Throughout I’ve been writing, recording then releasing a short story every week for the Split Worlds, working hard on the third book in the series (now about 13,000 words in and I really must start a new word count tracker) and spinning as many of my plates as possible.

Then today I realised I wasn’t here, talking to you guys, because I need cave time. I’ve been more sociable and “out there” in the last month than I have been in the last two years. It was great fun, but blimey, I need to recuperate.

Writers and the introvert thing

Two of the bigger events in April were practically back to back; I got home from Eastercon on Monday night and left for Alt.Fiction on Friday afternoon. I felt like I needed another three weeks to recover before leaving the cave again, and when I mentioned this feeling to some of my author friends, they all sympathised. It would be easy to put this down to us being the typical introvert; preferring time alone, inwardly focused, away from all the exhausting people. Whilst this may be true to a certain extent, I think this is over-simplistic (what a surprise) and as it’s been on my mind, I thought I’d burble about it here a little bit.

Sliding scales and questionnaires

I developed a distrust of this aspect of psychology when studying for my degree. So many tests to determine where someone falls on the introversion/extroversion scale depend on answering incredibly simple questions about generic social traits and situations, for example: “Would you describe your general temperament as quiet or outgoing?”

I filled in a lot of these questionnaires whilst studying the topic of individual differences, personality and questionnaire design, and the process destroyed almost all faith I had in the results they produced. Why? Because we can be different people in different situations, and these questionnaires – and the simplistic “I am more this kind of person than that kind of person” approach to personality categorisation seems to just gloss over this point.

Let’s look at that example question again, I would find that practically impossible to answer; there are several groups of people I know and sometimes socialise with. When I spend time with some I am very quiet and reserved, with others I am talkative and gregarious. With a few I am very outgoing, socially fearless and always happy, and if I’ve had a drink or three, I’m even cheerier.

I loved the socialising at Eastercon and Alt.Fiction; hours of chatting with people who are just as geeky and just as into books – and specifically SFF books – as me and they’re all lovely – what’s not to love? I felt relaxed and happy, does that make me an extrovert? On day three of Eastercon I had to just go to my room for a few hours and be by myself, does that make me an introvert?

So what exactly am I trying to say here?

This is far from a reasoned blog post (and I’m arguing with myself as I write it), I suppose what I’m trying to say is that whilst I do think there is a necessary leaning towards being an introvert when you’re a writer, it’s not the whole picture. Yes, a writer has to be able to spend hours and hours alone, and yes, things like book launches and signings can be incredibly stressful and draining, but that doesn’t mean we’re all the way down the far end of the introversion scale.

It may mean that we’re so keen on getting the stories and characters out of our heads we don’t mind being alone for a while, but love spending time with other people. It may mean that having to stand up in front of other people and say “I made this” after a lifetime of being bullied or criticised to within an inch of our id may be really hard.

What is really needed here?

I started this off by explaining that after all this outwardly focused stuff, I just want to be alone for a while, like a good little introvert who’s been pushed out of her comfort zone for a few weeks. It does feel a bit like that on the surface, but I’ve been missing hanging out with all my friends too. Having conversations by DM and text is not the same as being in a bar or watching Raiders of the Lost Ark at three in the morning in a freezing chalet in North Wales.

What I really think this is about is the need for mental space to grow book three and keep coming up with ideas for a new story per week. If I’m being out there, I’m not being in here, in my own space, letting my imagination tend the shoots from my creative mulch to grow into scenes and stories. That’s as important as actually getting the words down on the page, and critical for my wellbeing.

So, that’s where I am at the moment. You can read or listen to the Split Worlds stories here by the way, and even though I may not be in a bar near you, I’m never far from Twitter. I’d love to know what you guys think about this introversion/extroversion stuff too.

Over the last 6 months I’ve written two of the novels, the first is in its third draft and I’ve just finished revisions on the second book to take it to second draft. I’m about to plunge into book 3 (after Eastercon anyway) so I wanted to take a little time out to jot down some thoughts about the editing process before I forget.

Here’s the process I’ve been using for the Split Worlds novels so far. Note this is only the sharing of my own experience and not instructions on how I think it should be done by everyone else, because that’s just silly.

After the first draft is completed, there are distinct stages I and the manuscript go through.

1. The resting period

That’s the manuscript resting, not me. I tried to take two weeks off after I finished the first draft of book one but it was a little disaster. I have to work, I have to write, if I don’t I go a bit squiffy. Now I just ease off the pedal a tiny bit. But the manuscript gets at least 5 weeks rest without a human eye looking at it, most especially mine. I would prefer that period of time to be 3 months, but there isn’t room for that here.

The aim here is to forget most of what I’ve written. That’s why three months is preferable.

2. The initial read-through

When that time is up, I read through the novel from start to finish. I usually do this on an e-reader, and make very occasional notes about any structural and pacing problems. I note points when the book drags, or does someone mention something they shouldn’t know about yet because of a change as the book was being written, that kind of thing.

The reason I do this on the e-reader is because it saves one round of printing – these kinds of corrections are made on the computer before the next step.

I should add that this is the point where I will hate everything I’ve written, feel that I have taken on an impossible task, that it is all doomed and I should find an easy desk job somewhere instead of trying to be a writer. Like anxiety, depression and all the other moods in between, I’ve come to realise this isn’t actually a real thing. This is just fear, and like all the others, it passes.

I’m not saying that it’s unreal because I’m actually a brilliant writer (hah!), what I mean is that it’s impossible for me to make that judgement. But that’s another post I reckon.

3. The first copyedit

Once the problems identified in the read-through have been corrected, and a large cup of tea made, I print the whole manuscript off. I’d really like to say I’ve moved away from paper for this stage, but truth be told, I can’t. It also allows me to clutch the pages to my bosom and have the moment of bliss where I think “I made this” before the hard work begins. I can see errors on paper I just can’t see on the screen. It’s easier on the eyes and quicker to scribble over.

There are always lots of scribbles.

At this stage I correct typos, identify clunky sentences and re-write them, slaughter clichés and lazy placeholder phrases and generally tighten it all up.

This stage can also trigger terrible doubts – especially if the book I’m reading at the time (I’m always reading something) is particularly good. The only way I get through that is to remember that the published book has already been through several rounds of drafts and been professionally edited. No blossoming second draft should be held up in comparison to a polished work. Especially when it’s American Gods by Neil Gaiman. That made me weep with insecurity. But damn, it’s a good book.

It goes without saying that all these scribbles are taken back to the computer and the manuscript revised.

4. The official second draft

That’s when I consider the second draft complete and ready to go to my beta readers. In case you haven’t come across these fine, shining examples of humanity, beta readers are people kind enough to read your work in progress and give feedback.

Choosing beta readers is another post entirely, suffice to say that I have been blessed with knowing several people who are intelligent, well read and excellent at giving feedback.

Sending the book out to beta readers is excruciatingly nerve wracking. Well it is for me anyway, but don’t take my word for it, as we all know I find most of life excruciatingly nerve wracking. For me, it’s letting this thing I’ve been growing and nurturing in a closed environment out into the world. There is an obvious analogy to be made here involving babies and children, but it’s been done to death so I’ll move on.

5. Feedback from beta readers

When the golden souls have finished the book I like to get their immediate first impressions. Thankfully all of the initial feedback for the first Split Worlds book was “I couldn’t put it down” and variations thereof. One beta said she’d stayed in her pyjamas until mid-afternoon as she couldn’t bear to stop reading to get dressed.

That made me very happy.

But if I had a celebratory cuppa and skipped onto the next book at that point I’d be a fool. My ego would be very happy, but the thing about this stage is not about feeling good about your draft (though that’s nice), it’s about really drilling down into their experience of the book to find the fault lines.

I interview each beta reader (the ones who live close enough to me I have over for dinner to do this) and ask questions that explore their thoughts about each of the characters, the plot and the structure. One of my beta readers (who was one of the first I ever had and gave feedback on an early draft of 20 Years Later) is fantastically analytical in his reading, and gave me an hour and a half of feedback on the phone. He is worth his weight in books and gold.

Of course, each set of feedback is an opinion, and subjective, but as I’ve acquired experience of this process, I’ve learnt that how I react to the comment is a good indicator of whether it needs to be changed. This is hard to explain without an example. Okay, so there was one aspect of the book’s structure I had started to doubt whilst I was waiting for feedback, but it was nebulous. The betas all commented on it, expressing it explicitly, and when I heard it, I felt relief. Yes! That’s it, I thought, and made notes to change it. At one point in my writing life that would have terrified me, it would have been akin to losing control, but as time has gone on, I’m more tuned into these gut instincts, and betas can help tease out the instincts that haven’t bubbled up to full consciousness yet.

Does that make sense?

6. Major redraft

This is the stage I’ve recently finished on book one. I needed to move things about in some sections of the book, add in several scenes and write a new ending. This is all in response to the comments from my beta readers. Now the manuscript is in its resting phase, and ultimately stages 1 to 6 will be repeated (with a new set of beta readers who can read with fresh eyes), though hopefully it won’t require as major a re-draft by stage six.

Then I’ll be sending it off to the professional editor I’ve engaged for the project, then it’ll be revised again. By the time the manuscript goes to the typesetter it’ll be in its sixth or seventh draft and (hopefully) pretty damn tight.

So what about the Hokey Cokey part?

When I’m approaching and writing the first draft, it’s all about getting as deeply into the story and characters as possible. Initial planning, discussions with my ever patient husband about character arcs, plot points, early scenes etc serve to immerse me in the world again and reconnect with it all on a deep creative level. No self-editing, no fretting allowed, it’s story, story, story with no looking back. That’s why writing in intensive sprints works for me.

However, once the first draft is done, the process reverses and it’s all about getting out of that state, seeing the book as a different thing. Seeing it as a book and not being inside the world. That initial rest period is a critical part of it, but each round of revisions and feedback separates me from that initial heady, euphoric state of pure creation into a more cerebral, distant and hyper-critical state in order to improve the book.

That’s why I will never, ever release a novel without an editor being involved. I need another professional who can refine the book without ever having been in that first phase. My head is a messy, crowded place and I’m emotionally involved with the story and characters, no matter how far I manage to step back. The editor has perspective that I could never have.

I see the end of that withdrawal process as writing the elevator pitch. It took a year for me to be able to “see” that for 20 Years Later – it’s incredibly hard to see the book as everyone else will when you know a book from the inside. I’m dreading that with the Split Worlds as there won’t be as much time, but I’ll leap that hurdle when I come to it.

The hokey cokey? “In, out, in, out, you shake it all about”. That’s what writing and editing a book is like for me.

So, you made it all the way to end? Wow. Have a nice cup of something warm and ask any questions, or share your techniques in the comments, I’d love to hear from you.

I’ve been doing all I can to just get through this latest bout, which is manifesting very strongly in terms of physical symptoms instead of just emotional and mental ones too. This evening it occurred to me that lots of people have told me privately that when I write about living with anxiety it helps them, so here I am. I also harbour a vain hope that if I sit down and write this out, I’ll feel better too.

The trigger and symptoms

I went to a children’s birthday party on Saturday and that kicked off this current bout. Sounds silly, but I booked the flights to Chicago last week and felt nothing but excitement and disbelief. Put me in a room with 30 screaming five year olds and I fall apart. Who’d have thought it?

But seriously, I think that stress tipped excitement over into anxiety (they are so close to each other anyway) and I haven’t been able to shake it off since. My body is in a typical fight or flight response state, my concentration is impaired and I have to work doubly hard to get things done as a result. I get very tired by the end of the day, and I don’t sleep so well – neither does my poor husband who had to wake me last night as I was grinding my teeth so badly! So, that’s how it’s manifesting.

The underlying causes

The prospect of being on panels and reading in front of people I think are very cool / complete strangers kicks up a lot of insecurities. Over the past few days I’ve been trying to unpick this a bit, and I’ve realised that all of the geeky stuff I love, be it RPG, sci-fi, steampunk or the latest silly meme flying around online is mostly enjoyed in private or with close friends, usually in small groups. Con appearances are a new environment for me, in that I participate in my favourite stuff not only in public but with an audience.

Why does that fill me with such terror, seeing as we’ll all be geeks together? Well, I think a part of it is a learned response to being in public acquired during a period of my school life in which I was bullied. I withdrew. Totally. I made myself as invisible as I could and to cope with it all I disappeared into fantasy worlds, sometimes of my own making, sometimes made by others. It’s an old story.

Now I’m stepping out and being seen. By other people. Real people.

Eeep.

The whole being terrified of being seen thing is huge for me right now. Of course it is; I have a debut novel out, I have to do all I can to get it noticed if I want to have a hope of the sequel being published. Being a full-time author is not only what I feel driven to do, not only the thing that fulfils me, but is my career, my income and what keeps the roof above our heads. So I really can’t afford to stay at home and not be present. Maybe I’m wrong, but that’s the way it seems to me.

Quite aside from that fact, I have really, really enjoyed the last two events I went to (SFX Weekender and Bristolcon). I met wonderful people, some of whom have already become good friends. I’m really looking forward to seeing them again and meeting new people who have the same interests as me. I love watching panel discussions and the total immersion in geekery. That’s all great. It’s the being up on the stage thing that’s freaking me out.

But why?

At Eastercon I will be on a panel about alternative funding models for publishing and dystopian YA. For the former I can bring my experience of getting funding for the Split Worlds project to the table. I can share what I’ve observed about alternative funding models in my own research. For the latter I’ve written a dystopian YA trilogy, got the first book of it published and I’ve read quite a lot of both YA and adult dystopian literature.

In short, I feel I will have something to say.

But then the old demon resurfaces, built many years ago by a thousand awful experiences, shaped into something grotesque by thoughtless kids and left to take root as unfortunate circumstances removed my support network time and time again. It whispers that I’m not good enough to be up there in front of other people, it reminds me of all the times I’ve been bowled over by how confident, how clever, how cool the other people are and points out all the ways I can never be the same. It’s very persuasive and it keeps me small and scared and if I didn’t fight it, it would keep me from doing what I love.

The fangirl factor

Let’s not forget that there will be people there who I admire, who I respect and some who I want to be when I grow up – namely Gail Carriger. Gail Carriger! Oh be still my fangirlish heart!

That’s exciting, but in my current state my body simply cannot tell the difference, so it just makes me feel jittery and breathless. Hey ho.

Here comes the paradox

When I actually step up, when I make myself go and join in, I have a fantastic time. A good example is a workshop I did in Bath a while ago about social media for authors. I was an absolute wreck for about a week before it. Ten minutes before it I thought I was going to throw up with nerves. One minute before it I wanted to run out of the room, sobbing. But once I started, it was fine. Yes, I was still nervous, but as time went on I actually started to enjoy it. So much so, I wonder if that is what I’m really like. I wonder if the me I am now isn’t actually me at all, and really I’m sociable and outgoing and confident. It’s just buried under a lot of other rubbish.

Back to the anxiety and getting through it

I’m old enough and ugly enough to know that when the anxiety is this bad, the only thing I can really do is wait it out. I try to care for myself, and I’m a lot more gentle with myself than I used to be, but I haven’t found a magic wand that can clear it up in a jiffy. Sometimes all I can do is take a deep breath and remind myself that it will pass.

That’s the best thing I’ve learnt over the years in fact. When I first suffered badly with this, no, let me be truthful: when I had a nervous breakdown at university, it was new and raw and utterly terrifying because it felt like it would never end. It was hard to imagine a time before the anxiety, and hard to imagine life free of it. Then it passed. Every time anxiety has been awful, it has passed. It is not a permanent state, and just hanging onto that fact – even if I can’t remember how it feels to be without it – can make it less scary and easier to endure.

A friend asked me if I regretted booking the flights to Chicago. I told him no, I don’t, and it’s true. As I explained to him, I made a conscious decision some time ago to not let this fear – or should that be FEAR? – get in the way of doing things I should do. I need and want to participate in these events. It will be fun too, once I’m there (apart from the scary bits) and if I stopped whenever I felt this scared I’d never leave the house. In fact, I wouldn’t have written six books and a collection of short stories and gone out and found the way to lead this life in the first place.

I’ll just have to accept that I’ll be scared as I am doing it. And, all together now please, it will pass.

In short, April seems to be some sort of nexus point in the space-time continuum for author events. So as some of you might be going to one of those events, I thought I’d let you know what time I’ll be reading and on panels.

Olympus 2012

(http://www.olympus2012.org/)

Friday 1pm
A reading from “20 Years Later”

Saturday 8pm “Publishing outside the box”

Blurb: It’s increasingly easy to fund and publish work outside the traditional models of publishing, from print on demand and selling ebooks through Amazon to alternative funding models like Peerbackers and Kickstarter. How can you make your non-traditional publishing models work? What distinguishes a succesful Kickstarter campaign from one which never gets off the ground? What are the benefits to readers and authors of these new opportunities, and what are the pitfalls?

Monday 1pm “Dystopian YA”
Blurb: Is dystopian fiction for young adults a new trend, or one we’ve only just noticed? Does YA fiction tend towards dystopia and why? Is it easier to write YA if you get rid of the adults? Do they show a positive worldview, of how the next generation will fix what the previous one has broken? Is the dystopian YA fiction undercut by a need for a hopeful ending?

I’m thrilled to have a chance to read and to be on those panels, Cory Doctorow is on the latter panel too, and I am feeling rather intimidated by that fact…

Alt.Fiction

The following week is Alt.Fiction in Leicester. (14th & 15th April)
http://altfiction.co.uk/

14th April:

11am: Panel: Not Another F*cking Elf (about tropes in fiction)
12pm: Panel: New Writers
1pm: Flash fic reading

Blimey, that’s an intense three hours! There are single day tickets for £20 as well as tickets for the whole weekend.

Upcoming radio fun

The radio appearance will be online eventually, so I’ll post that up afterwards. Did I point you guys towards the interview recorded at the SFX Weekender? You can hear what I sound like when very nervous at the start, then I relax as the interview goes on. There’s a surprise appearance of a Dalek and a Wookie too.

20 Years Later signing

Then there’s the signing event at Waterstones Bristol Galleries. I’ll be there between 11am and 3pm, if you can come, or if you know people in the area who love books and can tell them about it, I’d be immensely grateful. Needless to say I am really quite nervous about it! All the location details are here on Eventbrite or here on Facebook, whichever you prefer.

Looking ahead

Edge-Lit – Saturday 14th July

I will be at the Edge-Lit fiction event at QUAD Derby. I don’t have any panel details yet, I’ll let you know when I do. http://www.derbyquad.co.uk/edgelit

Miscellarium 11th and 12th August

This is a new cross-genre event in Sunderland on the 11th and 12th August. I’m there as a guest author, more details to follow. http://www.miscellarium.co.uk/

Worldcon August 30-September 3, 2012

This is in Chicago! I still can’t quite believe I’m going, but I have booked the flights and everything. Will any of you lovely people be there? https://chicon.org/

Bristolcon October 20th, 2012

I went to Bristolcon last year and it is a wonderful event, small and friendly. http://www.bristolcon.org/

In case you’re new here, I’m releasing a short story every week for a year and a day in the lead up the publication of the first novel in the Split Worlds urban fantasy series on November 1st. Eighteen stories are already up, you can find them all here if you want to dip in.

This is the nineteenth tale in a year and a day of weekly short stories set in The Split Worlds. If you would like me to read it to you instead, you can listen here.

Solitude

She didn’t realise how much she’d missed him until she saw him again, strolling down the hallway of the great house, hands clasped behind his back as he nodded and smiled affably. He was a little thinner, but still handsome, wearing a linen suit with a colourful waistcoat and casual cravat against his throat, tucked within the open collar of his shirt. He was more pale than she remembered, but that was to be expected.

“Morning,” he said and at first she thought he was addressing her. She was initially insulted by the informal tone, but then she realised he’d stopped in front of a portrait. “You look very beautiful today, one might say radiant. Good to see you keeping up an effort. Helps the men I think, seeing a lady dressed in her finery.”

He moved on, she continued to follow silently. He nodded and smiled to all of the portraits he passed as he descended the stairs and crossed the lobby, his brogues clipping across the marble floor, bright sounds in the silence.

He headed towards the wing containing the ballroom and the dining room, she descended the stairs without making a noise, wondering when he would realise she was there and turn to greet her. He’d become eccentric during his punishment, she understood why, she’d seen so many of hers go that way eventually.

He went into a drawing room, she heard him greet someone within like an old friend and for a moment was concerned that someone had disobeyed her. But when she slipped into the room unseen, she found him talking to another portrait, only this one had acquired a body.

It looked like he’d stuffed one of his suits, rammed a broom handle up one of the trouser legs and tied the stuffed jacket to it. The scarecrow-like creation was propped against the portrait, the collar of the shirt just beneath the painted face of a distant relative of his. He was pumping the arm up and down in an enthusiastic greeting, she noticed the stuffed kid gloves tied at the end of the sleeves.

“Good to see you too Jack!” he said. “How are you bearing up?” He paused, listening and then nodded. “I see, yes, I understand, that must be difficult. But we have to keep our spirits up. What was that?” He tilted his head as if attending to the portrait and then shook his head. “Only the top brass I’m afraid, things will be discussed that are on a need to know basis. But I’ll come straight to you afterwards old chap and let you know the plan.”

He walked straight past her when he left the room, something that had never happened before. He was acting so strangely she didn’t feel insulted, more fascinated, and followed him to the dining room.

“Ah, you’re all here! Excellent.”

She slipped inside before he closed the door. Slumped in chairs around the table were a motley collection of stuffed suits with a variety of constructed heads. At least three had been made from stuffed pillows, their features painted on, another was an empty wine bottle with a paper face tied to it with string.

“Now,” he announced, failing to notice her. “As you know we’re in a desperately difficult situation and it falls upon me, as the only one here with any military experience, to brief you on the state of play.”

Military experience? Like every man in his family, he’d enjoyed a brief stint in a regiment to obtain a few photographs of himself in a smart uniform and have some entertaining tales to tell at dinner parties, nothing more. Not real experience of war, she’d never permit anything so vulgar.

“It’s clear something terrible has happened, both in Mundanus and the Nether. No new survivors have appeared in several weeks, so we have to assume we’re the only ones left.” He paused. “Well it’s difficult to be certain, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it were some sort of virus or perhaps a catastrophic war, all of the survivors are too traumatised to describe what happened. These things we can be certain of: there is nowhere else left and no other survivors, be they from Society or from Mundanus. Gentlemen, we are the only ones left.” He planted his knuckles on the table. “We need to discuss the food situation, in particular we need to identify who is leaving the meals for us. Despite my best efforts I’ve been unsuccessful in determining who is behind it, and can only assume there is a survivor hiding somewhere in the house, hoping to win us over.”

She’d seen enough. “Harold,” she said gently.

He turned around, blinked at her, then approached. “Oh, come to sit in on the meeting? Jolly good, do take a seat.”

She bristled. “Harold Persificola-Viola, do you not recognise me?”

His frown melted, his eyes glistened with tears. “My Lady? Lady Violet? Is it really you?” When she nodded he dropped onto his knees and wept. “You survived! Oh, I thought you were lost with the rest! Oh I’m so relieved.”

“Harold,” Lady Violet said with a tap of her foot. “Stand up and look at me. You’ve become quite mad and whilst it was amusing at first, it’s become rather tiresome.”

“Mad?” he whispered as he stood, two patches of dust at the knees of his trousers. “How so?”

“The rest of Society, and the rest of Mundanus are perfectly well, you have simply been cut off from them.”

“I have? But… but what about the food?”

“Your meals are brought by a maid forbidden to talk to you, made invisible to you by a charm.”

“But why?”

“You don’t remember?” She sighed, leaned closer to him, kissed his cheek and pushed the fog from his mind. Perhaps fifty years of solitude had been a little harsh as a punishment. But he had made her so very angry.

He shuddered. “I’m so very sorry my Lady, thank you for forgiving me.”

“It’s time for you to return to Society, and to serve me as you once did.”

He looked at the stuffed dummies around the table, scarlet creeping across his cheeks. “It seems solitude does not suit me.” He followed as she left the room, clearing his throat nervously. “I remember the night well, my Lady, my behaviour was abominable. Not only will I always come as soon as you summon me, I’ll be sure never to invite a Rosa to any of my future soirees. Just to be certain.”

Lady Violet stopped. “You didn’t come to me because you were talking to a rose?”

“Not just any, my Lady, but Constance Gallica-Rosa, beauty of Londinium, daughter of the Duke himself.”

“A rose!” Lady Violet shrieked. “You valued talking to a rose above seeking my pleasure?”

She flicked out her hand, catching him under the chin and sending him sprawling, sliding to a stop in front of a suit of armour.

“My Lady, please!”

She didn’t bother to turn, didn’t waste her time in answering him, merely opened a way to Exilium and stepped through, leaving him behind. He clearly needed another fifty years to contemplate just how serious his crime had been.

—

I hope you enjoyed the story.

If you would like to find out more about the Split Worlds project, it’s all here: www.splitworlds.com – you can also sign up to get an extra story. If you would like to host a story over the coming year, either let me know in the comments or contact me through the Split Worlds site. Em x

A staggered book launch

Unlike the launch of From Dark Places, I haven’t organised events (yet) for 20 Years Later, mostly due to the logistical challenge of having an American publisher and therefore needing physical stock to make its way through the international book distribution system. Now that copies are making it through to UK bookshops reliably, it feels like the right time to get some launch signings organised, which I’m working on at the moment. I already have one booked at the Bristol Galleries branch of Waterstones on April 21st 11am-3pm.

It looks like there’s going to be one at the High Wycombe branch in late March too, I’ll keep you posted of course. I’m planning to have events in Manchester and London too.

An amazing feeling

It’s strange, this staggered launch, as there have been little (some huge) milestones over the last couple of months, such as seeing it in the marvellous Mr B’s in Bath and then hearing from people who’ve bought it, read it, loved it enough to come and find me and let me know. Even though my job is to put difficult things into words, I’m finding it hard to express just how wonderful that feels. Seeing it on a table display in Waterstones hundreds of miles away, with no part played by me, was like some incredible arcane arts had been worked in my favour. Somehow, the book I wrote five years ago, polished and polished, the final manuscript of which was submitted two years ago, somehow got made into beautiful hardbacks on the other side of the world, shipped over, stored in unknown warehouses and made it into a bookshop – a real bookshop – ordered in by someone who hasn’t known me personally or followed me online and is already being sold to the public.

Wow.

On Facebook I’ve got a photo album called 20 Years Later in the Wild and have been sharing the excitement over there. My friends and family are thrilled and delighted for me, and it’s all been rather splendid really.

When the pictures came in, I contacted Waterstones and put things into motion for the signings. I didn’t stop to think about it, I just did it as quick as possible so I could get back to writing my current book. Alongside this, all kinds of exciting things have been happening regarding events I’ll be appearing at as a panellist, readings and things that merit a blog post all of their own.

But then this weekend I started to feel anxious. Nothing in specific came to mind, it was more a purely physical manifestation in the form of too much adrenalin. My body is acting like I’m in a house alone at night with a knife-wielding maniac downstairs. Totally out of proportion, considering I’m alone in the daytime in a quiet town in Somerset and the only thing that’s scary in this house is the ironing pile.

Enter anxiety demon, stage left

I know this is the old demon again. I’ve written about it before, and am writing about it again, especially now, because I made a conscious decision a long time ago to be open and honest about what it’s like to live with an anxiety disorder. It’s relatively mild for me, and I can just about manage it after many years of surviving recurring bouts. I guess the reason I wanted to share this part of my life is to demonstrate that anxiety can persist even when wonderful things are happening that you’ve wanted so badly, for so long.

I have the feeling that the demon (I hasten to add, if you’re new here, that I don’t really think it’s a demon in the biblical sense of the word, I just find it a handy way to think of it and something to call it) has suddenly realised that I’ve been very brave over the last two weeks whilst it was asleep. It’s woken up to find that not only have I ventured outside of my comfort zone, I’ve gone so far away from it that I’m a little speck on the horizon.

And it’s angry. “How can I protect you if you go and do stupid things like contacting event organisers and winding up on panels?” I can imagine it shouting. “It’s scary in the real world, how can I keep you safe if you wilfully put yourself out there?”

All of my anxiety stems from self-protection

I’m working hard to remind myself of this, as I write this, as I struggle through the day feeling like a piano is going to land on my head any second. I know this anxiety wants to keep me quietly typing away in my safe little office, in my safe little house, far away from circumstances where I might be in danger of… of what? That’s where it unravels you see. When I start to really ask this demon what it’s afraid of happening it all gets very silly. For example, I’d like to think that it’s very unlikely I’ll be openly abused, shouted-at, physically attacked, eaten by crocodiles, suffer spontaneous human combustion or any other terrible fate equating to the level of fear I feel.

I’m trying to find a way to negotiate with a part of myself that thinks making me feel like I have to run away from a horde of Danny Boyle’s zombies is the best way to keep me from harm. If I was in a zombie scenario, I’d welcome its input. But, seeing as I am only going to be meeting people, signing books (hopefully!) and expressing my thoughts on stuff I know about in public places, I don’t feel zombie survival instincts are called for. A nice cup of tea, yes. Running away screaming from people who might want to meet me, no.

So there you go, another report from the trenches. It is possible to achieve dreams when living with an anxiety disorder, but some days are really, really hard.

What I mean by ‘writing instinct’

I know I should define this before I go on, but it’s surprisingly difficult to do so. For me, it’s the shiver that makes all the hairs on my body stand on end when I’ve nailed a particular last line, or the twist falls into place, or the resolution to a sticky plot point flies into my brain, usually whilst in the shower.

It’s also, however, the grinding to a halt in the middle of a story, or scene or even entire novel. It’s that being stuck without necessarily knowing why, that growing sense of unease when it feels like what I’m writing – or even about to write – feels like it’s the wrong shaped block for the hole I’m trying to push it into. That’s what I’m going to focus on here.

Where things get tricky

For the first five years or so of writing books and stories with real commitment, it’s been almost impossible to know whether that grinding to a halt is because there’s something wrong with the story, or something wrong with me.

You see, for most of my life I’ve believed I’m a flaky person, someone who has no “sticking power”, no strength to see things through. I’ve had this deep belief that I’m unreliable, that I’m the kind of person who tries something for a while and then just drifts off when the next shiny comes along.

Then I realised I was, for most of my life, just doing the wrong things.

In fact, for a good ten years of my adult life I was so busy avoiding writing, (because I had a little story-related success and it scared the hell out of me) I did all kinds of things to try and survive, both financially and creatively. I even became a designer dressmaker at one point, and now, with the ever remarkable power of hindsight, I see that was just my creativity desperately needing an outlet when I couldn’t write.

The root of this belief started when I was very small, probably about six or seven years old, when I wanted to learn to tap dance. My late grandfather had instilled a love of old movies in me already, and I wanted to be able to tap dance like Fred Astaire. So my mother obliged, enrolled me in a class which insisted on doing ballet first, then tap, and bought me the clothes, knitted the cardigan, got me the shoes etc.

We did not have a lot of money, I hasten to add.

I tried the class a couple of times, and the horrible lady kept trying to make me be like a butterfly.

I did not want that. I wanted a top hat and tails, and to be like Fred Astaire. Even then I was already a Tom boy. I was not a delicate child. I didn’t have the grace, nor the desire to be a butterfly, fairy, flower or sparkle.

You can guess what happened next, right? No twist here; I stopped going, my mother was (understandably) rather upset at the wasted cost and that hung over me for a good few years afterwards.

Why is this relevant? Well, I reckon a lot of people have similar experiences. We don’t find the right job for us, or the right place to be, or perhaps even the person we could be and so we chop and change until, if we’re really, really lucky (and I am lucky off the scale) we find what we want and need to do and suddenly, it all gets much better.

I’m 35 now. It’s taken all my life to figure out that I want, need and am built to write stories. Every day – every single day – I am so thankful I’ve had the space and opportunities and good fortune to have come to this point.

But what the hell does this have to do with this fabled writing instinct?

Trust me, my cherry blossom, I’m going somewhere with this. You see, for a long time, (i.e. the last five years up until a few weeks ago) whenever I ground to a halt in a story, scene, whatever, the Fear set in. Which isn’t unusual for me, as I’m scared of pretty much everything.

In these cases however, the Fear manifested as a doubt in myself rather than the story – I couldn’t tell if it was because I’m an utterly worthless individual who has no sticking power and can’t hold down a job for more than four years, (the average was a lot less) or whether the plot/scene setting/character action etc had a problem.

I’m older and uglier now

I have a lot more words under my belt. Hundreds of thousands of the little darlings, and I’ve done a lot of work on how I can write at my most efficient and effective level. As time has gone by, I’ve learnt not to panic when that slowing and stopping and head scratching and general sense of doom arises. I’ve even started to realise (these things take a long, long time for me) that in practically every case, it’s because I was moving in the wrong direction.

It even happened today.

I’ve got back into writing book two after a few weeks of being distracted by such lovely things as the launch of my first novel, writing and releasing a short story every week, Christmas, the SFX Weekender, colds and, you know, life. But there was a resistance to diving back in beyond the entirely natural nervousness that’s always there just before starting to write anything. After an epic planning session and discussion with afore mentioned better half, it became clear that I’d been thinking ten different things needed to be fit into the last thirty thousand words of the book, when in fact, it was a lot less.

Until that was resolved, and until the proper shape of the final third or so of the book was clear to me, that resistance was protecting me from rushing into writing in the wrong direction. That, my lovelies, is what I mean by writing instinct – it’s on an intuitive level.

So is it writing thousands of words that develops this instinct?

Well, it wasn’t just that for me, though I firmly believe that finishing every single novel I’ve started (writing my fifth now) has been a great education in learning how to weather these ups and downs. It’s also the rhythm of writing that has helped.

You see, as I’ve said before, my first drafts are always better if I write regularly, six days a week, with a goal word count for each day and each week.

I’m realising now that this has been a massive help in developing a writing instinct, because when I’m working to a rhythm, I sit down and hammer the words out regardless of whether I feel like it. Once my mood is disassociated from my ability to progress through a first draft, it’s easier to spot a genuine signal from my writing instinct to stop – even before I consciously know that something is wrong with my current path through the story.

But don’t read this and think you have to do the same

Please, for the love of all things fluffy and gentle, don’t think mine is the only way to think about this, I’m just sharing what I’ve experienced along the way. This is where I am right now, and how I think I got here. If it resonates with you, or if something is unclear, please share or ask away in the comments.

And if you too have had a traumatic ballet experience, feel free to unburden yourself here too

P.S. Sorry about the ballet stuff Mum. x

I’ve been back a few days, and knew I wanted to blog about it, but I don’t know what I want to talk about most. Is it the strange experience of walking around with Stormtroopers looking menacing on every corner? Is it the fact I hung out with some amazing people and deepened friendships? Was it the fact that I had my photo taken with He-Man, Cloud from Final Fantasy and the Beastie Boys all in one night? (Or rather, people dressed up as them.)

No, I think I want to talk about how inclusive and friendly the people were. Never have I been in crowds, in packed bars, in rooms full of strangers and felt so at ease. Everyone was genuinely friendly, whether met in a queue, or already in a large group. There wasn’t a whiff of clique behaviour, snobbery, unpleasantness or anything else that got my hackles up. Splendid.

The costumed ball

This was a highlight for me – I’d been sewing a costume frantically for the three weeks leading up to it. This is what it turned out like:

I'm the one on the right

So why a tavern wench?

Ideally I’d have gone as my level 40 warrior in full dragon armour, but that’s beyond my crafting skills. I needed to find a costume that I could sew in three weeks (I only found out about the costumed ball in early January) and as I’d been playing Skyrim, I looked there for inspiration.

The various goddesses had outfits eminently sewable, but I just don’t have the ego to turn up to an event as a goddess. So I went for the brown outfit as it was relatively simple and could easily be adapted for steampunky goodness.

I’m really glad I dressed up – it was great to be part of all the fun of running around and admiring costumes. So many people put so much effort into theirs and I dashed about like a mad thing having my picture taken with them. Here’s the album on Facebook for you to see for yourself. I don’t think I could fly my geek flag with more pride. Oh, and in case you can’t make it out, that thing I’m carrying is the dialogue box that comes up in the game when you go to a tavern

This is the picture I modelled it on – I also dressed my Imperial warrior in the same outfit to look at it full length but as it’s on the Xbox, I can’t take a screenshot.

Another highlight…

Was being able to show people the hardback of 20 Years Later and their reactions to it. Everyone loved the cover and admired the high quality of the binding etc. That was so lovely.

Next year

I have already booked my hotel (I will never stay in one of the chalets ever again) and can’t wait. Thanks SFX magazine, it was a great weekend, see you next year!

So, some of you will recall that this blog used to be called “Post-Apocalyptic Publishing” and had a picture of a road stretching towards a dark horizon with a bolt of lightning striking most dramatically. Both the picture and the name suited when the blog was started. It was a very dark time. I was recovering from severe post-natal depression and wondering whether to give up on getting 20 Years Later published – hell, I was wondering about giving up on writing all together.

Back then I knew nothing about blogging, had never been on Twitter or Facebook and nobody except my husband, a few friends and the agents and publishers who’d thus far rejected me had read my stuff. Here we are over two years later with lots of lovely shiny books with my name on the covers and I know my way around a bit better. I came to see this as my little tiny nook in the gigantic interweb. A place which over the years had drawn some wonderful people who I subsequently became friends with, worked with and you know, it’s all much better.

So the dark, apocalyptic stuff had to go – not least because the current series I’m writing is quirky urban fantasy with nary an apocalyptic wasteland in sight. Well, not yet anyway.

A couple of the objects need no explanation

Yup, there’s my debut short story anthology and debut novel in the middle and it makes me happy. To the right you can see a lovely tea pot and cup, yup, that’s because of the tea thing. I have to confess however that it’s my Mum’s tea pot, as I wanted something particularly fine for your eyes. It’s pretty, isn’t it?

The rest is a little obscure, let’s go left to right. You see that brilliant blue shape? That’s a hat made of silk and is the only one of its kind in the world.

The blue storytelling hat

Just over three years ago I did a course which involved a storytelling module. It was great; we had to memorise an old story which appealed to us and we had to make a hat to wear whilst telling it to the group. That’s the hat I made and I love it. It’s very, very silly – no way I would wear it walking down the street, even though it is lovely and warm as the silk is lined with thick wool fabric. It’s my favourite colour too, but the main reason it was picked for the picture is because it reminds me of storytelling, of taking people to other places. That’s what it’s all about for me. It’s also the fact I made it, and now I’m sewing lots of clothes again, that might be more relevant than I anticipated when making the picture.

The weird little castle made of sand

The glittery sparkles pressed into the sand don’t come across in the picture, which is a shame. It sits on my writing desk – I’m looking at it now – and the reason this is special to me is that I bought it when I went to San Francisco for the summer between my first and second year at university. I love its fantastical design, but I also like the fact it reminds me how big a deal it was for me to go and do a summer school course on the other side of the world. It demanded a whole lot of bravery and yeah, I guess I’m proud of that.

The stone lighthouse

This is one of my most treasured possessions, and is also right in front of me now, next to my computer monitor. It’s a heavy souvenir made from the serpentine rock of the Lizard peninsula in Cornwall. I’ve already told you about why Cornwall is so important to me but this lighthouse isn’t just a tiny pit of rock from the place. It was bought by my late paternal grandfather and was used as a doorstop in his house all through my childhood. He passed away over twelve years ago and I still miss him every day. He was an amazing man, one of the most influential people in my childhood and I don’t think I could love a person more than I loved – love – him. Rest well Grandad.

The puffin

Ahhhh, puffins. They’re my favourite bird and I had a friend at uni who was slightly obsessed with them. I won’t go into details, as frankly, it’s hard to explain, but those of you who knew me then will know why that little fellow is there and what “BLUUUUU” means.

The box of dice

That states, for all to see, just how geeky I am. Yes. I’m a role player. And if that isn’t enough, those three D6 spilling out onto the books are positioned to show three ones, which is a crit success in GURPS, the system my favourite game in the world uses. Sadly the one dot doesn’t show so well on the clear dice. Hey ho.

Now, roleplaying is so important to me, and there’s so much to say about it, I’m going to leave it for another post. For now, suffice to say that it’s my favourite hobby.

The large marble

Not only is it beautiful, that marble reminds me that I’ve always been this way – looking for imaginary worlds and taking myself away from this one as much as possible. It was something I always did as a kid; pick up a marble and look deep inside it, imagining a different place caught there. I still do it, the only difference now is that I get to take you guys with me.

The knight

Okay, I have a thing about knights. Always have, always will, but this one sits on my desk doing an important job; he reminds me to stand up for myself.

A while ago I got screwed over by someone, and I don’t want to go into the details in a public place. I got hurt, but ultimately, I let that happen because I didn’t protect myself, and let someone take advantage of me.

When I was licking my wounds I spotted that handsome fellow in a shop and bought him to remind myself to be my own knight when I needed to defend myself. To act honourably, chivalrously, you know, all the things the real knights weren’t really like! So he’s there to remind me to watch for those old patterns, to remain vigilant for self-doubt and insecurity that can lead me to making bad decisions and trusting the wrong people.

What would be in your picture?

I’d love to know what things you’d pick to go in an equivalent picture for you, and why. And if you have any questions about those objects, feel free to ask!

Today is the official launch day for a book called “New Beginnings” by Rebecca Emin. Rebecca and I have had stories published in the same anthologies and been in each other’s writing communities online for some time now, and she’s a very friendly and supportive writer. I’d like to give her a warm welcome to Em’s Place and a hearty congratulations!

Rebecca Emin

I always used to say “One day I’ll write a book.” I got there eventually, but in the time before I actually started writing regularly, it didn’t occur to me that I would have to show people my efforts in order to work on them. I don’t think it really dawned on me until I had finished my rambling, hopeless, first draft and looked into what to do next. The general consensus was edit, edit, edit, and then get beta readers and/or an editor involved.

Yikes!

It took me a lot of edits and many, many months before I felt ready to show people my manuscript. My beta readers were helpful and feedback from children in the target age group was fantastic, but I did wonder if everyone was “being nice” to avoid hurting my feelings. After more rounds of editing and rewriting, I hired an editor to give the book a proper going over. I felt sick while I waited to get it back. I was expecting her to say, “There’s no plot,” or, “Give up and delete it,” or something like that but her edits helped me to develop the story even more.

Finally the day came when I clicked ‘send’ on the email to Grimoire Books, an imprint of Punked Books. I spent quite a bit of time in the coming weeks wondering what I would do when I got the rejection back from them.

A few weeks later, when I was checking my emails, their email popped up in my inbox. I opened it up and instead of seeing the words I had expected in front of me, it said they would like to publish my book.

I have never known shock like it; I started shaking. I called my husband and my Mum and shook violently until I remembered my first aid training from years ago and had a cup of sweet tea. Amazingly that worked and I stopped shaking, and the news began to sink in.

The worry doesn’t stop there though. After further edits and loads of emails going back and forth the book was finally ready to be published and the next fear is that people out there who I don’t know at all are going to read it and some of them are going to hate it. It’s absolutely terrifying, but I think the day I lose my fear is going to be the day my writing stops being anything near readable. Constantly striving to be a better writer and developing your writing can only be a good thing.

I have received some very encouraging feedback for New Beginnings so far. I would love to know what your readers think of it!

Thank you for having me here on your blog, Emma.

My pleasure Rebecca, and I can relate! Guys, here’s where you can find Rebecca out there in the wilds of Internet Land:
Rebecca’s blog, Ramblings of a Rusty Writer
Rebecca’s Facebook Page
On Twitter
New Beginnings on Amazon.co.uk
New Beginnings on Amazon.com