I came across Deadlines For Writers when I was googling for websites or magazines who might carry short stories and to which I might submit some. Having said that, I must admit my ‘output’ till then had been anything but prolific, and the whole point about finding such websites and magazines was to help me, as they say, get my shit together, get my finger out, put a rocket my arse, get bloody working — in short to become less of a talker about writing, or, in my case, a ‘thinker about writing’, and get stuff down on paper. ‘Stuff’ might not be the word folk who are ‘passionate about literature’ care to hear, but it does the job.
In fact, I rarely, if ever, talk about writing and don’t find it interesting when, occasions, others do. We are all apt very soon to be talking a grand amount of nonsense. To illustrate that point, here’s a quote from the writer A.L. Kennedy I came across when I was writing an entry for my Hemingway project, in this case mentioning his ‘rules about writing’ and his rather silly ’theory of omission’.
Kennedy tells would-be writers:
‘No amount of self-inflicted misery, altered states, black pullovers or being publicly obnoxious will ever add up to your being a writer. Writers write. On you go.’
Contrast this with the exceptionally airy advice to writers from Jonathan Franzen:
‘You have to love before you can be relentless’
and
‘Fiction that isn’t an author’s personal adventure into the frightening or the unknown isn’t worth writing for anything but money.
I don’t doubt Kennedy’s arty types who wear black pullovers and enjoy their self-inflicted misery would persuade themselves they know what Franzen means when he speaks ‘being relentless, and are only too eager to accept that their fiction is a ‘personal adventure into the frightening or the unknown’, but I don’t, though this easy-going liberal firmly believes in that in most matters it’s ‘each to his own’.
As for his snobbish dismissal of ‘writing for money’, I have to say only an successful author like Franzen who, I should imagine, is no longer obliged to write for money, could dismiss ‘money’ so easily. It’s notable how the notion that ‘money is unimportant’ is only adhered to by those who have it. Those on their uppers might sing a different song.
Yes, I’m sure (i.e. I’ve never sold a word of fiction and am now unlikely ever to do so, so I’m in no position to strike an attitude) ‘writing to make money’ is something of a fool’s ambition and that when you sit down to write, you might be better advised to have a loftier motivation.
As for his snobbish dismissal of ‘writing for money’, I have to say only an successful author like Franzen who, I should imagine, is no longer obliged to write for money, could dismiss ‘money’ so easily. It’s notable how the notion that ‘money is unimportant’ is only adhered to by those who have it. Those on their uppers might sing a different song.
Yes, I’m sure (i.e. I’ve never sold a word of fiction and am now unlikely ever to do so, so I’m in no position to strike an attitude) ‘writing to make money’ is something of a fool’s ambition and that when you sit down to write, you might be better advised to have a loftier motivation.
On the other hand, though, ‘writers’ and would-be writers are free to write what the hell they like: and if someone sits down to produce ‘chick-lit’ or sci-fi instead of ‘serious literature’ (whatever that is though, presumably, it’s what Franzen turns out), who is anyone to dismiss them or their work? I’ve never read a work of chick-lit in my life and the last sci-fi story I read was at least 50 years ago. But I don’t doubt in their fields (as in others) there is the good, the bad and the indifferent, and surely trying to do something well, whatever you are doing, is admirable enough?
My final point though, and this is one I would put to Mr Franzen were I ever to meet him is that for all the honours, awards and prizes you are given and however much you are assured you are ‘one of today’s leading writers’, the sincerest form of flattery by far is being paid. When folk part with their money, you know they are being more honest than when they assure you ‘what a marvellous chap you are, and such a good writer’.
But there, I’ve already blown myself off-course and it’s lucky this is nothing but yet another insignificant blog entry and nothing more.
I’ve found Deadlines For Writers to be invaluable: membership costs nothing (although you can get ‘an evaluation’ of the work you submit for if you opt for paid membership) and the routine is very simple. Every month the organiser (I think there’s only one) posts ‘a prompt’ for a short story (and there’s another for a piece of verse) and stipulates a word count. Then it is up to the member to write and submit a story (or piece of verse) every month. These are then posted on the website, and if you are lucky other members read them and comment on them. Sometimes those comments are useful (though bear in mind, judging by the kind of stories that are submitted, each member has different notions of ‘what works’ and what doesn’t. Sometimes the comments make it plain that, either you didn’t succeed in doing what you set out to do, or the commentator simply isn’t in tune with the kind of story you want to produce.
I should add that as far as I am concerned when evaluating a piece of fiction (or, for that matter, a piece of music or a work of plastic art) the most useless words are ‘good’ and ‘bad’. Quite apart from the fact that judgment is subjective, ‘good’ and ‘bad’ convey nothing. Far, far more useful are ‘interesting’, ‘boring’, ‘engaging’, ‘confusing’ and other such observations, and as far as I am concerned being told by someone (who judgment I respect) for example where I seem to have gone wrong or where the reader lost the thread or where something wasn’t convincing are far more useful than being patted on the back and schmoozed. Fuck schmoozing. I loathe schmoozing. Show me a schmoozer and I’ll show you dishonesty.
The upshot is that Deadlines For Writing has been for me a great, great motivator. OK because of the stipulated word counts, which have ranged from 2,500 words to just 500 words, my stories aren’t very long, but I’ve now written some. And what with the ‘essays’ I’ve been turning out for the Heminway project, I seem finally have got into the swing of ‘writing regularly’. And that, dear hearts, brings me to what was to be the point of this latest entry.
Over the years (and I’ve been writing this blog for eleven years now) I’ve joked about this an that, not least my age. That, really, was just a form of defence: in some ways I haven’t liked getting older and, crucially, being regarded by the world as ‘an older man’ at all. So making jokes about ‘being 95’ or ‘being 110’ was, I think, just a way of warding it all off, pretending I didn’t really care. But the fact is that I was born in 1949 and in the late autumn I shall turn 72.
That is another, though minor reason, why literary superstardom, a perpetual round of drinkies in North London with other literary hacks and profiles in the ‘serious newspaper’ are certainly never going to come my way. And, by the way, a few months ago, I read two novels which were highly lauded by the great and good who pass judgment, and I thought both were bollocks.
But there, I’ve already blown myself off-course and it’s lucky this is nothing but yet another insignificant blog entry and nothing more.
. . .
I’ve found Deadlines For Writers to be invaluable: membership costs nothing (although you can get ‘an evaluation’ of the work you submit for if you opt for paid membership) and the routine is very simple. Every month the organiser (I think there’s only one) posts ‘a prompt’ for a short story (and there’s another for a piece of verse) and stipulates a word count. Then it is up to the member to write and submit a story (or piece of verse) every month. These are then posted on the website, and if you are lucky other members read them and comment on them. Sometimes those comments are useful (though bear in mind, judging by the kind of stories that are submitted, each member has different notions of ‘what works’ and what doesn’t. Sometimes the comments make it plain that, either you didn’t succeed in doing what you set out to do, or the commentator simply isn’t in tune with the kind of story you want to produce.
I should add that as far as I am concerned when evaluating a piece of fiction (or, for that matter, a piece of music or a work of plastic art) the most useless words are ‘good’ and ‘bad’. Quite apart from the fact that judgment is subjective, ‘good’ and ‘bad’ convey nothing. Far, far more useful are ‘interesting’, ‘boring’, ‘engaging’, ‘confusing’ and other such observations, and as far as I am concerned being told by someone (who judgment I respect) for example where I seem to have gone wrong or where the reader lost the thread or where something wasn’t convincing are far more useful than being patted on the back and schmoozed. Fuck schmoozing. I loathe schmoozing. Show me a schmoozer and I’ll show you dishonesty.
The upshot is that Deadlines For Writing has been for me a great, great motivator. OK because of the stipulated word counts, which have ranged from 2,500 words to just 500 words, my stories aren’t very long, but I’ve now written some. And what with the ‘essays’ I’ve been turning out for the Heminway project, I seem finally have got into the swing of ‘writing regularly’. And that, dear hearts, brings me to what was to be the point of this latest entry.
. . .
Over the years (and I’ve been writing this blog for eleven years now) I’ve joked about this an that, not least my age. That, really, was just a form of defence: in some ways I haven’t liked getting older and, crucially, being regarded by the world as ‘an older man’ at all. So making jokes about ‘being 95’ or ‘being 110’ was, I think, just a way of warding it all off, pretending I didn’t really care. But the fact is that I was born in 1949 and in the late autumn I shall turn 72.
That is another, though minor reason, why literary superstardom, a perpetual round of drinkies in North London with other literary hacks and profiles in the ‘serious newspaper’ are certainly never going to come my way. And, by the way, a few months ago, I read two novels which were highly lauded by the great and good who pass judgment, and I thought both were bollocks.
One was The Sea by John Banville, and you read can my review here, and the other was Saturday by Ian McEwan, and my review is here. Both writers are getting on a little but still literary darlings of the Western World, laden with honours and regarded as all-around artistic good eggs. What does that say for my judgement? I don’t know, but I’ll repeat, both novels, for one reason or another, were in my view shite. I must remind you, though, chacun à son goût (and, yes, although I’ve long been familiar with the phrase, I did have to look up the spelling).
The point about giving my age is that I am now retired, but to this day still feel guilty if I ‘haven’t done some work’. That work is no longer sitting on the third floor of the Daily Mail office in West London and checking puzzles against hard copy, proof-reading pages and hunting down errant commas, but — well, writing of some kind.
Since I began the Hemingway bollocks in July 2019, writing more of that and slowly moving towards conclusion has been my ‘work’. And I have been getting far more disciplined about getting down to it (which was one of the essential points of undertaking the projects, though I still have some way to go). But, I’ll repeat, I somehow I fritter away the day and don’t do very much, I feel horribly guilty. That is odd, but true. There is no obligation at all do it, quite apart from finishing it: but I have to. No one will know whether I do succeed and, far more to the point, no one will give a flying fuck: but I shall know and care!
I’ve been thinking about this a lot and I’ve come up with a solution: officially to give myself two days off a week. So on those days I wake up and do what the hell I like — piss around with Cubase in my shed and record, surf the net aimlessly, watch shite on Amazon — it doesn’t matter: this will be my time off and I shall have nothing to feel guilty about. Anyway that’s the plan.
Pip, pip.
The point about giving my age is that I am now retired, but to this day still feel guilty if I ‘haven’t done some work’. That work is no longer sitting on the third floor of the Daily Mail office in West London and checking puzzles against hard copy, proof-reading pages and hunting down errant commas, but — well, writing of some kind.
Since I began the Hemingway bollocks in July 2019, writing more of that and slowly moving towards conclusion has been my ‘work’. And I have been getting far more disciplined about getting down to it (which was one of the essential points of undertaking the projects, though I still have some way to go). But, I’ll repeat, I somehow I fritter away the day and don’t do very much, I feel horribly guilty. That is odd, but true. There is no obligation at all do it, quite apart from finishing it: but I have to. No one will know whether I do succeed and, far more to the point, no one will give a flying fuck: but I shall know and care!
I’ve been thinking about this a lot and I’ve come up with a solution: officially to give myself two days off a week. So on those days I wake up and do what the hell I like — piss around with Cubase in my shed and record, surf the net aimlessly, watch shite on Amazon — it doesn’t matter: this will be my time off and I shall have nothing to feel guilty about. Anyway that’s the plan.
Pip, pip.
If you are interested, there are more ‘rules on writing here’. Some are sane, some most certainly not. My favourite is the very good, one-word, advice to writers from Neil Gaiman: ‘Write.’
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