All Written Out.

Today I can think of nothing worthwhile to say… other than that I have nothing worthwhile to say (which I think I’ve just proved!)

Normal service, however, will be resumed after a good night’s sleep!

In the meantime, if you’ve ever wanted to suggest a topic for me to write about — now’s your chance!

My Fiction and Me.

As a child, I was not necessarily what you might call an avid reader. I read more than most children, but I was very much a child of the television age. I grew up with Dr Who, The Six Million Dollar Man, Thunderbirds, Captain Scarlet, badly dubbed Godzilla movies from Japan and countless other films and serials. My imagination highly active, I found it easy to immerse myself in these stories, however ridiculous, and when I finally discovered (probably around the age of seven) that reading books could be fun, too, and not just something you did at school, I discovered an added, deeper element than the concept of “story”.

The characters I read about in those early days — Julian, Dick, Anne, George and Timmy the dog in the Famous Five books — weren’t like me. They were radically different, in many ways. They said “yikes!” a lot, for example, if I remember correctly, and I never did. But even these books were nothing like a televisual experience. There was a relationship — a relationship that I was a very real part of. I became those people I read about and they became me. Though I couldn’t have expressed it at the time, they were children and in spite of the differences, I could relate to them.

But that’s what I’ve always enjoyed most about the fiction I read. My relationship with the book and the characters in it. And this, in many ways, has carried over into my writing. I cherish that feeling of knowing intimately these people who have never existed in any real sense (though that isn’t strictly true with my latest novel, which is semiautobiographical.) When I first started writing novels over twenty years ago, I tried to focus on plot (I was writing genre fiction, after all) but my characters always seemed to take over. They were the story, I soon realised. The things that happened were secondary to that and what was important to me was how they dealt with it and what I could learn from the process.

I was fond in my early days as a writer of Stephen King novels and I particularly remember first reading Pet Sematary. I’m sure many of you are familiar with the story, so I’ll leave that behind a link — since that wasn’t what really made it work as a novel for me. As I recall, King took forever to get to the horror. Playing to his strength, he drew me into not the story, but the family. I felt as if I knew them, as if I’d sat on the front porch drinking a beer with them and shooting the breeze. I wanted it to stay like that all the way through. Normal, American, oddly attractive. But of course, it didn’t. The truck got the cat and novel slid into its inevitable bleak decline. And that’s why it worked. King created characters that I wanted to know, that I cared for — that were, frankly, bloody good company.

And I suppose that’s a good part of why I write today. Good company. Yes, my characters may occasionally (okay quite often!) be complete fuck ups — but nobody knows them better than me. We become friends for a while. They tell me their secrets and being the decent, caring, trustworthy bloke that I am, I tell the world!

That’s when the friendship usually ends. But that’s okay. By that time, I’ve made a whole bunch of new friends.

The writer: never alone.

[This is the first of the Idiosyncratica monthly topics. If you are interested in reading what the other members of the group have to say on this subject, please remember to check back later for the links -- which I will be posting very soon. If you can't wait, however, please feel free to click on the Idiosyncratica links in the sidebar.]

Idiosyncratica — Announcement.

I bet you all thought I’d forgotten, didn’t you? I am a little preoccupied at the moment with the conclusion of Children of the Resolution, but Mike and I agree that it’s about time we got the ball rolling so, without further ado I’d like to announce our first group topic and introduce you to a new idea that Mike had.

Firstly, this month’s topic. After much consideration (okay, a little consideration) the title for our group piece will be My Fiction and Me. In it, each member should introduce the other group members to the kind of fiction they write or enjoy reading and explain a little about how it relates to them — why it inspires/drives them etc. This piece should be posted on July the first. I’m not sure how we’re going to link to each other’s posts, yet, but I’m sure we’ll work that one out as we go along. Maybe a follow-up piece from each of us will be required. We shall see.

Secondly, Mike hit on the idea of also having a monthly discussion — hosted on the blog of the member choosing the monthly topic. How it will work is very simple. The member in question announces the above-mentioned monthly topic and sets a date for the piece to be posted. In the same blog post, they also start a fiction-related discussion. The two should not really be directly related… that’d probably get a bit repetitive.

With this in mind, it’s probably best if I just get on with it. So, to reiterate, this month’s group topic is entitled My Fiction and Me and should be posted on July the first — and today’s discussion is…

Inspiration — Do You Find It, Or Does It Find You?

I’ve always found that inspiration comes at the strangest of times, at least with regard the “big ideas”. But I’m usually in a receptive frame of mind beforehand. I go looking, trying things on for size and generally doing my best to examine the everyday from a different angle. The inspiration for a new novel can be a simple thing like a spoken phrase, or a major world event — but it will seldom affect me whilst I’m working on another project… unless I’m nearing the end and consciously thinking about what I want to do next, as is now the case.

As far as the inspiration to write on a daily basis is concerned, I tend not to feel it’s a question of “inspiration” for me. I don’t wait for the muse to tap me on the shoulder and tell me to get on with it. If I did that, I’d probably never write single word. I write because it’s what I do. Unless I’m ill.

So what about you?

(Incidentally, if you’re not an Idiosyncratica member but would still like to contribute to this discussion, please feel free. I doubt anyone here will object.)