16329937118727831213noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2235466434053435852.post-3972090575207533662012-08-21T18:34:00.002+01:002012-08-21T18:35:21.881+01:00A little bit of validation<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
The great thing about <strike>avoiding work by surfing</strike> internet research is that occasionally you run across something that really brightens your day. I sometimes read manuscripts and offer constructive criticism for <a href="http://www.literaryconsultancy.co.uk/2012/07/ace-free-read-client-picked-up-by-united-agents/">The Literary Consultancy</a>, and today I found out some news about a writer called Rebecca King who had submitted a terrific YA story about a young ballerina in the 1920s. Frankly the ms was 95% there and just needed a bit of tweaking but the publishing world is such that an almost there manuscript might be turned down with a standard rejection slip by a harassed editor or maybe a few encouraging words scribbled on a complimentary slip. So I was thrilled to hear that Rebecca tweaked away and now has herself an agent who in turn has a tightly written and marketable story that doesn't need to be edited, pruned or altered. It just needs to be sold. I'm so pleased for Rebecca. It's made my day.</div>
Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16329937118727831213noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2235466434053435852.post-5041252169824764692012-08-17T15:28:00.002+01:002012-08-17T15:28:46.146+01:00Recession + freelance = extra shit rates part 2<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Just finished reading a very good blogpost by the writer<a href="http://jennashworth.co.uk/2010/11/writing-tips-9-money/comment-page-1/#comment-73548"> Jenn Ashworth</a> on writing for money, and she starts off by stating quite rightly in my opinion that it's not OK to write for free. Not only because it drives the price down for everyone but it adds to this toxic and patronising idea that writers do it for the love anyway. It's a very good piece which lists the bullshit reasons writers are given for not being paid and how you should respond to them.<br />
<br />
Here's the other thing. The recession is being used as an excuse to pay writers - all writers - even less. Squat in many cases. <br />
<br />
Anyway, to follow on from my first post on this subject, last week a friend of mine finished a book and recommended me as copy editor. I received a nice email from one of the editors at the publisher (and it was a perfectly respectable publisher) asking about my rates so I went to the Society of Proofreaders and Editors and learned that they <a href="http://www.sfep.org.uk/pub/mship/minimum_rates.asp">suggest a rate of 24.25</a> per hour to copy edit a book which would work out at say 10 pages an hour for a 50 000 word book. So If I worked for 8 hours solid a day, that would work out at £194 per day. I reckon I could do a 50 000 work book, line by line in a week which would work out at about £900. So I offered to copy the whole book for £600 because given these stringent times I thought it would be fair to offer a flat rate but not one so low I would feel ripped off. <br />
<br />
Back came an email saying they would use someone else. My friend later told me that they had offered the work to someone else and had suggested about £400 and he with great difficulty had pushed them up inch by inch to £500. £400 to copy edit a whole book? And I've heard of highly experienced copy editors being offered £250. Which works out - if you take a week to do a whole book at about £6.25 per hour. With tips you would get more for waiting tables.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://media.gn.apc.org/rates/">The NUJ</a> has a section where writers can post rates - the good, the bad and the ugly as sin. Perhaps writers should start up another - like that series of books on Crap Towns and Crap Jobs. We could add Crap Rates to that. So what's the worst rate you've been offered? <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16329937118727831213noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2235466434053435852.post-9167202042154847572012-07-27T15:37:00.000+01:002012-07-27T17:35:04.148+01:00Recession + freelance = extra shit rates.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Today I was offered some work at a risible rate. It left me feeling angry but also queasily
ungrateful. Money is such a tricky subject among freelancers. We all tread a fine line between wanting the
work, wanting to appear to be reasonable – to <i>be</i> reasonable but we also have to pay our bills. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So when I named my price, having checked the going rate, and how long the job would take, feeling confident that I was
offering a pretty good deal, there was silence at the other end of the
phone. I have been doing this long enough to recognise the pattern.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="background-color: white;"><br /></i><br />
<i style="background-color: white;">Trick 1: The
disapproving silence.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
Passive aggressive tinged with embarrassment. Oh God – it’s too much money! Quick say
something! Like ‘No – just joking! I’ll rewrite it for 50p and a pork pie.’ <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i><br />
<i>Trick 2: Empty
flattery. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
The person that I spoke to knows me well enough now to know
that I was brought up Catholic and therefore the Guilt Button is always there,
just under the surface so she sighed again and then ladled on the flattery –
they really like my style and they really wanted to work with me yadda yadda.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ever tried to pay a bill with flattery<i>? I haven’t got any actual money
Mr Mortgage Company but your 3.4% fixed rate makes my heart go all
fluttery wuttery.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
I hate negotiating money.
If you have an agent they do all that stuff for you but as an
independent, all you can do is check out rates with places like the <a href="http://www.londonfreelance.org/rates/">NUJ</a> and <a href="http://www.writersguild.org.uk/about-us/rates-agreements">The Writers Guild</a>. But I would suggest also
that you remember that as a freelancer, you are not getting any benefits such
as sick or holiday pay or maternity pay.
Also you have to factor in heating, lighting, office expenses so hiring
you as a freelancer means that for every £10 a full timer gets, you are getting
about £9. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i><br />
<i>Trick 3: Say something
vague about the recession and how everyone has to tighten their belt.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
Right, so does this mean the business you are working for
has cut their prices? You are a business
too. And as such, you should not be giving your hard earned skills away to another business. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background-color: white;">So often I’ve thought of the millions of other freelancers
out there and panicked at the thought of being ‘difficult’ when really I was
just afraid to be assertive. But what I
saw as being ‘nice’ may have been interpreted as ‘a walkover’. Like the online publisher who wanted ‘</span><a href="http://www.copyrightservice.co.uk/" style="background-color: white;">all rights’</a><span style="background-color: white;"> for an article I was writing.
This included (I didn’t know at the time) moral rights – the right to be
identified as the author of the article.
Or the publisher who wanted me to write an A-Z of dieting and offered me
£50 for a 2000 word article! When I said
‘no’ she accused me of being ‘grandiose’ and it only ‘involved a little bit of
research’. Twenty six ‘little bits of
research’ in fact if I managed to find some sort of diet with X in it. I turned it down and
she came back to me three weeks later with three times the amount (still a shit
fee but hey -) but by then I was busy on something else and really couldn’t do
it.</span><br />
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t know what can be done about offering writers
appalling rates. Is it that everybody in
the world wants services as cheaply as possible – not just writing but all
services? Is it that good writing looks
easy? Or that because writers tend to
work alone and are worried about seeming ‘diva-ish’ or ‘difficult’ so they
accept bad or non-existent rates.</div>
<div class="hey might be emp><br /></i><br />
<i>Trick 5: The Biggie. Yours is the most expensive quote we’ve had
(said in mournful voice)<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class=" msonormal"="">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was contacted by a company a few weeks ago who were
offering writers the chance to write for their website for free! Isn’t that great? And whatever you wrote for that company then
<i>belonged</i> to the company – i.e. the copyright was no longer yours but
theirs. And yet they claimed they were a
company who promoted and supported writers! If you want to write
for free start a blog but don’t provide content for a website too lazy or cheap
to write their own. And by the way –
click per view is not pay. Unless you
count £2.89 per month as pay.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i><br />
<i>Trick 4: The Biggie. Yours is the most expensive quote we’ve had
(said in mournful voice)<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
Ah – the implicit threat.
You’re not the only writer in the world. Well you're not. Still doesn't mean you have to accept shit rates.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
If you have to have the work well it’s your decision and I
totally get that sometimes you have to do it – bills need paying. But writing something suffused with
resentment that you are being ripped off is just horrible. And it drives down the price for everyone
else. Don’t do it!
Think of the long game and respect yourself enough to research and stick
to a fair price.<o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16329937118727831213noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2235466434053435852.post-72026648261046639362012-07-24T14:24:00.000+01:002012-07-24T14:24:23.866+01:00The Boy is Eighteen Today<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I can't believe it. The small, blue eyed, soapy smelling monkey child who would cling onto me as though he wanted to climb back inside is eighteen today. Technically at 8.47pm in fact because after twenty eight hours of walking up and down hospital corridors attached to a drip and cursing whoever said that 'natural childbirth' was 'powerful' - it all went wrong, I was flipped onto a bed (ok not so much flipped as heaved) and The Boy was dragged from me grumbling profusely. 'No change there' says A, 'he didn't want to leave his room then and he doesn't now.'<br />
<br />
The Boy did grumble rather than cry but as he had uttered not a sound up to that point and several ashen faced doctors were gathered round him, we were pleased at any sound frankly. It was boiling hot, much like today, and A had smuggled in an electric fan which he kindly aimed at whichever bit was the sweatiest. Oh the romance. But finally I remember glancing at the clock at the exact moment that the Boy grumbled croakily and it was 8.47 and we had a son and he was fine. <br />
<br />
Now he is eighteen and taller than me. He calls me 'Micro Mum' and when I try to remind him of stuff or tell him off he laughs at me. Happy Birthday Boy.<br />
<br />
<br /></div>Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16329937118727831213noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2235466434053435852.post-3813219665962463142012-07-17T11:24:00.002+01:002012-07-17T11:24:52.725+01:00<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I do love my new flat. The walls are painted bespoke vanilla mist (I love that word although I'm not entirely sure what it means - bespoke, not walls). 'Yes vanilla mist' I said to the man who came to mend the boiler the other day although to be fair he had only asked me to pass him a torch. But he was kind enough to reply, 'Looks like magnolia to me.'<br />
<br />
There is a big window in every room and amazingly I have a bit of outdoor space - a large balcony with lush billowing plants and an obese pigeon who swoops down every morning to sit fatly on the iron fence. The Girl has made friends with a feral squirrel who darts into the garden every morning and ransacks the 'squirrel proof' bird feeder. Last week I yanked out shelves in one room, drilled holes in walls and put them into another room. They haven't creaked and fallen off the wall yet. I was rigid with tension for the first few weeks, expecting something - anything to collapse or stop working or to discover that America's Most Wanted was living in the wardrobe. In fact the dishwasher politely waited until I'd moved in - worked once and then groaned to a halt, and the boiler flashed at me red-eyed, like the end of Terminator and then died too. But worrying stupidly about some nameless possibility is never as bad as the reality of some machine just ceasing to work. Although I suspect that had the boiler gone AWOL on a freezing February night I might have felt differently. <br />
<br />
In the middle of all this nesting I'm supposed to be writing a new radio series so once a week I gather up my laptop and head off to the new <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/stuartpinfold/5224131861/">BBC in Portland Place.</a> Walking up to this mammoth iconic structure of steel and glass, it's impossible not to feel a tweak of pride. Inside, it reminds me of a combination of Bladerunner and CBeebies - huge glass walls, steel lifts and dotted with primary coloured furniture that doesn't look terribly comfortable. It's only half full, so there are great open planned swathes of office, with empty desks. Every week, my producer books a room with typewritten notes on the door and everything and every week, we discover somebody already in there who glares at us or says: 'Just a mo' and then carries on talking loudly on his phone. There's something about the place that makes me feel exposed. Maybe that's the idea.<br />
<br />
<br /></div>Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16329937118727831213noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2235466434053435852.post-76607543891648184242012-07-10T17:07:00.000+01:002012-07-10T17:11:17.262+01:00My week with the boiler<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
The only real writing I've been doing recently is filling in large numbers on cheques. Because as you know, dear reader, moving into a new place means peering into dark corners to find out where that strange clanking noise is coming from, or going red and saying: 'I don't know' when the Electrical Engineer shows up and asks you where the electricity is switched off from. Further humiliation ensues when after spending two hours reading Boiler Maintenance Made Easy, you still have no idea why the red button is flashing so you ring up Boilerz and after half an hour of selecting <i>'Option 2: If you want to throw your boiler off a cliff'</i> - someone answers and says: 'Oh no - that brand of boiler doesn't flash - it glows.' Round comes a teenage boy who scratches his arse for ten minutes before informing you that despite 'specialising' in the type of Boiler you have ie Shit Boilers Inc, they don't have the part you need, so will have to drive to Reading to get said part, at a cost of £80 plus VAT per hour.<br />
<br />
Teething troubles I suppose and although a good friend has pointed out that it would be infinitely worse if I had discovered the boiler wasn't working one late night in January, rather than July (even though the weather seems identical - don't get me started) I feel that the last month has been a bit of a fiery baptism. I'm not good at understanding technical hoohaa and these Technical Manuals are Very Badly Written and utterly confusing. Added to that is the wealth of TV programmes featuring hard men chasing Bad Tradesmen down the street, leaving a trail of weeping, and bankrupt pensioners, and you are left thinking that men who come round to your house to fix stuff are Nearly Always Crooks.<br />
<br />
Of course this isn't true at all. And so in the spirit of being a bit thick about this stuff and innumerate here are a few tips on getting in tradesmen when stuff breaks down. Told you I wasn't technical:<br />
<br />
The two excellent tradesmen I've hired recently both recommended a site called <a href="http://www.diynot.com/">DIY Not </a>which is full of really useful tips from professionals and DIY experts.<br />
<br />
I had my electrics sorted out from a company I found through <a href="http://www.which.co.uk/">Which</a>. If you need some unbiased, consumer led guidance on who to hire and what to buy, you can't do better. They also have a section on recommended tradesmen.<br />
<br />
Whatever job you need doing, always ask for at least three quotes in writing. If they baulk forget it. Never ever pay upfront for a job. Or agree to a lower rate for cash.<br />
<br />
It's also reasonable for a professional to have a clear idea of how long it will take for them to do the job.<br />
<br />
If at any point you don't understand what your trades person is talking about, say so. Ask them to explain and write it down because it is boring and you will forget it. But I am now proud to say that like Father Purcell in Father Ted (the most boring priest in the world, I can now hold my own in the world of boilers). Do you still fancy me?</div>Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16329937118727831213noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2235466434053435852.post-3569360887418054762012-07-07T14:52:00.001+01:002012-07-07T14:53:07.496+01:00I'm back! And with a Mallen Streak!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Does anyone remember <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YGWWYkLmDv8">The Mallen Streak?</a> Catherine Cookson meets vampiric white slug on the on the front of hair? Sometimes it can look sexy as with <a href="http://static.guim.co.uk/sys-images/Guardian/Pix/pictures/2011/6/20/1308562401262/Caitlin-Moran-007.jpg">Caitlin Moran</a> or not as in the case of the bloke on the front cover of the <a href="http://www.google.co.uk/imgres?imgurl=http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/418BWZZS3PL._SL500_AA300_.jpg&imgrefurl=http://www.amazon.co.uk/Mallen-Streak-VHS-Catherine-Cookson/dp/B00004CJHU&h=300&w=300&sz=16&tbnid=e_SJmLAOpzDkUM:&tbnh=90&tbnw=90&zoom=1&usg=__ebtpfpJIeNO-VseMFVP9efnAwT8=&docid=6meizfPiWe3jpM&hl=en&sa=X&ei=Tz34T_72L8jA0QWnrYWRBw&sqi=2&ved=0CGQQ9QEwBQ&dur=466">Mallen book</a> who looks like a cross between Michael Bolton and Wolf man (not sure which is worse.)<br />
<br />
Anyway the POINT is that I've got one. A Mallen streak. A big grey one at the front of my hairline. Possibly through the sheer stress of moving house. Or maybe because I've got a hitherto untapped streak of badness. 'Or it could be that you're really really old mummy,' as The Girl pointed out the other day before going outside and doing a handstand in her knickers.<br />
<br />
It could be. But then moving house is unbelievably stressful as well as time consuming. It's not the actual physical business of moving your stuff from one location to another - it's the getting of the mortgage, the realisation that although banks have no trouble <i>squandering</i> our money, when it comes to <i>lending</i> it, they are still firmly back in the 1950s, by which I mean they look at anyone who doesn't have a 9 - 5 regular job with a solid income - with horror. And considering that jobs like this just don't exist anymore and most of us are on contracts, and even more of us are self-employed, you would think that a tiny amount of flexibility would be called for. So although I had a pretty decent deposit, I still had to jump through more hoops than a circus dog and with the aid of a good mortgage broker. No wonder everywhere I look, people are renting. <br />
<br />
I did find throwing stuff out very therapeutic though - even books. I always felt guilty about chucking out books, it has this Nazi esque connotation to it - the next step down from burning books. But I knew I was moving to a flat and many of my books felt connected to my past so I gave loads away, recycled the rest and only kept the books that <strike>make me look intelligent</strike> I love and cherish.<br />
<br />
So I've moved house and am now in that stage of finding out how things work (or don't) while working on my next Radio 4 thing, a series. But I'm acutely aware that I've been neglecting my blog where I <strike>moan and whinge constantly</strike> write about my fascinating life. So I'm back and Mallen Streak or not, I'm going to write a lot more from now on. </div>
Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16329937118727831213noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2235466434053435852.post-46610635218073067752012-05-06T14:35:00.000+01:002012-05-10T09:57:23.500+01:00Recording Eggy Doylers<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I had a play commissioned by the BBC in March 2011. I wrote the first draft back last summer and it was frankly awful. It’s set in 1979, a few months after Mrs Thatcher came to power and what you have to avoid is info dump about that period of time:<br />
<i><br /></i><br />
<i>Good morning! And it’s a fine morning in June 1979 and goodness me we have a female Prime Minister. </i><br />
<i><br /></i><br />
<i>Do we? And here’s a pint of milk that cost me 15p. </i><br />
<br />
CUE: <i>Ian Drury and the Blockheads
I do like that Ian Drury. Is he Top of the Hit Parade?</i>
Etc.<br />
<br />
I wrote a second, third, fourth and by the fifth draft it was starting to get some sort of shape. My producer is very hands on which I like – I gave her carte blanche to cut and change anything she didn’t like. Because I trust her. Some writers hate this. I respect that because for most writers, a word or a phrase is there because it is necessary and it may well impact on a scene later if it’s cut or changed. I’m not quite so bothered possibly because I spent years as a journalist and in that field, writing is often cut to ribbons. I learnt not to be too precious about my writing. <strike>Or maybe I'm just a lazy arse.</strike> Not that distress over heavy handed chopping is precious – but sometimes you get writers in a rage because an ‘and’ or a tiny joke is cut.<br />
<br />
The play is about an absolute disaster of a school trip. I initially called it The Ambassadors because I remember that teachers in a vain attempt at good behaviour warned us that we might be out of school but we were still Ambassadors for our school. But then I worried about listeners tuning in expecting an adaptation of a Henry James book and instead find screeching teenagers and even worse behaved teachers. So I changed it to <a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/mediacentre/proginfo/2012/21/the-eggy-doylers.html">Eggy Doylers</a> which was a generic term of abuse at my school. Nobody really knew what it meant but apparently if someone was prone to bouts of fury, shouting Eggy Doyler at them was guaranteed to push them over the edge. And because the BBC get millions of ideas they tend to get glued to a particular title. I'm writing a series at the moment and the Commissioning Editor hates my working title. He wants something more war like - and proactive. I know what he means but I'm completely stuck. It's about romance writing and smuggling and World War Two. So far I've come up with Mills and Boom. Don't think that will do.<br />
<br />
Last Tuesday and Wednesday I trooped along to what look like army barracks in Maida Vale but are the BBC recording studios. The paint job reminded me of Wandsworth Prison as did the two unimpressed looking people at reception. ‘I’m here for a play’ I said tearing in the door at 9.10am.
‘So is everybody’ came the nonchalant reply. I was late and keen to get my Visitor card but they couldn’t find a pen. They slightly reminded me of the time I staggered up the steps of the maternity hospital at 11pm, stomach protruding about five foot, in labour and the Security Guard at the door eyed me suspiciously and said: ‘What are you here for?’<br />
<br />
The actual recording room looks like The Enterprise with huge banks of knobs and machines to twiddle. The acting takes place in what looks like a half finished episode of Changing Rooms, with bits of wood and a few chairs lying around. In the middle of this are the studio managers who gamely rustle bits of paper or crush biscuits or clang on things to create the sound magic that in turn creates the pictures in your head. It was wonderful and oddly surreal to hear the words I coming out of actors mouths. In many cases bits were funny that I couldn’t remember being funny and in one case – a whole scene that I thought would be hilarious, off the page was about as funny as a triple bypass. Kill your babies I thought as we cut the scene entirely and fiddled around with the next one so it made sense.<br />
<br />
The cast were gorgeous and generous with the endless retakes. My producer Jonquil Panting has an uncanny ability to tell you how good you are while wringing <i>another</i> rewrite/take out of you. It's not till much later that you realise you've been schmoozed into doing it again and again and again. The fab cast includes - <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ralph_Ineson"> Ralph Ineson</a>, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lydia_Leonard">Lydia Leonard</a>, <a href="http://www.londontheatre.co.uk/londontheatre/reviews/vernongodlittle2011.htm">Joseph Drake</a>, <a href="http://westend.broadwayworld.com/article/BWW_Interviews_THE_UNICORN_THEATRE_COMPANYS_Amaka_Okafor_20100610">Amaka Okafor</a>, and <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alex_Lanipekun">Alex Lanipekun</a>. And I’m in it doing a cruel (and accurate) impersonation of a girl I used to know at school.
Meanwhile the Studio Managers were playing bits of music from that year and reminiscing about Gary Numan and his constant farewell tours and how everybody fancied Chrissie Hynes.
It’s done and it’s in editing. And it will be transmitted on Tuesday May 22nd at 2.15pm. And I’d like to say for the record that BBC coffee is <i>unbelievably</i> bad.</div>Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16329937118727831213noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2235466434053435852.post-67429739476996599732012-04-13T13:09:00.001+01:002012-04-13T13:11:11.440+01:00If a tree falls in a forest . . . .<b>Philosophical questions. If a tree falls in a forest and nobody is around to hear, does it still make a sound? </b><br />
<br />
<b>And if a writer remains oblivious to all my advice and constructive criticism and carries on in her own inimitable style – is her story still shite?</b><br />
<br />
I tutor someone – let’s call her Daria, who for months now, has submitted chapter after chapter of her novel. I read and make notes, offer suggestions and encouragement. Then I start to notice that despite effusive thanks for my comments, they are being roundly ignored and the next chapter is full of exactly the same problems, overwriting, long sentences that require oxygen to read out loud, plot anomalies, too much description and passive writing.<br />
Daria continues to ignore my suggestions thanking me for my help after each chapter. In a last ditch attempt to get through to her, I write notes in CAPS explaining that if one of your characters breaks a leg she can’t be seen RUNNING in the next chapter. The readers will NOTICE. And since you have built the entire story around the broken leg you can’t go back and change it to a SPLINTER. This too is ignored so I give up and make bland polite remarks.<br />
Then when the final chapter is done she sends me an email thanking me for my help and asking if I will write her <i>a really good review</i> as she is going to send the unrevised, unrewritten and frankly awful book to a publisher. She even suggests words I might like to use in my review. (I have a few in mind but not the ones she is considering.) I am <i>staggered</i> at her brass neck and say <strike>I wouldn't give you a good review if there was a gun to my head</strike> no.<br />
I go to her website a few days later and find she has a FAQ which includes the question:<br />
How can I find out more about Daria's books?<br />
<i>Go into your local bookshop and demand that they stock them! </i> <br />
No - it is not meant to be ironic.<br />
<br />
After I scrape my chin off the floor I can’t help but feel faintly admiring. I would never have the cheek to ask for a rave review. Or even imagine that people have nothing better to do than go to obscure blogs, and feel an urge to march into Waterstones and shout: <i>Hey you – overqualified bookseller! Why aren’t you stocking the books of that fantastically talented author called Daria! I'm not leaving until you do! </i><br />
Where does my student get her dazzling sense of entitlement? Because if she could tie that to actual writing and rewriting ability she would be unstoppable. Think of all the celebrities out there who have no discernible talent whatsoever but are considered a valuable brand. <br />
But wait! That phrase . . . .<i>actual ability . . . actual ability . . . actual ability </i>. . .<br />
I blink slap myself round the cheek a couple of times and realise that answer to the second question is definitely YES.Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16329937118727831213noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2235466434053435852.post-45716393169738480342012-03-22T16:55:00.003+00:002012-03-22T17:09:21.379+00:00Everything and nothing has changedI listened to a <a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/radio4/features/programmes/">Woman’s Hour</a> phone in yesterday on the joys and problems of being a stay at home mother or a working mother. Among the calls was a lady – can’t remember her name but she was very positive and cheerful and basically said, ‘Come on – things HAVE changed. We can go out to work if we want or more likely NEED to, we shouldn’t apologise for wanting more than caring for our children – we work to pay bills not because we’re selfish and even if we <i>do</i> want things like status and a sense of satisfaction in working – what’s wrong with that? We shouldn’t have to feel guilty for having ambition. Things are different for our generation. And I thought – yeah good on you. <br />
And then I read <a href="http://blogs.telegraph.co.uk/news/cristinaodone/100145248/denis-watermans-wife-beating-is-bad-enough-but-his-feeble-attempts-to-justify-it-are-sickening/">Dennis Waterman blaming Rula Lenska</a> for him hitting her because she’s a 'clever woman' and you know what it’s like with these uppity wimmin and their cruel tongues making less educated men feel bad. Well according to Waterman she (surprise!) provoked him and I think no – nothing’s changed at all. 'It's not difficult for a woman to make a man hit her,' he says. No Dennis, all she has to do is say the wrong thing. Or just get in the way of his fists. The ‘he or she made me do it,’ is the classic abuser’s excuse as we all know. I remember reading some horrendous piece where a paedophile pointed out that little girls were actually very seductive and what's a guy to do? Or the girl who goes out wearing a tight skirt and 'gets herself' raped. Or in this case – clever women deserve to get hit. It’s all the same really. Victim blaming. Nothing has changed. Dennis Waterman – you are an anencephalous tosser. Clever enough for you? And Minder was shite.<br />
<br />
PS: After I posted this piece I read again the Christina Odone piece about it in the Telegraph, linked above. And then I scrolled down to the comments. Read them if you want to be depressed. Out they come the 'jokes' about never hit a woman (no matter how much she deserves it) - oh ho ho, and about how the domestic violence figures are skewed in favour of wimmin. Where are the figures for this? I know that there are women who hit men and men are often too ashamed to come forward. But why when there's a piece in which a man admits to having hit a woman and then basically blamed her for it, are practically all the comments of the 'la la la what about men la la la wimmin are bitches la la la' type?Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16329937118727831213noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2235466434053435852.post-41852424055351681112012-03-07T23:12:00.000+00:002012-03-07T23:12:11.401+00:00How to be a contented motherThe woman who <strike>threatens commmunity websites with ruin if they disagree with her</strike> shows you how to grow a Contented Little Baby is back! And this time she's not ordering babies about but mothers, in her new book: The Contented Mothers Guide. Basically it tells new mothers, very very new mothers, to slide some nice underwear over the leaking c-section scar, ignore the red, swollen breasts and put out for their husbands. I'm sure it tells you other stuff too like how to stay at home and how to go to work. Or maybe work part time. Oooh yet another book telling us how to do parenting proper. Lovely. <br />
But as Ms Ford is notoriously litigious I will say no more.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQJrrGrQIs3aGaHY-blImlvzOpsleuBkS_r8zDKblsD1Bnr1jhIBk2zlg758VvQs6NDLcEPb7EmdruWevHh5_6CX3eHJQIownJlw2qGPCzrPp0C5CkJ4B17zZmtI0nSP8JS6TuL0SXKZZM/s1600/Gina.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="228" width="221" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQJrrGrQIs3aGaHY-blImlvzOpsleuBkS_r8zDKblsD1Bnr1jhIBk2zlg758VvQs6NDLcEPb7EmdruWevHh5_6CX3eHJQIownJlw2qGPCzrPp0C5CkJ4B17zZmtI0nSP8JS6TuL0SXKZZM/s320/Gina.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtDCRHCW22DGIZJKMVNLcGULzD8IoeEdInu7hnoDvjczMW7Zhi9nAOUB40vX1I6Pw_7uhc2tTlI7sdQJn_CP16bFjHTVmeRb_Iq7uUj9R_1bKSM8ZHNt-Y-2J_9i1RRf76U5uvZ1IpF2R-/s1600/Marjorie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="183" width="275" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtDCRHCW22DGIZJKMVNLcGULzD8IoeEdInu7hnoDvjczMW7Zhi9nAOUB40vX1I6Pw_7uhc2tTlI7sdQJn_CP16bFjHTVmeRb_Iq7uUj9R_1bKSM8ZHNt-Y-2J_9i1RRf76U5uvZ1IpF2R-/s320/Marjorie.jpg" /></a></div><br />
Gina Ford and Marjorie from Fat Fighters. Are they related?Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16329937118727831213noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2235466434053435852.post-59844271187063111042012-03-07T17:55:00.000+00:002012-03-07T17:55:59.630+00:00I have to go to school tomorrow dressed as a RomanSo I was sitting in front of my laptop musing whether one character’s newly shuffled arc would impact on the other main character’s arc when The Girl comes pounding into the study. She’s got this habit of repeating the question <i>in exactly the same tone of voice</i> until I break.<br />
<br />
<i>Mummy I have to go to school tomorrow dressed as a Roman.</i><br />
Hang on a minute I have to finish this.<br />
<i>Mummy I have to go to school as a Roman.</i><br />
I said HANG ON<br />
(BEAT) <br />
<i>But Mummy I have to go to school tomorrow dressed as a Roman.</i><br />
Did you not hear me? I have to have five minutes to finish this.<br />
<i>Okay</i>.<br />
(FIVE SECONDS LATER) <br />
<i>I have to go to school tomorrow dressed as a Roman.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF8O0t6qgumrBo4hr-yOPQgB2dk2ksdwB9yuu42jiStKZpBFjeQFBN2XN-pat-F8EpSN_wYi7t6QnhR5x3OcU5L4TMuS4BFFr-1Ygt5TjsADZNlYU-2IO6NfHKPgzwZfOAwDmbOtEMQxp-/s1600/009.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="239" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF8O0t6qgumrBo4hr-yOPQgB2dk2ksdwB9yuu42jiStKZpBFjeQFBN2XN-pat-F8EpSN_wYi7t6QnhR5x3OcU5L4TMuS4BFFr-1Ygt5TjsADZNlYU-2IO6NfHKPgzwZfOAwDmbOtEMQxp-/s320/009.JPG" /></a></div><br />
</i><br />
I swear to God she could be used by M15 on stubborn suspects.<br />
It was at this point that I realised that a) the word ‘tomorrow’ was appearing a lot and b) I’m shit at sewing. Not like my mum who made me an Alice in Wonderland costume from scratch when I was nine years old. She even made little pantaloons. I can’t even sew a pencil case. No I’m not kidding. When we made pencil cases at school which involved cutting out two rectangles of fabric and stitching them together, mine ended up looking like some dodgy Rhombus sewn by a drunk person. And my stitching was so bad that the single pencil I put into it fell out almost immediately. But it was time to put my pencil case shame behind me and ransack my wardrobe for anything remotely Roman looking. I tried to persuade her to wear a sheet but The Girl was adamant. She was going as Flora Roman Goddess of Flowers. <br />
So thanks to an old slip, some gold braid, a needle and thread, some glue and a LOT of swearing, The Girl had a costume. And she looked lovely. And I still haven’t sorted out the character arc problem.Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16329937118727831213noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2235466434053435852.post-25377945538354394292012-02-24T18:08:00.000+00:002012-02-24T18:08:24.340+00:00Juggling with Spaghetti<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ5yXHQC3yQjjALs6CZ2Tf9X_sbnOUo9eSb5BKhFk3X5lgpTKREkCvwzIWjTc4_-XfJSa4xs-wtsBjJSBVGMsTywS4XgvBnYoXgUW7vrHDwJjEx9GYitzTC8SEpomnDh962S8E12sRJXWp/s1600/Id+and+Louise+Cook.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="320" width="255" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ5yXHQC3yQjjALs6CZ2Tf9X_sbnOUo9eSb5BKhFk3X5lgpTKREkCvwzIWjTc4_-XfJSa4xs-wtsBjJSBVGMsTywS4XgvBnYoXgUW7vrHDwJjEx9GYitzTC8SEpomnDh962S8E12sRJXWp/s320/Id+and+Louise+Cook.jpg" /></a></div><br />
I’m writing a Woman’s Hour series on Ida and Louise Cook. These amazing sisters who lived an outwardly very quiet existence in Wandsworth in the early nineteen thirties, spent about five years providing financial guarantees for Jews fleeing from Germany, and sometimes smuggling out jewels and fur coats, the only source of portable wealth that might provide their refugees with future security. Their cover story was their passionate love of opera, and helped by their friendship with the conductor Clemens Krauss and several opera stars, they would travel to German or Austria in their woolworths cardies and sensible tweed skirts, see an opera, then return via a different route to avoid the suspicions of the border guards, often laden with jewels and furs. <br />
<br />
After <a href="http://www.ushmm.org/museum/exhibit/online/kristallnacht/frame.htm">Kristallnacht</a> in 1938, Nazis began to openly attack and loot Jewish homes and businesses and their victims were only given thirty days to get out of the country if they were able to escape at all. But once into Britain, a refugee child had to be ‘adopted’ by a British citizen until the child reached 18. A woman could be brought over on a domestic permit. It was much harder for men because they might have a job waiting in the UK or US but would still have to apply for a Visa from some pompous little Nazi in order to get out of Germany. <br />
<br />
Once in the UK a refugee over eighteen would then be put into another queue for Emigration to the US – a queue which could stretch to over three years wait. During this wait, again, they would be the financial responsibility of a British citizen. For refugees over 60 this responsibility would last for the rest of their life. Oh and if it seems as though the UK was doing everything they could to keep Jewish refugees out, it was because they were. When you think about attitudes to refugees now, it seems little has changed.<br />
<br />
Using the cover of their operatic passion, Ida and Louise would travel back and forth to Germany. They went in and out using different borders to avoid becoming too familiar with the guards. In Germany they stayed in big hotels with high ranking Nazis to show they had nothing to hide. And why would anyone suspect two giggly spinster sisters? Under this cover they saved twenty nine lives. And as Ida was a prolific Mills and Boon writer she used her earnings to provide sponsorship for her refugees. It was a time where £25 would buy someone’s life.<br />
<br />
It’s difficult writing about heroism because nobody decides to be a heroine. The word conjours up marble bust drama – I don’t want that. Living through it is one thing – talking about it – something else. And it’s such a big story that I can only concentrate on a small part of it. As I often tell my students you have to decide what you want to say – what you want the story to be about, regardless of genre. <br />
<br />
I think I want this to be about two sisters, who can only do their work if they think of it as a romantic adventure and not a series of terrible risks. <br />
<br />
I find scene breakdowns the most onerous part of writing because (to me) it’s the bricks and mortar. If your foundations are dodgy, it doesn’t matter how nice the furniture or the carpets, because the house is likely to totter and collapse. This is a big story so I have to be very careful about what I cover. And with radio – you can’t have loads of voices either – it’s usually a maximum of five per Woman’s Hour episode. I went away and wrote a scene breakdown and showed it to my producer who gently reminded me that I only have thirteen minutes to squeeze in a shitload of story. Start again.<br />
<br />
So my basic rule is to start close up then pull back and reveal and finish each episode on a cliffhanger. And not have episode four and five as ‘tidy ups’. The whole story has to have a narrative arc but each episode also has to have a concurrent narrative arc and be interesting enough so a listener can drop in at episode three and have a clear idea of what’s going on.<br />
<br />
This is so hard and I’ve only got thirteen minutes to fill! You know – over Christmas (I’m always late to catch up with Must Watch stuff – I STILL haven’t watched the box set of The Killing or Borgen) – I finally watched Series One and Two of Downton Abbey. And loved it. And wondered: How on earth does Julian Fellowes manage to sustain a narrative arc for each episode, within which are about fifteen characters all with their own storylines, laying markers and red herrings for future episodes AND creating an overall arc for the entire series, and finishing on a cliffhanger? Like juggling with spaghetti. I'm merely juggling with er . . . large pieces of pasta - you know - the big shell ones. But it's still hard.Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16329937118727831213noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2235466434053435852.post-57465561917591658902012-02-13T17:55:00.000+00:002012-02-13T17:55:20.444+00:00Whitney HoustonI’m surprised at how sad I am at the news of <a href="http://jezebel.com/5884382/details-of-whitneys-death-emerge-xanax-and-alcohol-may-be-to-blame?tag=dirt-bag">Whitney Houston’s death</a>. And not because I was a huge fan either. I think it’s because in an ever increasing sea of autotune, miming and talentless pop muppets, she had a gloriously pure voice, clear and effortless. It’s only when you hear deluded X-Factor wannabes screeching and mumbling their way through her songs (for some reason Whitney Houston or Mariah Carey were the songs most really bad auditionees chose to ruin) that you realise just how difficult they are to sing.<br />
<br />
But Mariah Carey has survived and now has squillions in the bank, a semblance of a private life, and two proper bonkersly named children, whereas Whitney, the ultimate Good Girl with the gospel voice spiralled into hardcore drug abuse. It’s such a waste. But what gets me is the way the tabs with their usual glee (not very carefully disguised as concern) are very keen to pick over the last few hours of her life looking for signs. Her drug use isn’t in question but it’s the way that the tabs trumpet her dishevelled appearance, in the way that when a female celeb is papped with chipped nail polish, or un blow dried hair this is used as <i>proof</i> that said celeb is having an emotional crisis. Or a fat crisis. Or maybe even a thin crisis. If her knicker line is visible then she’s definitely about to kill herself. <br />
<br />
We know that Whitney had a history of major drug use, but of course the number one sign in a female celebrity that she’s on the verge of a meltdown is the fact she looks a right state. <i>Right state</i> meaning not polished, primped and glossed to perfection. Normal. So Whitney’s imminent death from a cocktail of prescription drugs and alcohol was clearly signposted by her <i>looking noticeably disheveled with wet hair and mismatched clothes, waving her arms around frantically.</i> In other words 98% of the population on a Monday morning.Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16329937118727831213noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2235466434053435852.post-53979565594930916672012-01-25T14:33:00.001+00:002012-01-25T14:34:05.653+00:00So it’s the new year and I’ve already broken my number one resolution which is:<br />
<br />
Stop making up arguments with people in your head where you cut the other person down to size with your incisive remarks and caustic truths.<br />
<br />
And my number two resolution namely:<br />
<br />
Stop projecting negative outcomes onto events that haven’t happened yet. <br />
<br />
On the good side, writer David Bishop has invited me up to <a href="http://macreativewriting.blogspot.com/2012/01/new-trimester-new-guest-speakers-new.html?showComment=1327501615409#c189270800510618384">Edinburgh University</a> to talk about abridging books for the BBC. I've just had a quick look at what's expected and am <strike>horrified</strike> thrilled and challenged to read it's the part of the module called Narrative Practice - Vocational Skillset. So I'll have to make abridging sound Extremely Difficult which it is of course <strike>but only when the producer is a pain in the arse.</strike><br />
<br />
<b>Read book.<br />
<br />
Sigh<br />
<br />
Slash through the subplot and the other subplot about hero’s inability to connect to his mother.<br />
<br />
Cut the book into five episodes each of 2,500 words.<br />
<br />
Read through to make sure it doesn’t have plot holes you can drive a truck through.<br />
<br />
Collect massive cheque from the BBC.</b><br />
<br />
(Now one of the above sentences isn't true. Guess which one!)<br />
<br />
There have been other major changes too which is why I haven’t blogged for a while. More very very soon.Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16329937118727831213noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2235466434053435852.post-32997953504576482112011-12-11T16:49:00.001+00:002011-12-11T17:00:36.013+00:00Harvey Nichols walk of shame adSomeone just asked me if I’d seen the Harvey Nicols ‘Walk of Shame’ advert in which several curvy girls in skimpy dresses are seen heading home in the cold early morning, clearly having Had Sex. The filthy trollops. Followed by a tall, skinny model with perfect makeup and expensive dress, walking with confidence and getting an admiring glance from the milkman.<br />
What a nasty little ad. The ‘ordinary’ women are shot in a voyeuristic way, in cold grey light, pulling down their skirts, shoulders hunched, looking vulnerable. You can practically feel the collective lips of middle England pursing into a giant cat’s bum. Sluts. Whereas the rich skinny girl is bathed in a golden light and is heading towards a posh mansion block. Never mind that she might have spent the previous evening banging the entire City of London from end to end, her makeup and hair are perfect.<br />
Shame on Harvey Nichols. <br />
<br />
<object style="height: 390px; width: 640px"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/kwxTf7NGVXg?version=3&feature=player_detailpage"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/kwxTf7NGVXg?version=3&feature=player_detailpage" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" allowScriptAccess="always" width="640" height="360"></object>Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16329937118727831213noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2235466434053435852.post-4447467312844607812011-11-23T14:23:00.002+00:002011-11-23T14:25:40.859+00:00Penguin and Self-PublishingI haven’t blogged for a while because I’ve had tons of other work to do. Not that I’m moaning about it (she moans) but part of that work has been teaching creative writing, so I feel somewhat qualified to hold forth. Some people think creative writing can’t be taught at all, but I don’t agree. I think the craft of writing can be learned – viewpoint, voice, characterisation, the narrative arc all can be learned and improved upon. But learning technique won’t make an essentially mediocre writer into a good one. A good creative writing course will give you the tools to improve your writing but if you want to write professionally I think you need a basic zing about your writing – a feel for words, a sense for words. And the ability to work very hard. <i>And</i> accept constructive criticism. <br />
<br />
But I’ve noticed that quite a few students seem to be far keener to get their work out there than they are to get their work to the highest standard. I followed a discussion once on the topic: why do you write? My favourite reply was a po-faced, ‘Because I have truths to tell’. <br />
<br />
So when I read that <a href="http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2011/nov/16/penguin-self-publishing?newsfeed=true">Penguin</a> have started a self-publishing service, I don’t think it will democratise publishing as so many yet unpublished writers argue, convinced that publishing is some sort of Masonic club. Instead it will persuade many writers to spend less time on making sure their work is of a high enough standard so that a traditional i.e. paying publisher will take a punt on it, and instead fork out to see their work in print. Not published – printed because the whole point of a book being published (traditional publisher) instead of printed (self-publishing) is the editorial input. Self-published writers often say that publishing their own work puts them in control as though having a copy editor fine comb your work to make it as good as it can be, and then marketed to sell as many copies as possible is some sort of artistic insult to the writer.<br />
<br />
So in the spirit of <strike>putting off work</strike> research I browsed <a href="http://www.authonomy.com/">Authonomy</a>, an online writers forum, where writers network and post their books, in the hope that enough people will read and review it, for the book to end up on the coveted Harper Collins editing list. Then the book is apparently read and given professional feedback although there’s been controversy over how useful this feedback is. The ultimate goal of course is for HC to offer the author a contract. The trouble with this is that it’s the self-publicists whose books rise to the top five that are then apparently sent to the HP editorial desk. And the only way of doing this is by being a consummate networker. Nothing wrong with that but not all writers are good at self-publicity – some are, but others are too busy <strike>staring out the window</strike> writing.<br />
<br />
The other serious problem is that if the possibility of your book being read by a HC editor is down to support from your peers, very little feedback is actually honest and constructive so it’s worse than useless. I noticed page after page of glowing reviews for a book of poetry that the author wrote to ‘teach morals’. Unsurprisingly the poems were well intentioned but amateurish. So the writer then understandably thinks he has written a very good book and will be doubly confused and disappointed to meet as he inevitably will, with rejection.<br />
<br />
If you go to the excellent <a href="http://theselfpublishingreview.blogspot.com/">Self-Publishing Review</a>, you see book after book where Jane Smith stops reading after a few pages because the book is filled with the kind of errors that the writer should have frankly spent more time working on and ironing out before sending it out in public. <br />
<br />
I have nothing against self-publishing but it means taking charge of the entire editorial and marketing process and being objective and clear eyed enough about your own work to ‘see’ it from their point of view. Not many writers can truly do this and see their writing as a product with the eagle eyed harshness it needs. I tell my students (and me too if I’m listening to myself) to go through the work, just like an editor looking for reasons to dump it. Not because editors are horrible people but they know what to look for. Also because that’s what happens in the real world.Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16329937118727831213noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2235466434053435852.post-62787443594572358182011-10-27T12:00:00.004+01:002011-10-27T12:07:40.390+01:00Teaching at Wandsworth PrisonSo I went to Wandsworth Prison yesterday. It wasn’t an impulse visit – I was doing a face to face tutorial which is part of the work at the Open University. Some tutors choose not to actually go to the prison to see their students – his previous tutor hadn’t even given him her name! ‘How did you sign off with your marking?’ I asked. ‘Your Tutor,’ she replied sounding oddly like an educational stalker. I wanted to meet my prisoner, especially as he had gained a distinction on the previous OU course he was doing. ‘Suicide was a recurring theme on his work,’ said his previous tutor. <br />
<br />
So as I drove the car through lush, peaceful Wandsworth and turned into the road, I wasn’t surprised to see trees almost but not quite, obscuring high wire fences with bundles of razor wire looped at the top. The air smelled damp and fresh and there were people standing outside the visitor centre chatting. I went up the steps into the visitors area which reminded me of the post office where you go to collect your too big parcels. I handed over my driver licence, my mobile and my ipod. Then I went through a sliding door into another waiting area. A prison officer wandered through with a massive bunch of keys dangling from his waist. The sound of jangling keys is a constant backdrop in prison, just like the opening credits in Porridge. I sat and waited. Several people jangled through the waiting area, so used to the routine they didn’t even have to look down at their key bundles. They would reach for the right one without breaking their stride and step through into the looking glass world. <br />
<br />
Then the door opened and in came the education officer, Siobhan*. We walked across a prison exercise yard – wide and bare, topped with razor wire. In the corner was an aviary full of loudly shrieking canaries – doing their bird. I asked her how long she’d been working in prison. She said she’d been doing it for ten years and loved it but like everything else, the prison service were experiencing huge cutbacks. ‘And the illiteracy rate is about 50%’ she sighed. ‘And now we have a for profit company bidding to take over the education programme.’ ‘Which company?’ I asked. ‘A building firm,’ said Siobhan stoically. I looked at her and she shrugged. Yes – what possible reason could a building company have to take over the education programme in prison – except to make money? I expressed naïve amazement. ‘Yes’ she said sadly. ‘A for profit company is bidding to educate prisoners.' We discussed the shockingly high illiteracy rate in prison - (nearly 50% of all prisoners have a reading age of an 11 year old) and how this is going to go up and up. And how the rate for reoffending drops from <a href="http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/2010/may/03/illiteracy-innumeracy-prisons">90% to 10%</a> (yes!) if the prisoner has a job to go to. And how can they have a job if they have the reading ability of a child of 11? And how will they learn to read if for-profit companies take over the education sector of a prison? As we talked Siobbhan was briskly opening gates. The clatter of keys mingled with the chorus of canaries. A couple of prisoners swept the yard. We walked past a well kept garden. ‘That’s for the visitors,’ said Niamh as we went through yet another locked door and into the education centre. Gloom swept over me.<br />
The first thing I noticed was the smell. A faintly unwashed sour smell. My prisoner, a small Glaswegian, neat and brisk, shook my hand. He and I and Siobhan sat in an office. We talked easily for a couple of hours, going over any issues he had with the course. I read a very good piece he had typed out. It was funny and well written. There were no typos and not a single spelling mistake. We discussed ideas for one of his assignments. He wanted to write about loneliness. I congratulated him on getting a distinction from his previous course. He had a pallid prison look about him but was obviously highly intelligent and genial. I remembered his previous tutor telling me that much of his work with her had a suicide theme. And just as I was wondering whether this recurring theme would be insensitive to bring up, he said that he was particularly surprised to get a distinction. ‘Why?’ I asked. ‘Because I was going through a sex offender treatment programme,’ he said. I nodded I think – my face didn’t change. I hope it didn’t suddenly register: ‘you Nonce!’ <br />
<br />
He said that he was getting out in December and was counting down the days. I thought of those who (knowing nothing about a treatment programme for sex offenders) like to say it’s a ‘soft option’ but I can’t imagine anything harder than facing your behaviour squarely. I liked him. I admired the effort it must have taken to get through a degree course. I thought of how manipulative sex offenders are too. <br />
<br />
As I walked back across the yard with Siobhan she asked if he was any good and I said he was. She said that she was surprised – as ‘most sex offenders though intelligent have a very narrow emotional range.’ I considered this and we talked briefly about the treatment programme. ‘Do you think he’s cured?’ ‘No’ said Siobhan. ‘They’re never cured.’<br />
I left the prison and just walked for a long time feeling glad to be able to walk where I wanted and look up at the richly hued trees. <br />
<br />
The Evening Standard have started a campaign to <a href="http://getlondonreading.vrh.org.uk/?ito=1748">Get London Reading</a> and it involves donating a few hours of your time to help a struggling child to read. <br />
<br />
*Not her real nameJanehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16329937118727831213noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2235466434053435852.post-47701809511789630072011-10-24T16:14:00.001+01:002011-10-24T16:15:02.471+01:00Where Jane Root thinks good ideas come fromThere’s a very <a href="http://thebrowser.com/interviews/jane-root-on-where-good-tv-ideas-come">interesting piece</a> by Jane Root (former head of BBC2) about where good ideas come from. It struck a chord because it’s both sincere and thoughtful and offers hope to anyone who has mulled, nurtured, developed and polished an idea. Ideas are not often Eureka moments but naggy scratchy murmurings that develop at their own pace, or suddenly go into hibernation, only to burst forth again at a later date.<br />
I’ve had such an idea which rattled around in my head for a few years, before becoming an idea and then an idea for a series before it was unceremoniously dropped like a wasp infested pear. So I forgot about it. And now suddenly – someone is interested again, so I’ve dusted it off and am picking through it again. And ignoring Mr Paranoia on my shoulder who softly whispers: 'It's shite.' <br />
<br />
The academic year at the Open University has started again too and I’ve been at pains to tell my students that in the words of F.Scott Fitzgerald, it’s good to get feedback 'but in the end you have to trust your own opinion.' Now I have to follow my own advice and I’ve only just realised how annoying it is.<br />
Oh and I’m doing some prison teaching this year, so am off to brave the security requirements of Wandsworth Prison tomorrow morning. I’ll tell you all about it when I get back.Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16329937118727831213noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2235466434053435852.post-53367475180414171212011-10-12T12:11:00.008+01:002011-10-12T12:24:19.214+01:00Critical feedback is like wheatgrass. You know it's good for you but it still tastes like shit.Critical feedback is like oral sex in that it’s better to receive than give. Some people are very good at gently pointing out the merits of your work, followed by a long list of what’s wrong with it, followed by something nicely positive that leaves you wanting to get on with it rather than kill yourself and go into a massive sulk. Others either offer a few blanditutes or occasionally rip your work to shreds, only pausing to say in a pained voice: <i>I’m only being honest</i>. I’ve been giving and receiving feedback for several years now. This is what I’ve learned: <br />
<br />
<b>Giving Feedback </b> <br />
<br />
At the moment I’m reading several manuscripts from would be children’s writers and it’s astonishing how few of them actually read what’s currently out there. How can you <i>write</i> for a particular genre if you don’t <i>read</i> from it? <br />
<br />
I generally adopt the ‘shit sandwich’ technique – this is good, this is not so good and this is great. I also go through my feedback and remove any ‘demands’ I may have drafted. So no ‘do this or that’ but ‘I suggest’ or ‘perhaps you could try’. One of my writers usually responds to my suggestions that perhaps a heroic bunny might not appeal to the 8 – 11 age group by rephrasing my words in inverted commas. I don’t think it matters that a rabbit is not ‘appealing’ he says. Well I do and so will your reader. He also baulked at the idea of a title change just because it might ‘sell’ better. Such writers are the ones who bang on about editorial suggestions compromising their artistic integrity. To which one can only reply, ‘Grow the Fuck Up.’ <br />
<br />
<b>Receiving Feedback</b> <br />
<br />
It’s all down to remembering that feedback is designed to make the writing better. It’s not a personal attack. Which is what I tell myself when my first draft is returned with copious notes and red pen. I suppose that’s why I get so irritated when would be professional writers get so arsey about my carefully phrased suggestions. How I wonder are they going to survive in a professional world where their baby is returned with stuff like: ‘Not Funny’ or WTF? Or I don’t believe it! – like Victor Meldrew. One writer in another group was so resistant to any kind of feedback other than grovelling that I finally asked her why she wanted to write in the first place. ‘Because I have great truths to tell’ she said. I thought she was joking. She wasn’t. <br />
<br />
Red pen stings though. So I sit and sulk while my producer (as it happens) tells me how and why this or that doesn’t work. But while I’m sulking I write down what she says. Then I carry on sulking. Then I leave it and go back to the piece a few days later when the sulking has dropped to a more manageable level. I used to think everything I wrote was shite and if someone didn’t like it would flagellate myself thinking of course he’s right – I’m useless what am I thinking? I was perhaps too ready to hear something was rubbish. Now after the initial (silent) roar of Fuck off! What do you know!? I feel confident enough to take on board the detail of the criticism without hearing the criticism as a destructive attack on me.Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16329937118727831213noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2235466434053435852.post-7587758456907714332011-09-15T12:19:00.001+01:002011-09-15T12:25:53.781+01:00Topshop creates an Avoid This Man tee shirtThere's nothing I like more than a mindless wander round Topshop, fingering the dresses, pursing my lips over the rubbish hemming and getting vertigo from the heels. But yesterday I noticed some tee shirts in the Top Man section. If you can't read them, the one on the left says:
I'm so sorry but:
You provoked me
I was drunk
I was having a bad day
I hate you
I didn't mean it
I couldn't help it
The one on the right says:
New Girlfriend?
What breed is she?
There has been an<a href="http://www.guardian.co.uk/lifeandstyle/the-womens-blog-with-jane-martinson/2011/sep/14/topman-sexist-t-shirts"> outcry</a> and already most of the stock has been removed. But what's really depressing is if you go to the <a href="http://www.facebook.com/topman?sk=wall">Topman Facebook</a> site and look at the comments left by customers, presumably most of whom are young men, the utter lack of empathy is terrifying. Anyone who protests is apparently a 'humourless feminist' - yeah yeah boys. Can't you think of something more original to say? And I wonder what is the fucking point of having tons of money spent on advertising campaigns to help <a href="http://thisisabuse.direct.gov.uk/">teenagers understand what abuse really is</a>, when you can buy a tee shirt that cheerfully excuses cracked ribs and comparing your girlfriend to a farmyard animal? I wonder if women went round wearing a tee shirt that read: <b>From here I can tell you're a loser with an exceptionally small penis</b> how funny they would find <i>that?</i>
One good thing though. A man who wears a tee shirt printed with this kind of joke is the best warning to Stay Away I can think of. Because he might as well be wearing a tee shirt that reads: <b>I am a controlling and abusive loser who will both abuse and blame you for it. Run like the wind! <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOxVjy6qwDIoGLkHxx8tAGj6AM4MYe1O-D2VOAJLS_fHjMjA7cX0atbobKI190hz9b243UgZmWuEHxCsv16zJrF6og6oqju3Dasxf51dfYmLXhXzFkHY8svuf3cHmFR20BNRym1Wvrsw0b/s1600/topman-t-shirts-womens-bl-007.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="120" width="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOxVjy6qwDIoGLkHxx8tAGj6AM4MYe1O-D2VOAJLS_fHjMjA7cX0atbobKI190hz9b243UgZmWuEHxCsv16zJrF6og6oqju3Dasxf51dfYmLXhXzFkHY8svuf3cHmFR20BNRym1Wvrsw0b/s200/topman-t-shirts-womens-bl-007.jpg" /></a></div>
</b>
Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16329937118727831213noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2235466434053435852.post-78275680334277164472011-09-12T15:37:00.003+01:002011-09-12T15:55:22.755+01:00Maggie Goes on a Diet: Never mind the message - look at the content.There is a book out in October which is causing huge controversy – even more strange since it’s self published. The author is doing that authorial thing of protesting that he had no idea it would cause so much fuss – he only intended to educate children about healthy eating. That’s your first clue. A children’s author who sets out with A Message instead of wanting to write a great story is not going to write a good children’s book.
Ok so the book is called <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Maggie-Goes-Diet-Paul-Kramer/dp/0981974554">Maggie Goes on a Diet</a> and the reason many people are so cross with the author is because the clear message to young girls is that dieting is a good thing. And what with an explosion in eating disorders and an increasing unease that young girls are being sexualised too early, the idea that someone would bring out a book which shows that after Maggie goes on a diet her life is so much better (just like a diet ad in fact) is a bit offensive.
What really surprises me though is not that a self published book about a child going on a diet is causing such a fuss, it’s that nobody seems to be objecting as to the actual <i>quality</i> of the book. Probably because it is self published and while there are honourable exceptions, a large proportion of self published children's books are shite.
They are shite because they are aimed at the wrong age group, the artwork is amateur, the story is leaden, and there is a tiresome moral message. This one succeeds on all counts. The book is purportedly aimed at 6 – 8 years old but Maggie is fourteen. And the book is written in rhyme. How many teenagers do you know who read rhymes? Especially crudely illustrated ones? About a girl who is meant to be a teenager but has sticky up braids like Pippi Longstocking? Why is her hair sticking up? Is there some sort of Something About Mary thing going on? And as for the rhyme . . . .
<i>Maggie was teased just about every day at school
She was called Fatty and Chubby and other names that were just as cru-el.
Searching the refrigerator in the hopes she would feel better
Eating lots of bread and cheeses including some cheddar.</i>
Really trips off the tongue eh?
So yeah - blogging about it – I’m giving it publicity. But I also know that however much publicity this book gets – it’s not going to get taken up by what self-publishers call ‘mainstream’ publishers and what everyone else calls publishers. Not just because it's a horrible idea, badly executed. After all there are plenty of equally horrible celebrity biographies out there. But also because the author himself is no stranger to the Krispy Kremes so ultimately this book is about a fat middle aged man who writes bad books trying to shame little girls into dieting. Sending the wrong message to girls? I'll say.
Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16329937118727831213noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2235466434053435852.post-6903910341340246952011-09-09T12:57:00.000+01:002011-09-09T13:29:01.624+01:00I Love Researching the 70s
It’s so much more fun than work. I’m writing a play set in the seventies and as part of my <strike>doing anything to avoid writing the next draft</strike> research I’m looking at some of the terrifying public information films of the time. My God it was a scary time. Strikes, political dissent, and Donald Pleasance. You might not have heard of him but his voice struck terror into any child of the seventies. Here he is disguised as the Spirit of Dark and Lonely Water<i> ready to trap the show off or the fool. </i>
<iframe width="420" height="345" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/m0xmSV6aq0g" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>
And if you escaped Donald Pleasance you might end up buried alive inside a disused fridge. That'll learn you.
<iframe width="560" height="345" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/NO1lGaO-8aw" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>
Managed to dodge death by white goods? You might like to nip to the shops in your car. But soft! <i>You ladies going to the shops and the launderette</i>, smarmed Jimmy Saville (well this was before feminism) <i>might not have the same face in the evening as you started out with, in the morning</i>. What do you mean Jimmy Saville – yes you with the Lady Gaga hair and face like a melted welly. Of course! Because the lady doesn’t Clunk Clink on a short visit to the shops she is thrown through the car window! Well that’ll learn you – Mrs. Or Boris Karloff as you’re now known.
<iframe width="420" height="345" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/MnPkjyglhRs" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>
Ok so you've survived deep water, abandoned fridges and you’ve Clunk Clicked. But you’re still not safe. There is the lurking menace of Stranger Danger – an absolute obsession in the seventies. Never mind that over 90% of child abuse is carried out by someone who should be taking care of the child. I watched a two part film featuring a robotic voice saying Say No to Strangers about the danger of getting into a car with Duncan Preston before he was enshrined as a comedy star on Victoria Wood. I watched this film all the way through and it’s genuinely <i>terrifying</i>. The ten year old girl, Teresa is persuaded that if she gets into Duncan’s car, they’ll probably meet her mum on the way. And he has a kitten. (That old one. Nowadays a weirdo in the car would be more likely to say he was a record producer and could make Teresa the next Brittany Spears. Mind you – most record producers are perverts anyway). So Teresa gets into the car and two seconds later mum rushes up in her high heels and career woman haircut. But it's too late!
<iframe width="420" height="345" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/QK8ZOiDyINk" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>
Luckily a smart black girl (and I mention that because again, this being the seventies – rife with open racism and programmes like Love Thy Neighbour i.e. Oh My God There’s A Black Man Living Next Door) has noticed the car and gives a good description to the police. Meanwhile Teresa’s mum is sitting on the sofa next to her husband Bernard (Yosser Hughes) Hill. But they only send a WPC round to Teresa’s mum’s house. One WPC. She’s played by Brenda Blethyn but still. Where are the police out making door to door enquiries? Or the police helicopters? <i>She could be dead or in hospital! </i>weeps mum, in a curious reversal of possibilities. I thought the first twenty four hours after an abduction were crucial. The message seems to be that if you get into a car with a stranger, you’ll only get a bored WPC writing ‘Blue Car driven by pervert – probably’ who then pats mum on the shoulder and says, <i>I’m sure she’ll turn up</i>. You can almost see the thought bubble where she adds, <i>in a body bag</i>. Part One ends with a shot of Duncan’s car as the light fades. Teresa is clearly in the house with him. Argggh! Nightmares!
But in part two the film wimps out completely. Teresa is back with mum and the whole issue of her assault is smoothed over. <i>He tried to kiss me and when I said no he did this</i> she sobs showing a bruise on her arm. <i>Oh dearie me</i>, says a now clearly bored Brenda Blethyn probably thinking,<i> When is Mike Leigh going to rescue me from a life of playing bored WPC's in Public Information Films? </i>
The message seems to be, if you get into a stranger’s car you’re asking for it. A bruised arm that is. But what amazed me was the lack of mobilising police effort. I know it was an information film but one WPC? Maybe they were all out framing suspects or taking bribes – another defining aspect of the seventies.
<iframe width="420" height="345" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/V2if3DW9OpE" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>
It's always been dangerous being a child but I've never believed all that stuff about how bad it was before education for all and antibiotics and all that guff. Us kids who grew up in the seventies know better. <i>We</i> had to contend with The Grim Reaper with Donald Pleasance, disused fridges, killer escalators and Duncan Preston offering to show us his kittens. Now get back to you safe little computer game you overprotected fatso. And I'll get back to work. Oooh lunchtime . . . . !
Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16329937118727831213noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2235466434053435852.post-81594014642325346462011-08-26T12:55:00.000+01:002011-08-26T12:55:51.379+01:00I hate the word Humorous<i>People</i> usually inspire hatred in me. I make this point to illustrate that it’s not usually a word that makes me want to spit and throw something at the wall but that’s before I was reading a manuscript which features a synopsis which says – <i>this issue is humorously tackled.</i><br />
<br />
Neither concept is a good idea for a children's book. If you're going to have an <i>issue</i> in a children's book you'd better make sure it's as well hidden as a finely chopped onion in your onion hating child's spaghetti bolognaise. The other thing you don't need in a children's book or <i>any</i> book for that matter is the word HUMOROUS.<br />
<br />
I <i>hate</i> the word <i>humorous<b></b></i>. It feels leaden, heavy, grannyish and most of all un-fucking-funny. <i>This humorous tale</i> always means ‘this tale is about as funny as being informed you have AIDS on the day your daughter announces she’s dropping out of school to live with the local heroin dealer.’<br />
<br />
Go on - try it out:<br />
<br />
Humorous pencils.<br />
<br />
Humorous cards<br />
You see? It doesn’t work. It's a smile that doesn't reach the eyes, a joke with no punchline, a tiresome anecdote told by someone who is oblivious to the strained smiles round the table. <i>I have written a humorous story</i>. No you haven’t. You have written a smug, bland, dreadful story. <br />
Another word is <i>hilarious</i>. I’m not quite as vehement about it but it’s terribly overused. And like forcing rhubarb the word has a forced quality about it. And it's often used to push something that isn't very funny. ‘With hilarious consequences’ means I haven’t thought of them yet but they probably <i>won’t</i> be very funny.<br />
<br />
Humorous is the worst though. The fustiest, crappest, leadenest worst. Cast it from the English language along with <br />
Pleasant<br />
Whatever<br />
Paul <br />
Daniels<br />
Janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16329937118727831213noreply@blogger.com3