Illicit Ink

We caught up with writer and editor Jane Riddell, whose debut novel Water’s Edge will soon be available from ThornBerry Publishing.

Let’s get the difficult one out the way – some people view e-books as less legitimate than the printed form. What’s your feeling on this? Do you fear others judging you in this way?

Yes: Deeply engrained in me is the view that mainstream publishing is the ‘gold standard’ of achievement. I therefore tend to make sure people know that I’m being e-published, not simply ‘published’. So, yes, I, too, feel that what has happened is less of an achievement than it might have been and expect others to react similarly.

No: At this point, the pragmatic side intervenes. E-publishing acceptance rates can be significantly higher than conventional ones. In difficult economic times of recession, if I can be successful online, this feels like huge progress. ThornBerry Publishing are discerning in what they select. Their willingness to invest in me is validation enough.

Perhaps I could liken it to hill walking. I have reached the spot beneath the summit. It was hard work getting here, but the view is still glorious. And I might reach the summit one day.

If you don’t mind us making a bit of an assumption, now this particular dream is a reality – or on its way to becoming a reality – how does it feel? Does it look any different to how you thought it was going to look?

The euphoric feeling I had when I heard I was being taken on by ThornBerry has faded, but I still feel great about what’s happened.

For a while I worried that my motivation for writing might lessen now that I’m being published, but I still want to write. The difference is that if I have a bad writing day, I remind myself of my success with Water’s Edge and that this is irreversible – even if no one buys it! And, linked to this, is the need to update my mindset from telling myself that I’ll never get anywhere, to reminding myself that I have.

What I hadn’t anticipated is that along with the sense of being validated is a feeling of belonging in the writing world, especially as TBP encourage its authors to support one another. Admittedly, it’s a bit like ‘you scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours’ – authors agreeing to promote each other’s books in various ways. But as well as the benefits of that additional promotion, there’s also the feeling of being part of something. And this lessens the inevitable isolation of a writer’s world.

Also I’m now aware of not needing to search for smaller forms of validation. Before this happened, I would regularly check my blog stats for any indication of someone reading me. I’d even look through my Flickr photos for numbers of viewers, such was the need for appreciation.

I’m now conscious of thinking for longer before blogging about something. The knowledge that my blog addresses are on my author’s website, which appears on the TBP website, and which people are reading means that I’m less inclined to be frothy.

Another negative, is an awareness that people will feel and react differently to my success. Some are obviously genuinely delighted for me. Others, I sense, are struggling. Although they’ve gone through the process of congratulating me, their subsequent demeanours have suggested less positive emotions. And then there are those who know about my success but haven’t got in touch…. Despite this blunt reminder that not everyone is rooting for me, I’m not deterred from moving on.

What’s next on your wish list?

Three things: firstly, for Water’s Edge to sell well, online. Secondly, for a publisher to decide they’d like to print a hard copy. And thirdly, that the novel I’m currently rewriting will be as good as, or better, than my first one.

Can anyone really do anything new with realism?

The problem with realism is that it’s restricted to… reality. Perhaps the nature of it, more than other genres, requires that it’s written in a compelling way: telling everyday events from unusual perspectives, creating complex characters, including the details that bring a story alive. As readers often want an escape, more is required than just a copycat version of what they might feel they are living. I’m thinking of misery memoirs, where the strength of the writing, and the ability to provide some humour and lightness, keep a reader’s interest, even when the content can hardly be uplifting.

If you received a letter from your future self, what would it say?

July 10, 2009

Dear Jane

Well, what a couple of years it’s been. I have to say you have surpassed yourself in terms of rejections received: for your submission of novels Chergui’s Child and Water’s Edge, your short stories and for your English and French language guides. I am filled with admiration for your ability to keep going in the light of all those ‘thanks but no thanks’ letters and emails.

What I’d like to know is: what are you going to do with your lorryful of rejections? They certainly warrant something more post-modern than recycling. Several ideas occur to me. The most obvious is to apply to the Guinness Book of Records. Clichéd maybe, but you’d have a good chance of being successful. I don’t know if there’s already an entry under this category. But if not, you could devise one, pitting your own situation as the gold standard of all gold standards.

How about having a party where the highlight of the evening is The Game? You pick choice sentences from each letter and have your guests guess which literary agent or publisher penned such offensive words.

And finally, I wonder about a collage. You are passionate about colour and having chopped up all those dreary communiqués, surely you could do something COLOURFUL with them? Swatches of richly dyed wool, fragments of dried autumn leaves, broken Christmas tree baubles that you can’t bring yourself to discard.

Think about this, Jane. There’s a devil in you, longing to make something positive out of all those devastating replies you’ve received, to compensate for those tears and rants and plummeting self-belief.

But, moving on, the big question is: what now? I suspect you won’t be resuming your health promotion job when you return to Edinburgh. So, what are you going to do with your time? It will be hard leaving France, so having something to throw yourself into could ease the transition. Have you considered studying for a qualification in Creative Writing? If you decide to do this, research such courses for content and emphasis: some of them may be heavy on literary theory – not your forte!

Another idea is to find a professional mentor. He/she would be objective in ways that friends or fellow writers might find it difficult to be. Being paid, they’d allocate protected time to reading and providing feedback.

Have you tried blogging? It can be a great way to keep your hand in, especially during times of writers’ block or even when you feel your writing is flat. It gets you known, and when you receive feedback on a post, this is really affirming.

Finally, Jane, the big thing, the greatest challenge for you, is to work on your self-belief. Writing, as you well know, is an isolated profession. You alone are responsible for maintaining your motivation, your direction. Not always easy. Especially when external validation can be so important.
With fervent wishes for your future success

Jane

Find out more about Jane on her website, or catch up with her blog.

Posted by Babs Melville

I caught up with the fabulous Erin McElhinney who will be performing at tonight’s school-themed event,  ”Publish or Perish“.

Right, first things first – who are you, why are you, where are you and how are you?

Immediate self-definition panic ensues, which probably answers all the above questions, actually.

I’ll go for the usual parameters, or we’ll be here all day; I’m a liberal, geeky female, technically British but grew up elsewhere, I arts administrate, I drum and I have a very, very loud laugh.

Views vary on the why; rationale tells me freak chemical chance; my cat would argue to reach the food down from The High Place, and my Mum, for free IT support. I just not convinced there’s a why at all. Deep fried tofu! That’s my raison d’être most days.

In a basement, on a sofa, my Mac on my lap and said cat on my feet. Where the heart is.

Tell us a bit about what Arika does. What’ve been some of the stand-out moments of working there?

In the two years I’ve worked for Arika, I’ve boiled it down to this: we curate and produce experimental performance art and discussion events, in venues around Scotland, in the UK and New York. Which is a little like describing the internet as ‘a research tool’. But I work there, and I still struggle to elaborate much beyond that sentence. Essentially, we ask questions; we explore ideas. Sometimes we get it wrong, but it’s still important that the question was asked. Because you never know where it’s going to take you until you start to ask it.

I have to work hard to understand some of the thinking behind the performances we programme, but, of course, it’s not necessary that I – or anyone – do, in order to experience them. Some have left me cold, some clueless, some curious, but a few have left me reeling, and have changed how I think, permanently. For someone that’s mostly backstage, however, some of the best bits have been the connections I’ve made with artists from all over the world, the conversations I’ve had that I could never have predicted or sought for, and the massive high when you finish a week of 18 hour days, and find a flurry of thank you notes from audience members, artists and crew in your inbox. Plus, and it gives me great pleasure to say this, my bosses rock; they’re supportive, they listen, they make sure I feel appreciated, and they buy me scones. Enough said, really.

What do you think makes you want to write?

I should probably come up with a very lofty and noble answer, but it’s simply the feeling I have when it ‘works’. Writing for me is torture; I procrastinate massively, putting the words down on paper is often akin to drawing blood, but… when the story begins to roll, and takes over, and your pen can barely keep up with the words (I’m old school), there’s this feeling that rises through your flesh, and your skin, and it’s akin to pure joy. That’s probably my ‘Why’, actually. That feeling. It reminds me why I’m alive. Probably because I go through hell first; which has ended up sounding vaguely noble, if pretentious.

What do you like about performing stories that you don’t get from just reading them?

Sweaty palms, mostly. I’m quite new to the experience of actually reading my writing aloud – I’m not sure how I currently do it could be classed as a ‘performance’, in any way, I’m fairly sure you have to remember to look up from the paper every so often to qualify as ‘performing’ – and still get ridiculously nervous. There’s the obvious joy of the immediacy of an audience’s response – often they have unexpected reactions, laughing or gasping at something you’d never considered worthy of the same – but the bit I’m actually loving is being around a big group of other writers and writing fans, and it feeling really bloody supportive. I should have done this years ago.

What do you think marks out really good writing? What marks out really bad writing?

It’s incredibly subjective, obviously, although that’s a cop out answer, I know. Good writing = something that rings a bell of familiarity deep inside you, where you realise you’re reading something you’ve been trying to work out how to express for years, and you didn’t even realise you were struggling, until you read it, achieved for you. That moment of delight, where you think ‘Yes!’ – whether it be tragic, comic or horrifically, beautifully banal. Usually accompanied, in my case, by a twinge of jealousy; but when it’s really, really good, you’re just glad that it exists. There’s a vast sea of ok writing in the middle, and then bad writing = where you can almost see the skid marks from where the author dragged in that image, when you can see the engine parts of the story clearly, and they’re rusty, and leaking. Bad writing is either lazy, or delusional. That said, I’ll read pretty much anything; I figure I’ll learn something, even if it’s just how not to write.

Any tips for any nervous writers who’ve never performed before?

Only one. Cos it’s the only one that’s ever got me through. All the platitudes, and the ‘you’ll be fines’ in the world make sod all difference, unfortunately. Most of the time reminding myself that I’ve done some pretty stupid things so far, so what’s the worst that could happen? works… or I can raise some courage by thinking “Heck, at least I’m putting myself out there, and giving it a go. Counts for something”. But if those aren’t working, and I’m still laying a small poo in the corner, then all I can do is remember that no matter *what* happens, time will continue to move on, and at some point, it’ll be time for me to walk off the stage, and it’ll be over. Wow, that’s cheerful, isn’t it. Reading the piece over and over and over again beforehand helps, too. There you go; end on something practical.

If you could have had any alternate career, what would it have been?

Ha! The career I have now isn’t the one I want – despite the scones – so, obviously, you know my answer; a writer. Across a whole spectrum. Books, plays, films, blog posts, comics, opinion pieces, poems, love letters, video games; I get a different kick out of each one, but also that prevailing rising feeling. Failing that, an archaeologist. I really, really wanted to be Indiana Jones when I was growing up, but grew disheartened when I kept on failing to find a fedora to fit my unnaturally large head. It’s the little things.