What's up?

I've got several writing projects at the moment and I thought that maybe I could present them quickly. They're all in different stages of progress.

First there's As Winter Came and Went, about which you've already read a lot if you've been following this blog for some time. I'm currently editing it for the hundredth time to make it ready for publication, which will be next December (on the 4th).

Meanwhile, I'm also working on the first draft of its sequel. Since the first one took me about 5 years to write, I'm hoping to beat my record with this one, because I don't think people will went to wait 5 years before getting to know what happens to the characters of As Winter... if they are indeed interested in knowing. So I'm hoping to have completed half of the 1st draft by next September and to have finished the first draft in another year. Then I guess the different edits and so on will take yet another year. So if all goes to plan, I'm hoping to publish it in 2021!

Then I've got three other writing projects. One I worked on for part of last year, which means I'm about one third into the first draft. However, it isn't going as well as I was hoping: it's enjoyable to write but I think people might find it a bit boring... The working title of this project is "The Witch." Another project is a few years old already. If I do complete it, it will be more of a novella than a novel. And the last project has not really been started yet, but I'd love to do so because I'm quite excited about it. I might try to start working on it if I make enough progress with As Winter... I cannot be sure now that ot will be any good, but I think I'll enjoy writing it. The code name of this project is "Cinnamon."

And of course, I forgot, at one point I'll have to write the 3rd book in the As Winter.... series. I want to say, the third and last book, but actually I've got ideas for a 4th. However, it is not always a good idea to make a series go on for too long, so I might not write it after all.

So, lots of projects as you can see. Now it's up to me to not let myself be overwhelmed by them and to actually complete them! Only As Winter... is past the dreaded and dangerous 1st draft stage, but it is still taking a lot of my time. Onece I've published it, I'll probably be able to concentrate on the others.

"Re-reading your handwritten manuscript..."

Having an awful, illegible handwriting means that your manuscripts are sort of safe from prying eyes... It's more bothering, however, when you realise you cannot reread what you've written either! 

Writing the book you want to read

 

 

In a previous post, I wrote about the many rules that sometimes hinder the act of writing. There is one, however, with which I cannot but agree, though it is more an advice than a rule, and I cannot really remember when I first came across it. This advice is: write what you want to read.

I don’t suppose I’m the only one in this situation, but as a reader, I tend to get a little frustrated at times with some novels, even ones I love. There’s always something that doesn’t really work for me. A scene I don’t like. A character I love being killed off. Too much or not enough romance. Too much or not enough adventure…

I will love the style of one novel, the characters of another, the plot of a third. But I have yet to find my perfect novel. And the “my” is important: this is all down to personal taste and I don’t expect my ideal novel would necessarily please another reader. And maybe I’m just a really fussy, annoying person who’s always finding something wrong and complaining about finicky little details. Probably. But I’m sure I’m not the only one like that. Please tell me I’m not the only constantly unsatisfied reader!

All right, not constantly unsatisfied. But still looking for the perfect novel I could call my all-time favourite, I could rave about for hours on end, I would have absolutely no reserves about. I mean, I’ve got favourite novels. Novels I liked. Novels I absolutely love. But I’ve realised recently that I haven’t got an all-time favourite book. Or I think I have, for a couple of years, and then I reread the book in question and see that after all, no, I don’t like it so much (all right, all right, I’m just a fussy, annoying person). 

And this leads me back to the initial subject of this post, writing the book you want to read. That’s the wonderful thing about being a novelist (or a would-be novelist): you can write, or try to write, your favourite novel of all times. You can create your own favourite book. That doesn’t mean it will be a masterpiece, or that it will be another person’s favourite. But you, but anyone, can write (and even publish!) the novel they want to read, the novel they need to read, the novel that will allow them to escape in a wonderful fictional world, the novel that will help them understand their own world better, the novel that will entertain, uplift, please them. 

When I started writing my novel, I wasn’t thinking of that. I wasn’t thinking of writing the book I most wanted to read. But I realise in hindsight, after having reread and edited and reread it for a hundred times at least, that it’s actually what I’ve done. As Winter Came and Went contains a number of elements I would want my perfect novel to have. And I’m not saying it is everyone’s cup of tea. Another person could find it boring and uninteresting. Another might like some aspects and not others. But I think I’ve written the novel I, personally, wanted to find in a bookshop and read and enjoy.

It all comes down towriting what you want and enjoying the process. You are the sole decision-maker when you create your novel. You can take your characters wherever you want them to go. You can write the story in whatever style you want. You are completely free.

And anyway, it’s important to enjoy the writing process. If you’re bored by your own story, well… I don’t suppose other readers will enjoy it then. If you love your story, you’ll have at least one satisfied reader: yourself. And even if everything else fails, if your novel doesn’t sell, if no one wants to read it, writing the book you wanted to read, writing a book you love will have been an achievement in itself.

"A would-be novelist's daydreams"

I know, I know. I should NOT indulge in such fantasies. I should not be so delusional. But I don't think any would-be novelist has not daydreamed, at least once, about something like this (please tell me that I'm not the only one!!!). Not that I really think this is likely to happen. I may daydream, but I'm rather level-headed otherwise. Still, you never know... (just joking!)

Rules, rules, rules!

When I decided to self-publish my novel, one of my first moves was to join writer’s groups on the internet, in order to learn more about the tricks of the trade, to discuss, to exchange and to connect with people who were going through the same process as I was. However, the discussions on those groups did not only revolve on what happens after a book has been written: the majority concerns the actual act of writing fiction. And I was surprised to see that this act of writing is subject to an immense number of rules.

Show don’t tell. Write about what you know. Thrillers have to follow this formula. Romances have to follow that formula. If you do otherwise, then your book isn’t in the right genre. You must limit yourself to one type of point of view (aka POV). You must not have too many POV characters. If a scene is not useful to the plot, delete it. You must not change POV in the middle of a chapter. Do not use too many adverbs. Do not use too many adjectives. Do this, do that…

All right, maybe I exaggerate. Just a little. The fact is that there seems to be a great number of rules that should, ultimately, allow you to write a good novel. Good according to the criteria they have set. A recipe is given to would-be novelists (like me), and if you don’t follow it… Well, editors, agents and Co won’t follow you either, because what you write will not be what they expect to read. Or what the market expects to read.

 There seems to be a general tendency, according to which people, and what they write, are put into little boxes. Well-defined little boxes. Little boxes defined by a specific set of rules. And I’m both appalled and frustrated by that

Not that I refuse to admit that rules are important, and even useful. When you’re a beginner, they give you guidelines. They can help you to sort of tame your imagination while spurring on your inspiration. They pave a road for you that, ultimately, could lead to publication. They help you to write better. But the road they allow you to follow is lined with huge walls over which you cannot see. Which block out any view, narrowing your horizon, and your fiction as well.

Rules should be followed and used carefully. They should be guidelines, not obligation, when it comes to fiction, at least. For fiction, in a way, is the celebration of imagination. Fiction should be rich and luscious, at times innovative, at times a little unruly. Fiction should break away from rules. Fiction is creation, and as such it must constantly recreate itself, lest it should become stale.

Rules are comfortable, and safe. Rules give an illusion of control. If you do not follow rules, you are judged. But look at literature, look at past writers. Look at which one we remember today, which ones are studied at school and universities. They often are the ones who broke the rules, who reinvented fiction, who breathed a new life into it. 

So every rule should come with this label: “use with care.” And if it has to be broken, why not? Who cares if what you write isn’t what agents and publishers want to read? Self-publishing options make it much easier to become published and get your book out into the world. And also to make your own choices and decisions. 

So all of you, would-be novelists, if you want to break the rules, do so. If your book does not fit into any given genre, invent another one. If you make mistakes, if your book doesn’t work, it doesn’t matter. We are here to learn and experiment. We are here to keep literature alive. We are here to create. We are here to write what we want to write, not what people expect us to write. 

"D.I.Y. cover design"

 

 

Cover design sounds easy. Cover design looks easy. Why, I just need to use a photo and stick a title and my name on it. Done. Except that... I don't want my cover to actually look "homemade". I don't want my novel to scream at potential reader "Hey, I'm a self-published novel and the author didn't want to spend money on the cover so she did...this!"

 

I've got a cover for my novel which I hope doesn't look to amateurish. I'm still playing around with fonts and colours. It's not my dream cover (which would have been a very ambitious, luxurious, lavish work of art, mostly abstract, with hints to the historical period my novel is set in and subtle reminders of the plot...) but I think it's ok (sort of). At times I think it's ok, at others I'm more like...this is terrible (*sob*)! But I've shown it to some people, who told me it was ok (were they being kind?). And anyway, my family and friends seem to actually expect me to make the cover myself ("of course, you'll be drawing the cover, won't you?"). So, I don't have a choice, do I?

 

There'll be a big cover release, probably in October, on this blog, Facebook (www.facebook.com/maybermont) and Instagram (www.instagram.com/may_bermont). My official author website will go live at the same time. 

To plan or not to plan a novel?

 

 

I suppose every writer has a different method when it comes to planning or not planning a story. Some will map out their entire plot, and sub-plots, and sub-sub-plots. Others on the contrary, will not do that and let themselves be carried by the flow of words, discovering their story at the same time as their characters.

I’ve tested both those methods, with more or less success. When I first had the idea for As Winter Came and Went (which was not yet called that), I was very excited about it and couldn’t wait to write my novel. But actually, I think I was more excited about the plot, the action and so on, than in the characters and the prose. So I decided to write a sort of synopsis, which ended up being a dozen pages long. I just found it again, in the recesses of my computer and read it… It actually dates back from 2013, is very detailed, which means I have a good idea of what I was meaning to write at the time and… I cannot believe it is the same novel as the one I’m getting ready for publication. I really can’t. And actually, it’s not the same novel.

The one I would have written if I had followed the original plan would have been a swashbuckling romance, with murders, poison, elopements, duels, and a cast of characters who were for the most part lords and ladies… And it would probably have been very entertaining (I’m wondering if I shouldn’t write another novel based on this plan)! It has little in common with my manuscript, save the female lead character (she’s probably the one whose personality changed the least, though she did become more complex and interesting) and the mystery surrounding an expedition who disappeared on the way to Timbuktu. There are still lords and ladies and sirs (it’s 1820!) but the most important characters hail from a “middle-class” background.

The structure I had intended isn’t the one I used. Neither is the narration. And the main character changed so completely that he really gave a new direction to the story, which became less of a romance, and more literary. New characters made their apparition, including one who, I think, tends to steal the show in an almost infuriating manner, though beta readers seem to love him, and I have to say I have a soft spot for him too (oh, by the way, this character is a horse…). The setting, which was not so important in the initial idea, took on a new meaning.

So in spite of my synopsis, which I remember spending the summer holidays writing, my novel evolved organically as I was writing it. And I have the impression I created this plan to better not follow it. A similar starting point, and then I took another road from the one I had initially outlined. However, it did not mean that I stopped having any sort of plan: I had one, at first in my mind, which I then jotted down and which consisted of… the name of chapters, dates and roughly what happened, so nothing half as detailed as what I’d done before. So I sort of knew where I was going.

As Winter Came and Went has a sequel: I’m currently writing its first draft and have reached the fifth chapter. I started to write it with a good idea of where it was going (since it was not actually meant to be a different book), but no plan so to speak. But as the story evolved organically again, with new episodes weaving their way into it, new characters and new settings, I realized that I did need a plan of sorts. So I made a very rough, very quick one (it fits on one page), so I know where I’m going. I’m glad I did: it made me realise that there were some structural issues that needed fixing. It also helped to make the story more concrete and to see what was likely to work and what not.

There are other novels that I started, without an initial plan. I’m afraid that I’ve reached a blank page with them, for several reasons, whether almost half-way through the first draft, or after the first chapter. The main one is that I’ve decided to concentrate on As Winter Came and Went and its sequel (there will be two more books). Another is that, because I didn’t plan, I’m not quite sure where the story is going. Having an idea of the succession of events and episodes in a story can be a way to ward off the blank-page. 

I suppose I will finish these novels, one day or another, or rework the original idea. But I think I’m one of these people who needs to have a plan of sorts. I will not follow a well-built, well-cemented road, but I need at least a signpost or two, to lead me along a winding path with many cross-roads. I guess that every writer has to find the method that works for them. I hope I did at last!

"When I ask for feedback on my manuscript"

 

If someone to whom I have given my manuscript for feedback sees this, let them be warned! No, I'm joking. Sort of. Like everybody else, I love to hear people say they love my work. And when I ask for feedback I expect would love people to make compliments and not give any negative criticism. But I am conscious that the latter is important, and even essential! 

As Winter Came and Went - Extract 4

And here is the fourth extract of As Winter Came and Went! This time it is taken from the beginning of chapter 2 (so chronologically it is situated before extract n°2).

Please note that this is not necessarily the final version, since I am still in the process of revising my manuscript.

Feel free to comment and let me know if you like or dislike it, what you think work or doesn’t work, and if this taster makes you want to read the rest of the book!

Extract from the beginning of chapter 2

 

He has been sitting there for ages since he alighted from the boat. There, on the shingles, at the foot of a wall weathered and stained by the slime of seaweed. The water is green and dirty, and the foam yellow.
Algae everywhere, brown stains on the surface. Water that cannot breathe; the waves are choked, spluttering foam. It is clearer away from the shore, clearer where the sea is deeper and the currents carry the waste from the harbour further along the coast.

I have been sitting there for ages. Looking at the sea, losing myself in the sea. I don’t want to go back, not yet, to the noise and the bustling life behind me on the cobbled streets of the harbour. Back to the world I left more than two years ago.
The tide is low; wet pebbles where I’m sitting. Wet, cold feet too. I’m not used to that cold anymore. It was cold at nights but not like this, not so damp…It was dry and cutting and there was the cold of death over me, death which hunted me down as I huddled under rocks and shivered on the sand, praying it would pass by without claiming me. I shivered with the cold, I shivered with the fever and the wound in my belly gnawed at me like a live beast. I prayed, though I had no faith, and the moon looked down at me with her eternal smile. She smiled and claimed me too. She led me away, astray. She smiled and I forgot why I was there. She lured me and tried to rob me of my mind with her silvery charms. I looked at her and thought, I’m back, among the grey hills of my homeland, feeling the grass beneath my feet and the wind on my face, and there is the sound of the sea in the distance. And she smiled in agreement, you’re right, you’re home. Then the sun rose, and it scorched and burnt me to nothingness.
Never again now, will I shield his eyes from the African sun.
A sail on the horizon. Fisherman or smuggler. Bobbing up and down. The sea is restless over there and pitiless. It swallows the sail and spits it out again. Up and down and down.
He closes his eyes. Soft drizzle on his face. The overwhelming smell of seaweed. The wind isn’t strong; heavy clouds darkened the sky. A storm tomorrow?
Footsteps behind him; the pebbles crunch and roll down to the sea. Rolling, rolling, ending with a splash. Footsteps coming, coming, they stop.
“Danny? Danny, it is you!”
Words stick down his throat, he struggles to say something, anything, hello Lizzie, it’s me. Nothing, he stares at her; she has not changed. She sits down besides him. She’ll get her skirt wet. Not that she ever cared about that when they were children, running on the beach, jumping in the waves. Lizzie, unchanged, and him… A hesitation in her voice: is that man my brother? That she should hesitate, of all people.
“Lizzie…” His voice breaks off, strangled by a sob. He wants to cry, unquenchable tears, for the pity in her eyes and that bewildered unrecognition, for Oliver, for the two years he lost, for not being able to go back. But his eyes remain dry as he stares at her, remain dry though he is all broken inside.
She puts her arm round his shoulders as tears roll down her own face.
“I’m so glad you are back, Danny. So glad, and Ma will be overjoyed!” Her voice is soft, with the same sing song lilt as his. “We waited for the boat, as soon as we learnt. We’ve been waiting for you today. We waited at the quay and did not see you. So we asked the captain. I told the others I would search for you.”
“The others?”
“Yes.” She pats her eyes with a tiny lace handkerchief. “Victoria and your friend Andrew Telbury. And Edwin, Captain Wandell. I married Edwin. I married him six months ago. If only you could have been there at the wedding!” Her voice is casual now, they could be in a drawing room, exchanging news. “Come now, Danny.”
They rise, brush away the sand and fragments of seaweed that cling to their clothes. She takes his hand, as when they were children and she would lead him along a path she had discovered in the wood, or on the cliffs. You are my little brother, she used to say, so you must follow me.