Milestones are very important. I'm not talking about those in life, or even your job or writing career, but rather those to be found within your story itself. Let me explain.
In your notes, or in your head, you will have your beginning (where, when and with whom the story starts), an ending (if not the definitive one) and a number of scenes that simply have to be in your story (you may even write these first). Taken together, these are your milestones.
Imagine now you have a flat surface in front of you and your milestones are threadable plastic beads you have glued to the surface in the right order. Now consider your story as a long piece of string. Thread the string through the beads and knot the two ends. Now you will notice two things: the important bits are anchored in place, but the string can go where it likes between the milestones. This is why I hate rigid planning - it kills off the ability to introduce new and better ideas, especially those that paint the hero into yet another corner - there is no safety of a wiggly piece of string, just a some taut tightrope you are likely to fall off. Yet with the milestones we can do what we like and yet never lose sight of what really matters.
Jack Orchison
February 28, 2014.
Friday 28 February 2014
My biographical bit, part 8: University 1
In the UK you apply to five Universities, go to interviews, get offers and then hold two of the latter, awaiting your results. My choices back in 1978 were:
Birmingham (UK, not Alabama)
Nottingham
Leeds
Newcastle (upon Tyne)
Southampton
I got offers from all of them, held onto Birmingham and Nottingham, but it was Nottingham I went for because it was (and still is) a lovely campus University. I got in easily and I was there for six years - I did a degree and PhD in Chemistry. My elder son is there now, studying Physics.
For the first two years I was in Cripps hall of residence, which was luckily the nearest to the Chemistry department so I could almost roll out of bed and down the hill to lectures in the morning. I have some notable memories from there: such as Dave Brown, the biology student who lived next door to me, who had dope-cake in his room (I never had any, by the way!). Then there was the mystery person that threw up one night in our shared bathroom - I have my suspicions that it was one of the medics from upstairs. They were responsible for the sour milk fight in our block that so affronted the cleaning lady, the feisty Vera Irwin, that she demanded a written apology before she'd even start to clean up the stinking mess. Tea time was always great and we had competitions to see who could eat the most toast, especially on Saturdays when piling into the TV room was a must to watch Dr Who and then, later, football (soccer) on Match of the Day.
More University next time.
Jack Orchison
February 28, 2014.
Birmingham (UK, not Alabama)
Nottingham
Leeds
Newcastle (upon Tyne)
Southampton
I got offers from all of them, held onto Birmingham and Nottingham, but it was Nottingham I went for because it was (and still is) a lovely campus University. I got in easily and I was there for six years - I did a degree and PhD in Chemistry. My elder son is there now, studying Physics.
For the first two years I was in Cripps hall of residence, which was luckily the nearest to the Chemistry department so I could almost roll out of bed and down the hill to lectures in the morning. I have some notable memories from there: such as Dave Brown, the biology student who lived next door to me, who had dope-cake in his room (I never had any, by the way!). Then there was the mystery person that threw up one night in our shared bathroom - I have my suspicions that it was one of the medics from upstairs. They were responsible for the sour milk fight in our block that so affronted the cleaning lady, the feisty Vera Irwin, that she demanded a written apology before she'd even start to clean up the stinking mess. Tea time was always great and we had competitions to see who could eat the most toast, especially on Saturdays when piling into the TV room was a must to watch Dr Who and then, later, football (soccer) on Match of the Day.
More University next time.
Jack Orchison
February 28, 2014.
Sunday 23 February 2014
Being a Writer, Part 5: Writing time, place and method
So, you're ready to start writing your novel. You have enough material. You know the genre. You're excited about it. But you need to make time for it, and that means when you won't be disturbed by your partner or kids. Let them know the time is yours. Regular application is the key, so don't worry about some massive word count per session you've heard other people achieving. Set your own and keep to it even if you are uninspired or ill or bored or worried. Writers write, remember!
Carve out little places for yourself where you work best and feel the most comfortable. This could be at the dining table, on the bed, or in the car at lunchtime (all favourites of mine), but you need to try things out to see what works for you.
And you have to get the words down. It doesn't matter if you hand-write it first and type it up later (as I do) of if you type it directly onto your computer. Just get that pesky story down somehow! And you don't need to worry about those things called style and voice. These come from writing your story, your way. They come from being honest, from being you. It stands to reason that copying another's style or following some recent fad is a bad idea. It's your story that matters, and that can only come from you. The real you. So get out there and sock it to them, and believe in your idea because it will be as good as anyone else's. And probably a whole lot better.
Jack Orchison, February 23, 2014.
Carve out little places for yourself where you work best and feel the most comfortable. This could be at the dining table, on the bed, or in the car at lunchtime (all favourites of mine), but you need to try things out to see what works for you.
And you have to get the words down. It doesn't matter if you hand-write it first and type it up later (as I do) of if you type it directly onto your computer. Just get that pesky story down somehow! And you don't need to worry about those things called style and voice. These come from writing your story, your way. They come from being honest, from being you. It stands to reason that copying another's style or following some recent fad is a bad idea. It's your story that matters, and that can only come from you. The real you. So get out there and sock it to them, and believe in your idea because it will be as good as anyone else's. And probably a whole lot better.
Jack Orchison, February 23, 2014.
My biographical bit, Part 7: Backtracking part 2
Suffering from a bad cold today, but here goes...
One of the things people remember from their past the most strongly are the deaths of relatives, or at least the stories associated with them if they were too young at the time. For me, three stand out in the time period we've covered so far (up to going to University).
1963: My paternal grandfather, Peter Orchison, was from Montrose in Scotland. He worked in a pharmacy and liked motorbikes, and died aged 58 from a heart attack. He smoked, which didn't help of course. But at least he still had all his hair! He had four children with my dad's mother, Helen (a nurse at Stracathro), though they never married because she was still married another man and it was difficult for women on their own to divorce in those days. My dad, Albert, was the youngest after Lily and George. They lived in Brechin. Another brother, Jack, died in infancy and I believe I am named after him.
1971: My maternal grandfather, Joseph 'John' Philips, a teacher and former army officer, was from Shropshire but lived most of his life in Leicestershire. He was present at the partition of India in 1947. When he was 15, he escaped from an unhappy childhood with his blind mother, Florence, and his philandering father, Percy; he lied about his age and joined the army, where he also contrived to change his name (from the original Joseph Enoch Philps). He had high blood pressure as he got older and although he ahd tablets for it I doubt he took them. He died of a stroke - also aged 58, also with a full head of hair! (This worries me slightly: I'm 54!)
1979: My maternal great grandmother, Lilian Weeks, who died aged 88 of complications following a fall and a broken hip. I knew her as Nana and, as far as I know, she never did a day's work in her life. She had three daughters and a son (Peggy, Joan, Eileen and Harry). Peggy ran away from home. The interesting thing about my great grandmother, though, was that nobody has ever got past her when they try to do the family tree. She destroyed certain papers before she died, obviously to hide something. We will never know whether it was an affair, illegitimacy, divorce etc that she was ashamed of, but the more you look into it the more it seems her whole life was a lie...
Anyway, must blow my nose and dose myself up...
Jack Orchison, February 23, 2014.
One of the things people remember from their past the most strongly are the deaths of relatives, or at least the stories associated with them if they were too young at the time. For me, three stand out in the time period we've covered so far (up to going to University).
1963: My paternal grandfather, Peter Orchison, was from Montrose in Scotland. He worked in a pharmacy and liked motorbikes, and died aged 58 from a heart attack. He smoked, which didn't help of course. But at least he still had all his hair! He had four children with my dad's mother, Helen (a nurse at Stracathro), though they never married because she was still married another man and it was difficult for women on their own to divorce in those days. My dad, Albert, was the youngest after Lily and George. They lived in Brechin. Another brother, Jack, died in infancy and I believe I am named after him.
1971: My maternal grandfather, Joseph 'John' Philips, a teacher and former army officer, was from Shropshire but lived most of his life in Leicestershire. He was present at the partition of India in 1947. When he was 15, he escaped from an unhappy childhood with his blind mother, Florence, and his philandering father, Percy; he lied about his age and joined the army, where he also contrived to change his name (from the original Joseph Enoch Philps). He had high blood pressure as he got older and although he ahd tablets for it I doubt he took them. He died of a stroke - also aged 58, also with a full head of hair! (This worries me slightly: I'm 54!)
1979: My maternal great grandmother, Lilian Weeks, who died aged 88 of complications following a fall and a broken hip. I knew her as Nana and, as far as I know, she never did a day's work in her life. She had three daughters and a son (Peggy, Joan, Eileen and Harry). Peggy ran away from home. The interesting thing about my great grandmother, though, was that nobody has ever got past her when they try to do the family tree. She destroyed certain papers before she died, obviously to hide something. We will never know whether it was an affair, illegitimacy, divorce etc that she was ashamed of, but the more you look into it the more it seems her whole life was a lie...
Anyway, must blow my nose and dose myself up...
Jack Orchison, February 23, 2014.
Sunday 9 February 2014
Being a writer, Part 4: How many projects?
How many things should you work on at once? How many projects? One? Two? Three? Eleven?
Different people would give you different answers. Some say, definitively, that it should be only one. This way there is nothing else to distract you and you finish each novel one at a time. But this is too simplistic. There may come a time when either you get writers block, get stuck or fed up, or realise (perish the tought) that your precious blockbuster isn't working. Then what? You need backup.
I have found that it helps if every 30,000 words or so you start a new story. A proper writer should have no shortage of ideas for this, and it allows these ideas to come to life instead of being forgotten or dusted off after five years. So my answer to the question is: four. One at its end and in the editing stage, one at about 60,000 words, one at 30,000 words and one about to start. Believe me, it's miles batter than the sequential approach, and eventually you will be putting out completed novels on a regular basis.
Of course there is always the temptation to pursue every idea you have, but this will stop when time doesn't permit it. There will come a natural point to end this 'call of the filed.'
Jack Orchison, February 9, 2014.
Different people would give you different answers. Some say, definitively, that it should be only one. This way there is nothing else to distract you and you finish each novel one at a time. But this is too simplistic. There may come a time when either you get writers block, get stuck or fed up, or realise (perish the tought) that your precious blockbuster isn't working. Then what? You need backup.
I have found that it helps if every 30,000 words or so you start a new story. A proper writer should have no shortage of ideas for this, and it allows these ideas to come to life instead of being forgotten or dusted off after five years. So my answer to the question is: four. One at its end and in the editing stage, one at about 60,000 words, one at 30,000 words and one about to start. Believe me, it's miles batter than the sequential approach, and eventually you will be putting out completed novels on a regular basis.
Of course there is always the temptation to pursue every idea you have, but this will stop when time doesn't permit it. There will come a natural point to end this 'call of the filed.'
Jack Orchison, February 9, 2014.
My biographical bit, Part 6: Backtracking part 1
So far we've got up to where I was about to go to University, but of course all sorts of other things had gone on during that time period. It's time to fill some of them in.
The first thing that comes to mind are the pets I've had. Apart from Wiggly the goldfish that I won at a funfair and only lived a month, the pets consisted of hamsters and dogs.
I had two hamsters, one after the other, called Tubby and Susie. Tubby was a big male, and by far the more interesting; he specialised in eating, climbing and escaping and is the only hamster I've come across to live long enough to go bald! We (my sister and I) both got a hamster at the same time from our Aunty Jane (sadly no longer with us even though she'd only be 62 now), but it was Tubby who got the reputation. Twice he got out by gnawing his way out of his cage, but this was foiled by reinforcing it. He could stuff a gargantuan amount of food in his cheek pouches and climb up the front of the cage in a way that would make mountaineers tacking an overhang feel jealous. And he had the strength to lift the cage front and get it wedged where there was enough space for him to get out. On this lucky occasion, he managed to drop about three feet to the floor without hurting himself and scuttle behind the cooker. The only chance of luring him out was food, so there I was with a piece of cheese in position, waiting patiently for his weakness to have an effect. He gradually emerged, grabbed the cheese and sat there boldly scoffing it until the fickle hand of fate descended to end his escapade (I was eleven years old and once got a school merit mark for my essay about him).
When I was thirteen, we acquired two dogs. They were mongrel litter-sisters called Emma (also caled Boo and who lived to be 12 and died of parvo-virus) and Jeannie (also called Ted and who lived to be 14 and went senile). They were devoted to each other as well as the family, were good guard dogs, and so well behaved they could be taken for walks without a lead. However they did sometimes roll in hedgehog shit. They were easy to please with cheap dog food (we didn't have much money - indeed we never seemed to have much) and for treats they had half a Rich Tea finger biscuit each. They were very affectionate but hated thunder and fireworks. One day we were stupid enough to go out on Guy Fawkes night and we came back to pandemonium in the kitchen (where the dogs had their bed). In their fright they had gone berserk and scratched or chewed three doors. My dad went ballistic. Having them meant we were limited with holidays, usually to some rainy week or fortnight in a caravan somewhere, playing cards or Monopoly, armed with a massive box of chicken flavoured crisps (potato chips). I had long since left education and home when Emma and Jeannie died, but they'd left their marks in my heart and they were two very sad days indeed.
Next time I'll look at some more human comings and goings from this period.
Jack Orchison, February 9, 2014.
The first thing that comes to mind are the pets I've had. Apart from Wiggly the goldfish that I won at a funfair and only lived a month, the pets consisted of hamsters and dogs.
I had two hamsters, one after the other, called Tubby and Susie. Tubby was a big male, and by far the more interesting; he specialised in eating, climbing and escaping and is the only hamster I've come across to live long enough to go bald! We (my sister and I) both got a hamster at the same time from our Aunty Jane (sadly no longer with us even though she'd only be 62 now), but it was Tubby who got the reputation. Twice he got out by gnawing his way out of his cage, but this was foiled by reinforcing it. He could stuff a gargantuan amount of food in his cheek pouches and climb up the front of the cage in a way that would make mountaineers tacking an overhang feel jealous. And he had the strength to lift the cage front and get it wedged where there was enough space for him to get out. On this lucky occasion, he managed to drop about three feet to the floor without hurting himself and scuttle behind the cooker. The only chance of luring him out was food, so there I was with a piece of cheese in position, waiting patiently for his weakness to have an effect. He gradually emerged, grabbed the cheese and sat there boldly scoffing it until the fickle hand of fate descended to end his escapade (I was eleven years old and once got a school merit mark for my essay about him).
When I was thirteen, we acquired two dogs. They were mongrel litter-sisters called Emma (also caled Boo and who lived to be 12 and died of parvo-virus) and Jeannie (also called Ted and who lived to be 14 and went senile). They were devoted to each other as well as the family, were good guard dogs, and so well behaved they could be taken for walks without a lead. However they did sometimes roll in hedgehog shit. They were easy to please with cheap dog food (we didn't have much money - indeed we never seemed to have much) and for treats they had half a Rich Tea finger biscuit each. They were very affectionate but hated thunder and fireworks. One day we were stupid enough to go out on Guy Fawkes night and we came back to pandemonium in the kitchen (where the dogs had their bed). In their fright they had gone berserk and scratched or chewed three doors. My dad went ballistic. Having them meant we were limited with holidays, usually to some rainy week or fortnight in a caravan somewhere, playing cards or Monopoly, armed with a massive box of chicken flavoured crisps (potato chips). I had long since left education and home when Emma and Jeannie died, but they'd left their marks in my heart and they were two very sad days indeed.
Next time I'll look at some more human comings and goings from this period.
Jack Orchison, February 9, 2014.
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