All posts by paulgapper

One Tomato…

I’ve been facing the perennial problem of keeping my word count up.  When in doubt, buy an app.  Last year I tried out Flowstate which deletes all your writing if you pause for more than five seconds.  I wrote a lot of words, but it didn’t produce much that I could use, and the general experience was one of unnecessary anxiety.  Good for a kick-start but not for making progress on a story.

I have run a couple of time management courses recently where people have mentioned the Pomodoro technique: work for twenty-five minutes, rest for five, at the end of four sessions rest for quarter of an hour.  The technique is based on the kitchen timer shaped like a Pomodoro tomato.  Each session is called a Pomodoro, but I am English and refuse to use silly names.

A couple of articles mentioned Focus Time, and as the ticking of an actual kitchen timer would drive me up the wall, I downloaded it.  I must say that I’m pleasantly surprised.  There’s just an alarm at the start and end of each session (and break).  I find that I can comfortably finish 250 words during a session.  It gives me the freedom to check references on the internet or notes from other pages.  The website recommends recapping and reviewing as part of the session, and I have found it useful to pause occasionally to think about what I want to write next.  The thought of the timer does get me started and bring me back quicker from drifting thoughts.

I have found myself getting into a state of flow quickly, even if I’m feeling a bit pessimistic at the start.  There’s a reward star for each session completed and the overall stars are recorded on a simple table and graph.  A sucker for a star chart, I was motivated to do an additional session this morning.

Another advantage is that if I’m on a work day, then I can usually complete a session or two before going which gives me a sense of achievement.

Link to the official website: https://cirillocompany.de/pages/pomodoro-technique

 

 

In Which the Author Loses Control of his Metaphors and Similes

All sorts of sea imagery occurs: fog, heavy waves, riding the wake of larger boat, but sometimes in the however-long-it-is I’ve been writing (thirteen years and four months) I have found myself becalmed – ooh look, there’s another one.

Stuck, in other words; dispirited, in another.  There seems to be no particular way of dealing with it, other than to hope it passes: a favourable wind blows, clouds part, etc. etc.  Sometimes it looks like it’s going to be fine for a while but, like a weather app, it changes its mind two hours later (don’t get me started on weather apps).

Occasionally, all hope goes.  I stare, like the mariner, over the side of the ship, and know that in thirty years or so I’ll be waylaying a stranger on his way to a wedding, saying, ‘I tried to write a novel once…’

Anyway, the clouds seem to be lifting, which is why I felt able to write this.

 

(For wiser people saying much the same thing, try: http://lithub.com/8-famous-writers-writing-about-not-writing/)

Bardo, Bardo

Tibetan Buddhists believe in a drifting state between lives, where the soul waits to find its new home.  Me?  I don’t believe in rebirth or reincarnation, but a purposeless state between lives I absolutely get.

A month ago, I submitted my latest, and possibly last, draft of my novel to an editor.  It’s been nine years since I started it, so coming to an end leaves me kicking my heels.  The obvious answer is to get back into writing another.  I already have an incomplete novel, started during a time when I thought the last one was done with, but I’m no longer excited by the premise and the writing now seems clunky.

The ideal was to start something new.  I already had an idea.  A friend of mine is a real character, so it seemed like a good idea to start with him.  Then another character popped up, someone else I know.  Then another, less clear.  I had fun writing a past and present for them, and then began to get stuck.

I have a guilt-provoking belief that proper novels start from character, and even though this is not how I have always worked, I keep trying to do it.  I found myself in a mid-state, flicking between character studies, and searches for purpose.  The main character seemed to be stuck in his house and bedroom, the writing became thinner.  I stopped.

On Saturday, I had a day free and decided to go for a walk in London.  As usual, I headed for the bookshops.  Foyles in Charing Cross Road seems to have regained its status as the place to go, so I went for coffee and cake, then walked down through the floors.  In Reference, I looked through Grammar and saw a display of How to Write books.

One stood out.  Ready, Set, Novel!  Another guilt-provoking belief I have is that you shouldn’t use ‘How to’ books to write a proper novel.  But flicking through, I liked it.  Lots of space and simple exercises.  And something struck me.  I have been writing properly for 13 years.  Two novels completed.  Haven’t I earned the right to go back and have fun?

And it has been.  Scribbling pictures in a blank square; brainstorming places and things that inspire and excite me; randomly assigning the top nine to three ‘novels’; and using the ‘What if?’ etc. etc.

Lord knows what will come of it, but I’m motivated to continue.  And in the meantime, I seem to have recovered my sense of purpose and, maybe, a new life.

Zen Exercise or Sea Wreck?

At some point this year, I will reach the ninth anniversary of having started my novel.  Nine years, thirteen drafts – still plugging away.  ‘It’s like a zen exercise,’ said my sister, when I last met her.  Pretty much.  Each time I feel I’ve got to the end, there’s another reason to start again.  Usually feedback from an agent or an editor.

In this latest draft, it has lost fifteen thousand words.  Maybe more.  The last one was over seventy thousand words, it’s now at fifty-three.  I might eventually get it published as a short story.

But I’m still learning.  Most of the loss has been the flashback chapters that the current editor felt held up the pace of it.  What is interesting, is that having removed them, they aren’t too much of a loss.  I’ve cut a character and bolstered up another.  I feel like some bloke in his shed, tinkering at something mechanical that will never quite be finished.

Though, this draft feels close.  I think one more read through and I might be ready.  And if I get asked to do another draft?  Maybe.  My friends and writing colleagues seem to be past the point when they asked me if this was really the last version.  They may even have forgotten that I’m writing.

I have in mind a sea wreck, jutting up from the tide, some mad bloke running up and down the shore shouting, ‘It’s nearly done!  Nearly done!’  It’s not me, of course.  I’m just nine years into writing a short novel: on my thirteenth draft, which I’m calling a fourteenth because I think it might be bad luck.

Writing Fiction: Man Without a Yacht

A couple of weeks ago, I was at a presentation from a young entrepreneur explaining her app for making meetings more efficient.  She was introduced by her sponsor, a middle-aged man, who said that he invested in small, promising ventures, such as hers, as a way to earn enough money to be able to live the dream and buy a yacht.  Admitting that clearly, as he was here, he hadn’t achieved it yet.  He then went and sat at the side, looking very much like a man who doesn’t have a yacht.

I know what he means.  I have a tendency to defer my current happiness on the basis that something big will occur in the future.  Getting published, for instance.  Which raises the question, why do I write if this is not going to happen? (A statistical likelihood.)  What is the present pleasure?

I recently started playing guitar again.  Dusted off and restrung (the guitar, not me) I have really enjoyed it.  I find that I am at a level to play a basic version of Bach’s ‘O Haupt voll Blut and Wunden,’ (the one Paul Simon adapted for ‘American Tune’).  Believe me, I have no ambitions to play this in public.  It is doubtful that crowds would fill St Martin’s in the Fields to hear P. Gapper’s faltering versions of Easy Baroque Pieces for Classical Guitar.  But playing each chord of Bach’s magnificent progression is a great joy.

It is said that this is the way to live life.  As if you are singing a song, enjoying each note rather than rushing to the end.

Try telling that to my laptop.  I am in yet another period of struggle with my writing.  But there are moments of pleasure, and over all, the sense of achievement makes it worth it.

During the recent debate over Bob Dylan’s Nobel Prize for Literature, an online contributor said something to the effect that the decision made her wonder about the point of writing novels.  Even suggesting she might give up.  I suspect her argument was about feeling devalued, but there was also something about the importance of an end point to give your work worth.

For me, then, I have to decide, does the pleasure come from the simple act of writing, or am I sitting in the corner waiting for a yacht?

Writing Fiction: How Many Drafts?

At the end of my last writers’ group before the summer break, one of my colleagues approached me in the corridor and asked me if this was going to be the last draft of my novel.  I could have read her wrongly, but it seemed to me she was suggesting that it should be the last draft.  I understand.  Thirteen drafts surely suggests that you’re just hacking over old ground.  What about the liberation of new turf?

Except that in the course of the last eight years, by ploughing back and forth, changing characters, plot, dialogue – you name it – I have been learning how to write.

At the moment, I’m sowing in a new plot line.  What has surprised me is the pleasure of doing so.  A confidence in the voice.  The way solutions have presented themselves.  Perhaps it’s because I know the field (sorry about this, I’ve got stuck in a metaphor), and there are joys in staying here a while longer.  I’ll finish when I know that I have truly transformed it to something I can happily leave behind.

I’m not there yet.  There may be many drafts to come.  I hope not too many.  But I’m willing to stay.

Writing Fiction: Flowstate

I’ve been suffering from chronic staring-out-of-the-windowitis recently.  I know what I’ve got to do: get on with the next draft of the novel.  I’ve even come up with a clear plan.  But still, my gaze drifts to the tree outside.

I started to write a blog post on what would happen if you knew that what you wrote would never be seen by anyone.  Would you still do it?  And if so, why?

This wasted a good couple of days.  But it did bring me back to the point: why do it?  The best I could come up with was those moments of absorption in writing, when the exact words of the next couple of sentences are just hanging there, waiting for me to copy them down.  I’d call it pure writing; psychologists call it Flow.

This led onto yet another efficient diversion: looking up literature on Flow.  But instead of ordering Mihaly Csiksgentmihalyi’s book (and I was sorely tempted) I happened across an app called Flowstate.

A simple idea: you pick a period of time to write and, as soon as you start, a clock ticks down.  If you stop writing for more than five seconds, it deletes everything you have written up to that point.

Sounds like a white-knuckle ride for writers.  But, what it forces you to do is to stop thinking and keep writing.

Clearly, buying apps is yet another tool of the professional procrastinator.  But this one seemed to eliminate two flying animals with one geological weapon, so I gave it a go.

The first thing to say is that, at the moment, it’s only available for Apple users and it costs eight quid.  But my thinking was, if it’s going to stop me from looking out the window and get me writing, it might be worth it.

The experience is a little like that theme-park ride.  Stop writing for two or three seconds and the words on the page begin to fade.  The first time, I had foolishly thought that I might be able to have the occasional sip of coffee.  No chance.  Even the tactic of pressing one key while you have a sip, runs the risk of losing your flow of thought.

I did a five-minute session and felt pretty proud of myself, then a fifteen-minute session, followed, the next day, by a half-hour.  Yesterday, I even risked a one-hour session. There were definitely moments when I felt myself sinking into the Flow-state, and others when it was pure verbiage.  There is no time to consider options and I often just followed the next thought that was available to me – which I think is the point.

A huge caveat is that at the end of my half-hour session the program crashed.  So, I lost the whole thing.  I contacted one of the creators of the app, who sent a rather charming personalised reply – with apology – and promised that there will be an update very soon.  It hasn’t stopped me using the app – though there is even more of a sense of Russian roulette about it now.

The solution to all writing problems?  No.  A gentler pace is often just as productive and some people will hate the pressure.  The literature suggests that Flow arises when there is high challenge and high skill.  But challenge does not have to be in the form of a ticking clock, it could just be the ambition of your writing.  I doubt that Hilary Mantel writes to a stopwatch but the task she has set herself with the Wolf Hall trilogy must be challenging enough.

In the meantime, I have produced more this week than I otherwise would, and there are some interesting passages to be edited.  At the very least, it will be my go-to tool to stop my eyes drifting to the window.