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Taking my own advice, I might as well start writing some random story and post it in bits for everyone to read. I'm just going to make it up as I go along:
==========
As Ansley Bauer pulled the smoke into his lungs, a cold sensation ran over him, making his skin feel momentarily tighter. His upper lip peeled back to reveal almost-white teeth, and he sucked air through the small gaps, making a wet swooshing sound.
He sat deep in his chair, tangential to the small, round metal table that held his drink, and watched the performing band onstage at the back of the cafe. Music filled the café at optimum volume; loud enough to hear, not so loud you have to shout to be heard over it. The song was the kind of hybrid pop-rock that's almost universally popular these days. Almost every table in the place was occupied, and this at 7am Artemis-time. Forget your wine bars, your coffee houses and grab-and-go fast food joints. Anybody who's anybody wanted to eat, drink and talk at Ruby's. The largest cafe in the city, it could comfortably seat two thousand eager consumers. Ansley liked it because the ceiling was high, yet brightly lit enough to make it seem almost open air. It felt less claustrophobic than almost anywhere else in the city. Most people came here for the live entertainment. Ansley had to admit that was also a factor.
He ran a big hand through his unmanaged, lightly greasy black hair, and slowly let out the lungful of smoke he'd been holding. Through the light haze, he traced his eyes over the jet black PVC wrap which was pretty much all the young blonde leading the vocals onstage was wearing. It wound around her left leg, starting down at the ankle where it was attached to her high heeled shoe, tightly drawn to reveal everything while showing nothing. About a third of the way to her knees, the wrap wove low across her hips, tightly again, to imitate a skirt, before snaking up from her back to tautly cover her breasts. The PVC ended in more tight circles down her right arm and was held there by a glove.
A smoke, a coffee, some waffles, and the best view in the city. This was what breakfast was all about. Ansley put out the cigarette and took a tug on his coffee as he listened to the multi-talented vocalist. She was pretty good. The band was pretty good too. Most of the kids that played at Ruby's were capable, most of them hopeful of getting out of the city to make their names elsewhere. The biggest stage available to them being a necessary stepping stone. Not to mention a pretty good earner.
"Suddenly the reason for you wanting to meet here becomes clear," the rumbling bass of a voice came from behind Ansley. He didn't bother turning to see who it was.
"The venue is public, Mr. Gurov," he replied "yet still affords us privacy." In his own ears, and against the powerful sound of Valko Gurov's voice, Ansley's own sounded weak and high-pitched. But it wasn't. It was a businessman’s voice, honed over years of doing what it took to get what he wanted. Gurov's was honed through years of drinking and smoking as though his life depended on it.
"It ticks all the boxes then," Gurov walked around the table before taking a seat opposite Ansley. He pressed a stubby thumb against the table's interface and selected an order.
Ansley let a smile creep up one side of his face, but he didn’t take his eyes off the blonde singer. She was vocalising passionately into the mike held in her ungloved left hand. The other hand was clenched into a fist and held out to her side, shaking up and down as her black-coated left leg stamped away in front of her in time to the bass line. The other leg slightly behind her, a provocative arrow of naked flesh, even from this distance. Ansley let the music reach his ears. She was extolling the virtues of a night in her arms in pleasant, guitar backed rhyme. He could see the appeal. Lazily, he pressed his thumb against the table interface and wired the band’s details to his home account.
Beyond the music, silence stretched over the table until a young waiter arrived with a plate of Italian meats and an oversized latte, and set them out in front of Gurov.
“There’s been a change of plan.” Gurov said as he forked a mouthful of ham into his unshaven face. His facial hair was light grey, with the odd patch of slightly darker grey. That’s was pretty much all the hair he had, the rest had receded long ago, and left him completely bald. Probably something to do with his eating, drinking and smoking excesses. Ansley wondered silently how the man was still alive. “The military have ordered the city to reroute.”
Ansley pulled his gaze away from the vocalist, and stared at Gurov as though he’d sprouted wings. Artemis was more than just a city; it was a spaceship doing a regular route between Sol and Cappella. The only interesting things between the two star systems being some extreme EVA sports hot spots and rendezvous points with Nomia and Leto, two other city-stations. Oh, and an asteroid which acts as a working base for an inter-stellar crime syndicate, but keep that on the down-low.
“Where are we headed?” he asked.
“Oh,” Gurov replied darkly over the rim of his frothing mug “you’re going to love this.”
==========
As Ansley Bauer pulled the smoke into his lungs, a cold sensation ran over him, making his skin feel momentarily tighter. His upper lip peeled back to reveal almost-white teeth, and he sucked air through the small gaps, making a wet swooshing sound.
He sat deep in his chair, tangential to the small, round metal table that held his drink, and watched the performing band onstage at the back of the cafe. Music filled the café at optimum volume; loud enough to hear, not so loud you have to shout to be heard over it. The song was the kind of hybrid pop-rock that's almost universally popular these days. Almost every table in the place was occupied, and this at 7am Artemis-time. Forget your wine bars, your coffee houses and grab-and-go fast food joints. Anybody who's anybody wanted to eat, drink and talk at Ruby's. The largest cafe in the city, it could comfortably seat two thousand eager consumers. Ansley liked it because the ceiling was high, yet brightly lit enough to make it seem almost open air. It felt less claustrophobic than almost anywhere else in the city. Most people came here for the live entertainment. Ansley had to admit that was also a factor.
He ran a big hand through his unmanaged, lightly greasy black hair, and slowly let out the lungful of smoke he'd been holding. Through the light haze, he traced his eyes over the jet black PVC wrap which was pretty much all the young blonde leading the vocals onstage was wearing. It wound around her left leg, starting down at the ankle where it was attached to her high heeled shoe, tightly drawn to reveal everything while showing nothing. About a third of the way to her knees, the wrap wove low across her hips, tightly again, to imitate a skirt, before snaking up from her back to tautly cover her breasts. The PVC ended in more tight circles down her right arm and was held there by a glove.
A smoke, a coffee, some waffles, and the best view in the city. This was what breakfast was all about. Ansley put out the cigarette and took a tug on his coffee as he listened to the multi-talented vocalist. She was pretty good. The band was pretty good too. Most of the kids that played at Ruby's were capable, most of them hopeful of getting out of the city to make their names elsewhere. The biggest stage available to them being a necessary stepping stone. Not to mention a pretty good earner.
"Suddenly the reason for you wanting to meet here becomes clear," the rumbling bass of a voice came from behind Ansley. He didn't bother turning to see who it was.
"The venue is public, Mr. Gurov," he replied "yet still affords us privacy." In his own ears, and against the powerful sound of Valko Gurov's voice, Ansley's own sounded weak and high-pitched. But it wasn't. It was a businessman’s voice, honed over years of doing what it took to get what he wanted. Gurov's was honed through years of drinking and smoking as though his life depended on it.
"It ticks all the boxes then," Gurov walked around the table before taking a seat opposite Ansley. He pressed a stubby thumb against the table's interface and selected an order.
Ansley let a smile creep up one side of his face, but he didn’t take his eyes off the blonde singer. She was vocalising passionately into the mike held in her ungloved left hand. The other hand was clenched into a fist and held out to her side, shaking up and down as her black-coated left leg stamped away in front of her in time to the bass line. The other leg slightly behind her, a provocative arrow of naked flesh, even from this distance. Ansley let the music reach his ears. She was extolling the virtues of a night in her arms in pleasant, guitar backed rhyme. He could see the appeal. Lazily, he pressed his thumb against the table interface and wired the band’s details to his home account.
Beyond the music, silence stretched over the table until a young waiter arrived with a plate of Italian meats and an oversized latte, and set them out in front of Gurov.
“There’s been a change of plan.” Gurov said as he forked a mouthful of ham into his unshaven face. His facial hair was light grey, with the odd patch of slightly darker grey. That’s was pretty much all the hair he had, the rest had receded long ago, and left him completely bald. Probably something to do with his eating, drinking and smoking excesses. Ansley wondered silently how the man was still alive. “The military have ordered the city to reroute.”
Ansley pulled his gaze away from the vocalist, and stared at Gurov as though he’d sprouted wings. Artemis was more than just a city; it was a spaceship doing a regular route between Sol and Cappella. The only interesting things between the two star systems being some extreme EVA sports hot spots and rendezvous points with Nomia and Leto, two other city-stations. Oh, and an asteroid which acts as a working base for an inter-stellar crime syndicate, but keep that on the down-low.
“Where are we headed?” he asked.
“Oh,” Gurov replied darkly over the rim of his frothing mug “you’re going to love this.”
Taking my own advice, I might as well start writing some random story and post it in bits for everyone to read. I'm just going to make it up as I go along:
==========
As Ansley Bauer pulled the smoke into his lungs, a cold sensation ran over him, making his skin feel momentarily tighter. His upper lip peeled back to reveal almost-white teeth, and he sucked air through the small gaps, making a wet swooshing sound.
He sat deep in his chair, tangential to the small, round metal table that held his drink, and watched the performing band onstage at the back of the cafe. Music filled the café at optimum volume; loud enough to hear, not so loud you have to shout to be heard over it. The song was the kind of hybrid pop-rock that's almost universally popular these days. Almost every table in the place was occupied, and this at 7am Artemis-time. Forget your wine bars, your coffee houses and grab-and-go fast food joints. Anybody who's anybody wanted to eat, drink and talk at Ruby's. The largest cafe in the city, it could comfortably seat two thousand eager consumers. Ansley liked it because the ceiling was high, yet brightly lit enough to make it seem almost open air. It felt less claustrophobic than almost anywhere else in the city. Most people came here for the live entertainment. Ansley had to admit that was also a factor.
He ran a big hand through his unmanaged, lightly greasy black hair, and slowly let out the lungful of smoke he'd been holding. Through the light haze, he traced his eyes over the jet black PVC wrap which was pretty much all the young blonde leading the vocals onstage was wearing. It wound around her left leg, starting down at the ankle where it was attached to her high heeled shoe, tightly drawn to reveal everything while showing nothing. About a third of the way to her knees, the wrap wove low across her hips, tightly again, to imitate a skirt, before snaking up from her back to tautly cover her breasts. The PVC ended in more tight circles down her right arm and was held there by a glove.
A smoke, a coffee, some waffles, and the best view in the city. This was what breakfast was all about. Ansley put out the cigarette and took a tug on his coffee as he listened to the multi-talented vocalist. She was pretty good. The band was pretty good too. Most of the kids that played at Ruby's were capable, most of them hopeful of getting out of the city to make their names elsewhere. The biggest stage available to them being a necessary stepping stone. Not to mention a pretty good earner.
"Suddenly the reason for you wanting to meet here becomes clear," the rumbling bass of a voice came from behind Ansley. He didn't bother turning to see who it was.
"The venue is public, Mr. Gurov," he replied "yet still affords us privacy." In his own ears, and against the powerful sound of Valko Gurov's voice, Ansley's own sounded weak and high-pitched. But it wasn't. It was a businessman’s voice, honed over years of doing what it took to get what he wanted. Gurov's was honed through years of drinking and smoking as though his life depended on it.
"It ticks all the boxes then," Gurov walked around the table before taking a seat opposite Ansley. He pressed a stubby thumb against the table's interface and selected an order.
Ansley let a smile creep up one side of his face, but he didn’t take his eyes off the blonde singer. She was vocalising passionately into the mike held in her ungloved left hand. The other hand was clenched into a fist and held out to her side, shaking up and down as her black-coated left leg stamped away in front of her in time to the bass line. The other leg slightly behind her, a provocative arrow of naked flesh, even from this distance. Ansley let the music reach his ears. She was extolling the virtues of a night in her arms in pleasant, guitar backed rhyme. He could see the appeal. Lazily, he pressed his thumb against the table interface and wired the band’s details to his home account.
Beyond the music, silence stretched over the table until a young waiter arrived with a plate of Italian meats and an oversized latte, and set them out in front of Gurov.
“There’s been a change of plan.” Gurov said as he forked a mouthful of ham into his unshaven face. His facial hair was light grey, with the odd patch of slightly darker grey. That’s was pretty much all the hair he had, the rest had receded long ago, and left him completely bald. Probably something to do with his eating, drinking and smoking excesses. Ansley wondered silently how the man was still alive. “The military have ordered the city to reroute.”
Ansley pulled his gaze away from the vocalist, and stared at Gurov as though he’d sprouted wings. Artemis was more than just a city; it was a spaceship doing a regular route between Sol and Cappella. The only interesting things between the two star systems being some extreme EVA sports hot spots and rendezvous points with Nomia and Leto, two other city-stations. Oh, and an asteroid which acts as a working base for an inter-stellar crime syndicate, but keep that on the down-low.
“Where are we headed?” he asked.
“Oh,” Gurov replied darkly over the rim of his frothing mug “you’re going to love this.”
==========
As Ansley Bauer pulled the smoke into his lungs, a cold sensation ran over him, making his skin feel momentarily tighter. His upper lip peeled back to reveal almost-white teeth, and he sucked air through the small gaps, making a wet swooshing sound.
He sat deep in his chair, tangential to the small, round metal table that held his drink, and watched the performing band onstage at the back of the cafe. Music filled the café at optimum volume; loud enough to hear, not so loud you have to shout to be heard over it. The song was the kind of hybrid pop-rock that's almost universally popular these days. Almost every table in the place was occupied, and this at 7am Artemis-time. Forget your wine bars, your coffee houses and grab-and-go fast food joints. Anybody who's anybody wanted to eat, drink and talk at Ruby's. The largest cafe in the city, it could comfortably seat two thousand eager consumers. Ansley liked it because the ceiling was high, yet brightly lit enough to make it seem almost open air. It felt less claustrophobic than almost anywhere else in the city. Most people came here for the live entertainment. Ansley had to admit that was also a factor.
He ran a big hand through his unmanaged, lightly greasy black hair, and slowly let out the lungful of smoke he'd been holding. Through the light haze, he traced his eyes over the jet black PVC wrap which was pretty much all the young blonde leading the vocals onstage was wearing. It wound around her left leg, starting down at the ankle where it was attached to her high heeled shoe, tightly drawn to reveal everything while showing nothing. About a third of the way to her knees, the wrap wove low across her hips, tightly again, to imitate a skirt, before snaking up from her back to tautly cover her breasts. The PVC ended in more tight circles down her right arm and was held there by a glove.
A smoke, a coffee, some waffles, and the best view in the city. This was what breakfast was all about. Ansley put out the cigarette and took a tug on his coffee as he listened to the multi-talented vocalist. She was pretty good. The band was pretty good too. Most of the kids that played at Ruby's were capable, most of them hopeful of getting out of the city to make their names elsewhere. The biggest stage available to them being a necessary stepping stone. Not to mention a pretty good earner.
"Suddenly the reason for you wanting to meet here becomes clear," the rumbling bass of a voice came from behind Ansley. He didn't bother turning to see who it was.
"The venue is public, Mr. Gurov," he replied "yet still affords us privacy." In his own ears, and against the powerful sound of Valko Gurov's voice, Ansley's own sounded weak and high-pitched. But it wasn't. It was a businessman’s voice, honed over years of doing what it took to get what he wanted. Gurov's was honed through years of drinking and smoking as though his life depended on it.
"It ticks all the boxes then," Gurov walked around the table before taking a seat opposite Ansley. He pressed a stubby thumb against the table's interface and selected an order.
Ansley let a smile creep up one side of his face, but he didn’t take his eyes off the blonde singer. She was vocalising passionately into the mike held in her ungloved left hand. The other hand was clenched into a fist and held out to her side, shaking up and down as her black-coated left leg stamped away in front of her in time to the bass line. The other leg slightly behind her, a provocative arrow of naked flesh, even from this distance. Ansley let the music reach his ears. She was extolling the virtues of a night in her arms in pleasant, guitar backed rhyme. He could see the appeal. Lazily, he pressed his thumb against the table interface and wired the band’s details to his home account.
Beyond the music, silence stretched over the table until a young waiter arrived with a plate of Italian meats and an oversized latte, and set them out in front of Gurov.
“There’s been a change of plan.” Gurov said as he forked a mouthful of ham into his unshaven face. His facial hair was light grey, with the odd patch of slightly darker grey. That’s was pretty much all the hair he had, the rest had receded long ago, and left him completely bald. Probably something to do with his eating, drinking and smoking excesses. Ansley wondered silently how the man was still alive. “The military have ordered the city to reroute.”
Ansley pulled his gaze away from the vocalist, and stared at Gurov as though he’d sprouted wings. Artemis was more than just a city; it was a spaceship doing a regular route between Sol and Cappella. The only interesting things between the two star systems being some extreme EVA sports hot spots and rendezvous points with Nomia and Leto, two other city-stations. Oh, and an asteroid which acts as a working base for an inter-stellar crime syndicate, but keep that on the down-low.
“Where are we headed?” he asked.
“Oh,” Gurov replied darkly over the rim of his frothing mug “you’re going to love this.”
Good start.
One question: when you write a longer piece, do you have the plot mapped out? If so, what's your technique? I ask because plotting isn't something I'm particularily good at.
I might post something longer myself ... if something comes to mind.
One question: when you write a longer piece, do you have the plot mapped out? If so, what's your technique? I ask because plotting isn't something I'm particularily good at.
I might post something longer myself ... if something comes to mind.
That's a very good question, and one I asked earlier today of a writer's forum. See below replies thus far from published authors:
and also...
I don't think there is a definitive method of writing a novel. What works for you is what's right - sorry, but I really believe that's the truth. I plan my novels pretty thoroughly but another novelist friend of mine simply takes off and sees where the story will take her. I'd panic if I didn't have a map, but she enjoys the sense of freedom and discovery.
I'll tell you what I do and see if that sounds like it might be some use to you.
I start with a question or a hypothesis - in the case of the current novel, it's something like What kind of man would leave his disabled wife? - and so the character and situation are born together. I'd then have a good think about that shadowy mc (and consider how he might go on from the moment he left his Mrs).
Then I draw a line and write down the main points of the plot, and at this stage there won't be all that many, but over the next few weeks as I think about the novel I'll be able to add more and more detail. That gives me an overview and also a sense of how I'll pace the story.
Next I do pages of notes on my mc and three or four other characters. I generate these by asking them questions, and I'm always particularly interested in what they did before the action of the novel starts. So for the one I'm writing at the moment, I did a time-line for the mc's life, plus another more detailed one of the years he was married. I did the same thing for the woman he hooks up with. Tha advantage of all that is I get lots more ideas for plot development, eg what happened in his childhood that might have made him impatient with his wife's illness? It also makes me confident about that character, because I feel I know how he'll react in any given situation. Sometimes I end up with a stack of info that never makes it into the book, but it doesn't matter because it's served a purpose.
I've also done family trees to stop me making stupid continuity errors, and for my first novel I went as far as to do a chapter-by-chapter breakdown. That meant firstly I was able to write it very quickly, and secondly that I was able to write some of it out of sequence, the way you'd shoot a film.
I do think you have to love novels and be passionate about the novel form to generate the stamina for a piece of 80,000+ words. It's a lonely business, novel-writing, but some of us quite like that.
Is that any help? I know I've gone on a bit.and also...
I'd agree... that there are as many different ways of writing a novel as there are novelists. You'll probably find that some ways suggested strike more of a chord with you than others, but in the end you'll have to accept that you may look back on your finished first draft and realise another modus operandi might have suited you better. If you do, it's not a failure, or even a mistake, it's a sign that you've learnt something important about your writing self.
Some have a general idea, wait for the first sentence to strike them, then set off into the wild blue yonder of Chapter One. When inspiration fails they do a Chandler and make a man walk in the door pointing a gun. Others start the same way, but work out the characters and what happens to them in more detail before they actually write 'Chapter One' at the head of the first page. Many start with a situation, as Lammi does, others start with a character, or a combination of the two, or two characters whose interaction is the motor of the plot. I know of one or two who write any scene when it occurs to them, from wherever it happens in the book, and then lay the scenes out and knit them together at the end. But I think they must have a pretty clear idea of the whole novel in their head to do that.
A question like Lammi's is a very good engine to propel the writing.
FWIW my novels start with a vision - and I do mean that, it's always wholly visual - of a person, in a place, and so my questions are usually 'how did they get there?' and 'what happened next?', and I chew simultaneously on character and place (which includes period) until I have enough to plan out the chapters, at the depth of ten or twenty words each. I'm researching alongside, so that throws up all sorts of ideas which feed into my plans. But I write long, multi-layered novels where the structure has to be very strictly controlled. Even so, I still plan in pencil, metaphorically and actually, because everything - even structure - is provisional. Then I let it stew till I hear my first sentence, and then I've got the narrator's voice, and the point in the story where this narrative starts. I've almost never changed that first sentence, whatever else changes later.
Some refuse to move on from a page until it's perfect, then never touch it again. Some people start by revising yesterday's work before moving onto the new bit. That gets you back into it, but the temptation is always to go on fiddling with it rather than doing the tougher work of writing more. It's worth keeping a word count at the end of every day, so you can pat yourself on the back for a few more hundred words, if nothing else. And it's worth resisting the temptation to go back when you realise an earlier chapter needs revising: just make notes, and keep pushing on. That way you experience the story as nearly as you can to the way the reader does.
There are wonderful insights into different writers' practice in the Paris Review interviews. The list of authors has a rather White American Male bias, but it's still pretty staggering. Many are available online, and there are lots of themed anthologies which a library could get you; they're published by Harvill, I think. And I see they've just started a new 'best of' series of anthologies.
The Paris Review
Good luck! Anyone who embarks on a novel deserves respect for courage, and anyone who finishes one - however terrible they immediately realise it to be - deserves even more.
Emma
<Added>
...you needn't think you have to develop characters in full gory detail before you begin to write. You can get to know them as you write, and as one does in real life: by seeing them in action, deciding what car they drive, how they wear their clothes... You may not know about their abusive marriage or long-lost ambition to be a buddhist monk till you're well into it.
But I think one thing that is different in long-haul writing is that the plot does need some kind of mainspring that keeps propelling it: at its crudest, the characters have to have some kind of need or want, and be trying to get it fulfilled, and meet various obstacles, and finally gain some kind of resolution.
I've seen your thread on writewords - interesting. (I'd just like to point out that I'm not the same Sibelius who has commented.) Just a weird coincidence.
I think I agree with those who are saying it's best to have the beginning and the ending planned. Especially the ending - as I'm finding it difficult to close out my novel.
I think I agree with those who are saying it's best to have the beginning and the ending planned. Especially the ending - as I'm finding it difficult to close out my novel.