Image illustrating ideas

How to have ideas

Over the years a number of people have told me how they’d love to write a book – only, they don’t have an idea to write about. I used to be fairly dismissive of this. My view was that if someone doesn’t know what to write about, they don’t want to write but rather (lord knows why) to ‘be a writer’.

The longer I teach creative writing, though, the more sympathetic I’ve become to this attitude.

We are born creative creatures – as children we know how to play, how to make-believe. If you’re lucky, you’ll have encouraging parents and a good teacher or two; if you’re lucky, your creative instincts will survive and even thrive into adulthood. But for many of us, creativity is something that is not nurtured, is not developed. Pressures on schools to deliver academic results above all mean creative subjects are often sidelined (and sometimes, as by UK Secretary of State for Education Nicky Morgan, actively discouraged). For many, by the time they leave secondary education, those creative instincts that were once so strong have been all but forgotten.

So when someone says they want to write but they don’t have anything to write about, they’re voicing a genuine need – an urge toward self expression which, carefully supported and nurtured, might well develop into an ability to write for a wider readership.

When I run creative writing sessions, my work often centres around helping participants to rediscover their creative skills – and when it comes to generating ideas, there are plenty of techniques that can help. Some of the activities I use involve striking two dissimilar things together (a snippet of overheard conversion, for instance, with a childhood memory of a place you once visited) to make new sparks; freewriting, using the prompt ‘I don’t want to write about…’ (this comes from Natalie Goldberg’s Writing Down the Bones); asking ‘what if?’ questions (What if London was flooded? What if a computer virus became conscious? What if sugar was banned?).

Even reading widely and noting what catches your eye can be a useful approach. In a recent series of workshops on creative writing about science and technology, we used copies of the New Scientist as source material. We selected interesting stories and news items, and made notes about possible themes that might emerge from this material (for instance, a theme of watching and being watched emerging from a news item about surveillance technology) along with any personal experiences that connected with our chosen material. By the end of the session the room was buzzing with scores of promising ideas.

Of course, some people have the opposite problem: they want to write, but they have too many ideas and can’t decide which to pursue. What then?

One option is to combine them all in a single project (probably a novel, since that form is stretchy enough to contain all kinds of disparate ideas). In her guide to novel writing Monkeys With Typewriters, Scarlett Thomas describes how she uses matrixes to harness all the ideas that are currently interesting her.

Or there’s another option, one I prefer: with each idea you have, pay close attention to your own reactions. I find this helps me distinguish between a promising idea that might be perfect for another writer but is just not for me, and one that feels like mine. If I can practically feel my pupils dilating, my mind’s eye focusing, I know I’ve got something worth exploring. In Short Circuit: A Guide to the Art of the Short Story, Adam Marek describes how he experiences this particular sensation: ‘It’s a feeling a bit like delight, a bit like surprise, a bit like weightlessness.’

Once you’re attuned to this sensation, it becomes far easier to recognise an idea that really resonates with you, and to become generous with all those ideas it feels like anyone might write. You can become profligate: spread them around, give them away … and what you give you shall receive, tenfold.

Virginia Woolf, edited page

Surviving the rewrite

For the last couple of weeks I’ve been absorbed in rewrites of my next novel. It’s not the first set of revisions, and perhaps my writing process is unusually inefficient: it’s not until the second draft that I’ll share the work-in-progress with a couple of trusted writer-readers, then the third draft goes off to my agent, and comes back for more (thankfully, relatively minor) amendments.

Writing is hard: all writers say it (sheepishly, because it’s not like we’re working down a coal mine). And some days, rewriting is the hardest thing of all. Every word, every sentence, has to be hauled up from the deep, to lie motionless on the page – if not dead, then at least in a critical condition. I worry that if I’m boring myself I’ll certainly bore the reader; I know every word will have to be rewritten yet again. But as I tell my students, you can’t rewrite a blank page – so there’s no choice but to carry on.

When it’s a slog like this, when everything I write seems flat and awful, that’s when I find myself wondering if it’s too late to retrain as a gardener or a dog-walker. Something useful and energetic, with plenty of fresh air.

But then … then I reach a part of the book where it’s like I’ve remembered all over again how to write. And the difference is in the unexpected. It’s about whether or not I’m surprising myself – with the turn a conversation takes, or a connection I hadn’t known was there, or just a sentence that has energy and voice, that seems to write itself rather than lurking around half-formed until I clumsily patch it together.

This is why some writers prefer not to plan their novels at all: knowing where they’re meant to be going takes away the sense of adventure and the joy of discovery. If you know what you’re going to write, what’s the point in writing it? And even though I’m a planner, I still need that sense of unexpectedness. Making minor changes to a scene may seem more efficient than rewriting that scene from scratch, but I’ve realised it’s actually harder and more time-consuming – because if you’re tinkering round the edges of something that already exists, there’s less room for surprise, less pleasure in making something fresh and new and alive.

And as with most things I learn about writing, I’ll forget this – and have to discover it all over again when it’s time to rewrite the novel after this one.

Halfway up the mountain

Resolutions for writers

The start of 2016 has been particularly grey. Something about the low cloud and the near-constant rain makes it difficult to look up, to look ahead. I’ve been reminded over the last week of Douglas Adams’s planet Krikkit, where the sky is so completely featureless that it never occurs to the planet’s inhabitants to raise up their eyes: they have no concept of sky, or of what might exist beyond their planet.

But today has been mercifully clear, low sun in a high blue sky. It feels like the horizon of the year is suddenly visible, twelve months away from here. So I’ve been looking up, considering the shape of the year to come.

Though September has always felt like the month of new beginnings  more than January, I’ve dabbled with new year’s resolutions in the past. Often these resolutions were to do with writing goals: finishing this draft, getting those stories accepted for publication. Writing goals can be great motivators, of course, but they can also set you up to fail. One problem is that for writers so many of our markers of success are largely outwith our control – dependent on agents, publishers, markets, judges. ‘Publish novel’, for instance, is an achievable goal now in a way it wasn’t even in the very recent past, but for writers in pursuit of a traditional publishing contract so much is about luck – getting the right book in front of the right person at the right time. And optimism can be another problem; though mine has kept me writing through the last ten years, it means that even when I think I’m erring on the side of caution my goal-setting is hopelessly over-ambitious.

When I think of goals, achievements and the year ahead, I see myself climbing a mountain. Here I am, halfway up: I can look back at the view, feel a sense of satisfaction at how far I’ve come – then turn around, and gaze up at the distance still to climb. Does anyone ever feel like they’ve reached the summit? And if that ever happens – what next? Is the descent all that’s left?

But it strikes me that this image is not quite right. It wants a shift of perspective. Perhaps the mountain doesn’t represent success. And perhaps it’s not a single mountain. Zoom out, and it becomes a mountain range. My half-way up position is not so much about goals achieved or out of reach; it’s about time. About the span of a life, and a life’s work.

In January, the years seem long – but they’re not, of course. They fly past anti-clockwise / like clock hands in a bar mirror, as we well know.

Cover - Underworld, Second Toughest In The Infants

Music to write books by #3

Underworld’s second album, Second Toughest In The Infants, has just been re-released as a super deluxe four-disc box set, and I’m pretty sure it would gain a place on my Music to write by playlist. The original version was released in 1996; compared with its predecessor dubnobasswithmyheadman, it took me a while to get this album. Now, it makes me think of brutalist architecture: abstract, uncompromising and starkly beautiful. And it’s ideal listening when you need to concentrate fully and write fast. The vocals are sparse and fragmented enough not to hijack your train of thought, and the first track ‘Juanita / Kiteless’ is filled with a building, nervous energy. The skittering, snapping snare and tight beats kick in straight away, grab you by the collar and say: enough procrastinating. Get on with it now.

So – what are you waiting for?

Het Lab - three dancers

Get over yourself, stop worrying, and persevere

I’ve just published the latest artist interview in my This Is How We Make It series: choreographer Erik Kaiel is an articulate and generous interviewee, and his reflections on pursuing creative work have applications far beyond the world of dance.

With four interviews now online, covering performance, writing and visual arts, I thought I would pull out some of my favourite thoughts from Erik, Iain, Viccy and Jayne.

On why we make things…
‘There’s something that doesn’t exist in the world that needs to be out there, and even after you’ve made a piece it’s there a bit, but it needs to go further, like it’s not present enough. There’s something that keeps you going, that need to make and to put out into the public space.’

On the value of teaching…
‘I think teaching is returning to learning, and deepening your practice and your understanding. And I definitely think those years of teaching, even though I didn’t want to be a teacher, I wanted to be a dancer and a choreographer, it made me better at those things.’

‘I get a lot back from it. It energises me I suppose – and because making work can be a selfish thing in a way, so with teaching you feel like you are giving something back a bit to people, and passing on your skills.’

On how to make good work…
‘If you really want to be an artist, you have to not say, what does everyone else do? Not say, I need to have this and that and the other thing; or, I need a two-week vacation and then if there’s time over I will make art. Instead you say: I need a place to sleep, I need to eat, and I need to support my art-making – and then organise the rest of your life around that.’

‘If I want to have a good day I know the first thing I need to do in the morning is focus on the work.’

‘Winning prizes is important in giving me motivation, and that incentive to carry on … I rely on entering competitions to confirm that what I’m doing has some worth.’

On opportunities…
‘I like risks, saying yes to things and seeing where they go. But when I say I’m good at taking risks, I’m good at having things in place to take risks from.’

‘Basically everything I’ve done has come from a period of volunteering or doing little bits and pieces, and that developed into something more.’

‘Residencies have been key to inspiring new ideas, and developments in technique. Time away helps you to make leaps in your work, to move it forward.’

‘If you’re an upcoming comic artist and you’re not on Twitter then you’re making a mistake.’

Advice for our younger selves…
‘Advice to early-me: probably, get over yourself. So, as soon as you think you’re doing something because you’re a writer – oh, I stay up late, I don’t get up in the morning and write cos I’m a writer – or anybody who’s resistant to editing, get over that romantic view that you write and that’s it done.’

‘I used to worry more when I was younger about other people, about being current, and contemporary – but as you get older you start to think, actually, I’d rather just do what I’m interested in.’

‘Just because you can’t draw as well as artists in the comics you like, you can still make comics.’

‘I wish somebody had said, it’s important to keep going. I’m a great believer in, if you keep plugging away at it… I know you’ve got to have something there, some talent or something, but I don’t think talent is the half of it sometimes. It’s perseverance. I wish somebody had said don’t give up at the slightest rejection! You’re going to be rejected, probably over and over again, but then within that you’ll have some successes.’

You’ll find lots more words of wisdom in the complete interviews – read on here.

Jane Alexander 26 sestude

26 Children’s Winters

What is it that prompts you to really pay attention to an object in a museum, rather than letting your gaze skim across the surface? It could be a well-written label – or perhaps it could be a story, an anecdote or a poem…

26 is a not-for-profit organisation made up of writers, editors, publishers and others who work with words. It pursues its aim of ‘inspiring a greater love of words, in business and in life’ through all kinds of activities, the most visible of which is a series of exhibitions and books that ask writers to respond to objects, places, artworks, stories and more.

26 Children’s Winters is the latest 26 exhibition, currently on show at the Edinburgh Museum of Childhood; I was one of 26 writers invited to respond to a specially chosen object from the museum’s collection. Each of us was asked to create a ‘sestude’: the signature literary form of 26, this can be a poem or a piece of prose, but must consist of exactly 62 words. It’s quite a challenge – especially when your allocated object initially fails to inspire! I’ve written here about the process of creating my sestude.

The end result took an unusual form that made things tricky for the exhibition designers – but as you can see they did a great job of accommodating my awkward piece:

Jane Alexander 26 sestude

And here’s one of my favourite sestudes, by writer Lucy Harland:

Jigsaw Piece sestude by Lucy Harland
Jigsaw Piece by Lucy Harland

The project will raise money for It’s Good 2 Give, a small Scottish charity supporting children and young people with cancer.  The sestudes are a really engaging way of encouraging people to look closely at each object, and prompting memories and personal associations – and you can see them on show until 31 March 2016.

Notebooks and tea

Right ideas, wrong time?

Every year at this time, I’m surprised by how much I love September. I love the quiet after the Edinburgh festivals, the sense of reclaiming the city. I love the earlier nights, evening walks through the gloaming, windows lit up and unshuttered. I have no expectations of the weather, so fine autumnal days are an unlooked-for gift, particularly after a shifty summer like the one we’ve just had. And the chill beneath the sun, the freshness in the air, takes me straight back to the autumn I first arrived in Edinburgh as a student; I’m reconnected to the thrill I felt, aged 18, moving to this amazing city – and to the start of all those academic years in Aberdeen and Edinburgh, Glasgow and Newcastle.

So September is all about beginnings, and that’s probably why ideas for a new novel – or a new something, at least – are nudging me so insistently at the moment. Ideas can be such inconvenient things: they’re elusive when you court them, and when you’re positively not looking for them they’ve a tendency to bounce about your head like moths round a lightbulb. It’s not a good time for these new characters, settings, events to arrive. This autumn is for rewriting my next novel, for writing short stories and working on critical chapters for my PhD thesis, and for starting a new year of creative writing teaching. But at the same time, it feels unwise to ignore this new thing – what if it takes off in a sulk, never to return?

Besides, new is always appealing. Poet Stanley Kunitz said, ‘The poem is always perfect in the head,’ and novels are the same – they’re inevitably imperfect versions of the vision you had before you first put pen to paper. The unwritten novel, by contrast, is full of potential; it holds the promise that this time you might not fail. This time, you might achieve what you set out to do.

I can’t write this something now; I can’t ignore it, either. So I’ve bought a new notebook for my new project, a big, blue, beautiful Moleskin. The self-imposed rule is that I can add to this book with notes and images, but I’m not allowed to look back over what I’ve collected. Not yet; not until I’ve finally finished the novel I’ve been working on for the last three years. That might not be too long, now – tomorrow I’m off for a week’s retreat, just me and the rewrites.

In the meantime, I hope the new thing will wait for me – whatever it turns out to be.

Reading The Last Treasure Hunt

Five ways of reaching readers

There’s just one more week to buy The Last Treasure Hunt for 99p in the Kindle summer sale, which ends on 31 August – and here’s a recent review that might persuade you to take a chance on it. Amazon’s Kindle deals are a great way for readers to discover unfamiliar authors, and an important promotional tool for booksellers. But what else can you do to get your book noticed among the 20 new titles that are published every hour (not including self-published titles) – particularly if you’re an author without a huge marketing budget behind you?

The truth is that nobody really knows what generates that holy grail, word-of-mouth; and though a marketing team and a budget to cover billboard ads, shelf-space in WH Smith and competition entry fees will help, for most authors that’s far from the reality. So with that caveat, here are five promotional tips I’ve collected recently from authors, agents, publishers and publicists.

1) Make your book easy to talk about
This tip came from Jonah Berger’s book Contagious, recommended by author Viccy Adams. If your story is easy to talk about, it’s easy for people to recommend – in other words, it lends itself to word-of-mouth success. That’s why, although The Last Treasure Hunt is about a lot of things besides celebrity culture (friendship, competition and betrayal; success and failure; our insignificance in the world, and the tension between anonymity and recognition, between living at the centre and on the edges; what it might mean to make the right choices in life, or the wrong ones…) my publisher smartly summed it up as ‘a modern media morality tale’. It’s a memorable tagline, and hopefully intriguing enough that potential readers will want to know more.

2) Make it easy to buy
Newspaper reviews and media coverage will all help build awareness of your book, but for this awareness to translate into sales the action of buying it needs to be made as easy as possible. And while there’s not much you can do if your book isn’t prominently displayed in high street bookstores, you can make sure it’s simple to buy online by including direct links to the major booksellers on each page of your website, and on any ‘guest blog’ posts you write for other websites. Thanks to author Mandy Haggith for passing on this tip, which she picked up from creative entrepreneur Jo Penn – it’s one that seems obvious, and yet I hadn’t included these links on my website until Mandy prompted me to.

3) Use clever pricing
A while back I attended a Scottish Book Trust event for new writers, and one of the interesting things that emerged from a panel discussion was a broad consensus that the usefulness of social media in promoting books is more and more limited, simply because of the difficulty of being heard above the cacophony of marketing messages. Publisher Scott Pack suggested that clever ebook pricing strategies may be a more effective way of reaching readers. For instance, he might sell an author’s first book for 99p to attract new readers, while their subsequent titles are priced at £3.99 or more. Scott has blogged here about strategic pricing. If you’re a self-published author, pricing is something you’re in control of; if you’re traditionally published, you can still use pricing as a sales strategy if you sell signed copies of your books directly to readers through your website – for instance, offering discounts for a limited period to promote your book as a seasonal read or tie in with events like World Book Day.

4) Do everything
Thanks to my agents for this advice – that it’s worth taking any and every opportunity that comes your way. You may feel intimidated by the prospect of a radio interview. You may struggle to fit in an event with work and family commitments. Or you may think that a talk in front of a handful of people or a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it slot on local TV is barely worth the trouble. But each of these things can lead to other, bigger opportunities – and it’s impossible to tell when that might be the case. So say yes to everything; at the very least you’ll meet some interesting people, and know you’re giving your book its best chance of success.

5) Be nice
I’ve saved my favourite tip until last, because it’s also the most rewarding. A couple of weeks ago I begged a friendly publicist to tell me the secret of making books sell. There’s no secret, she told me – or if there is, no-one knows what it is. And then she added: Oh I know. Be nice to booksellers. (No surprise that she turned out to be a former bookseller herself.) Booksellers are lovely literary types, of course, so it’s no hardship to follow this suggestion. And if a bookseller loves your book, and likes you too, there’s no better champion to have – except maybe a librarian. So, be nice to them too.

writing desk

The room can write the book

A few weeks ago I took the plunge, and rented an external brain.

This is not the opening line of a science fiction story (though, hmm, maybe it could be…). My external brain is a studio: a corner of an industrial building, a partitioned space shared with eight artists. A bookshelf and a reading armchair, an office chair and writing desk, and a good long surface for laying out pages and making plans – plus a stretch of wall-space, so I can draw out structures and schedules on huge flip-chart sheets.

Reading chair
The reading chair

I first came across the notion of a room as an external brain in Vincent Deary’s How We Are. Early on in the book he recounts how, before he started to write, he organised his workroom: ‘collecting and ordering the books, papers and articles into one space. I mapped the shape of this book onto a wall chart … I filled a filing cabinet with files, one for each chapter …. I spent several years getting this book out of my mind, and then two months spreading it all over this little room.’ Now, he says, the room can write the book.

The room can write the book. What an appealing idea that is. I’ve been writing at home for a decade, decamping to libraries and coffee shops when cabin fever strikes. But with two all-encompassing writing projects on the go – a PhD and a novel rewrite – I needed the ‘cognitive prosthesis’ Deary talks about. I needed a space that was dedicated to reading and writing; somewhere I could make my thinking visible. I needed to be away from the easy distractions of radio, kettle, garden. Above all I needed to avoid the internet, with its seductive illusion of productivity (social media is promotion; aimless surfing is research). We’re all vulnerable to this: even big name writers like Zadie Smith and Jonathan Franzen have to resort to extreme measures to keep themselves away from its temptations.

planning desk
The planning desk

Deary also talks about rooms as ‘spaces of embodied routines’; how repeatedly using a place in a certain way creates powerful behavioural cues. When I sit at my desk at home, it’s automatic to check email – but when I walk into the studio first thing in the morning, it’s automatic to flip open the laptop and begin work where I left off the previous day. And for me, sharing a studio with artists taps into older behavioural cues: having spent four formative years at art college, working in a creative visual environment somehow facilitates my own imaginative work in a completely different medium.

‘Without this room,’ says Deary, ‘I’m just a guy with a notion for a book. Equally, without me this room is, well, just weird. Together, the room and I can do stuff that alone would be impossible.’

the editing stage

eBooks and digital immigrants

Apparently, today is Scottish eBook Day. Did you know this was a thing? No, me neither. But why shouldn’t there be a day to celebrate eBooks? The ease of reading and publishing in digital formats has shaken up the world of books, largely for the better. eBooks are arguably greener than their paper sisters, and the format is certainly more accessible for anyone with a visual impairment.

I was a fairly late adopter of eBook technology, but by the time my brothers, my sister and my 70-something parents had all fallen for their Kindles, I decided it was time to make the jump.

Pretty soon I was a convert, won over by price promotions and the instant availability of any title that might catch your eye. I remember running out of books halfway to the Outer Hebrides and downloading fresh sustenance on the deck of the CalMac ferry. I was reading more than ever before, racing through free classics, out-of-print gems and 99p daily deals.

Gradually, though, I noticed something odd about my reading. I kept forgetting things I’d usually remember – characters’ names, important plot points, even whether I’d read a book or not. Every book, every page looks alike on an eReader, and without the visual cues I was accustomed to – the jacket design that helps you remember a title; the typography that subtly contributes to the overall feeling of the book; the placement of a sentence on the left or the right-hand page, top or bottom, near the start of the book or close to the end – my recollections were hazy. I still enjoyed what I was reading, but once I’d moved a book to my ‘read’ collection it slid too easily out of my mind.

My reading these days is 95% hard copy. Library books are even cheaper (and greener) than eBook promotions – and since I’m studying for a PhD, paper allows me to flip quickly to indexes and footnotes, and to annotate with pencil scribbles and sticky tabs. I still use my eReader for travelling, and for reading completed manuscripts; I’ve found it’s helpful in creating the distance you need in order to approach your own work, as far as possible, as a reader rather than an author. But if the digital world is divided into natives and immigrants, I’m in the latter camp: even at the editing stage, sometimes you can’t beat a print-out, a pair of scissors and some sellotape, sticky notes and a trusty red pen.