I just… can’t.

We’ve all been there, fellow writers, and you know what I’m talking about… yes, the dreaded ‘writer’s block’. But hold on! This is not just another article about that familiar and unwelcome affliction – if you want to read more about that please feel free to scroll back through my blog feed where I have written extensively about the causes and solutions of ‘getting stuck’. No, this post is a little different. This post is about more than the common enemies of the writer; the ones that stop them from getting on with it. This is about something deeper than procrastination and poor planning and getting sucked in to the deep well of social media when we should be creating. This post is about when we just can’t.

What do I mean? Read on.

I’m sure I’m not the only one who has days when writing is hard; when finding the words or the inspiration is a struggle; when it doesn’t flow, it sort of stutters, if anything at all. Somehow you press on and force it.

But some days there is something deeper than even that. There is a wall. The wall is more than a fight, more than a block. The wall actually makes it impossible.

Let me explain.

These past few weeks I haven’t been able to write. That might sound fairly unimportant in the grand scheme of things – indeed in world terms, it is exactly that; unimportant. But in my life writing is as necessary to my well-being and equilibrium as breathing. If I am not writing I may as well not exist. It is who I am; it is how I express and create and understand the world. It is as much a part of me as my vital organs or limbs, and to remove it would be as devastating as amputation. But sometimes it removes itself from my life, and by that I mean it becomes impossible to do. Why? Because there is a wall in my way – too big and high to climb, and too wide to skirt around.

The wall is usually emotional. Something has happened in my life that has distracted me, or left me feeling anxious, or low. It could be a death of a loved one, or a devastating argument with a friend. It could be news of a serious health issue, or the loss of a source of income. Sometimes it can be something that has me elated and on a high; distracted by the excitement of a new job, or a vibrant new friend. It might be a piece of good news or a surge of romance. But invariably (I would be as bold as to say always) it is linked to my emotional state. It is as though something so overwhelming enters my life that I am entirely unable to focus on anything else. Mundane, repetitive, everyday tasks are accomplishable – they require little thought or feeling, but creating; in this case writing, becomes beyond the bounds of possibility. Even trying to create becomes futile. What has affected me recently is irrelevant to you, but everything to me. It has become my wall, and it towers over me ominously.

Do I have a solution? No. I’m sorry, but there it is. Really, the only obvious answer is to wait it out – to let the emotional turmoil or high settle, as they always invariably do, and hope that the creative juices begin to flow once more when the dam is removed. Is there any guarantee the ability to write will return? Well, so far I’ve been lucky, but I guess one day that may not be so. Do I still want to write? Desperately. Does it hurt that I can’t right now? Absolutely. Is there anything I can do to help matters whilst I wait for the dust to settle? Well, a couple of days ago I couldn’t even face writing this blog, so…

…small steps.

Maybe talk to someone and tell them how you feel (I just told everyone reading this. That counts, right?). Message me if you like!

And patience. When you just can’t, don’t. Don’t force it.

(I’m not very good at the patience thing, so I’m going to throw alcohol and chocolate in here as potential solutions too. Although go easy on the alcohol, folks. We’re aiming for recovering our ability to creative write here, after all…).

I guess it’s whatever works for you.

But your best weapon against the wall? Hope. If you believe it will come back, it will.

Stay strong, fellow writers.

What writer’s block?

Writer’s block. Ugh. *Shudder*. Even the words send a shiver of fear into the most hardy of authors. There isn’t a writer out there who has not experienced that dreaded moment when your brain fogs over and your fingers freeze. We all get it, but what can we do about it?

When I’m writing the first draft of a new novel (which I am – it’s novel number five, since you asked), and I hit the dreaded wall of writer’s block, there are a few things I try.

1. I take a shower. I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again: warm water lubricates the brain (you thought that was going somewhere ruder, admit it). It seems to loosen the creative muscle and get thoughts flowing succinctly again.

2. I go for a walk. Removing oneself from the desk and laptop and getting a bit of fresh air seems to reset the cogs. I find that when I return to my story I see it all a little more clearly.

3. I drink. No, not excessively (and actually not always alcohol). A cup of tea seems to help me focus, and a glass of wine or rum or brandy, or whatever, releases creative ideas previously locked away.

4. I stop writing. Seriously. I give up for a couple of weeks. Coming back to it I am suddenly a reader rather than a writer and I see the story with new eyes, mistakes and all.

5. I write a short story for a friend. This is my favourite and it always works! Amongst other things, I’ve written an alternative ending to the BBC series of The Musketeers for a friend who’s a big fan of the show, and a new series of BBC’s Merlin for another chum who was missing the programme after it ended. I write them as gifts and make the friend in question a leading character. They’re full novellas but I don’t have to worry too much about editing them perfectly or making them ‘publisher ready’, so they’re relatively quick and fun to write and they seem to free up the process of writing for me. When I return to my ‘real’ novel I find it all flows a lot more seamlessly. And, I earn HUGE bonus points with my friends, which is a real win-win!

Why not try one of these?

Dickens should get very little credit

I apologise for the rather lengthy period between recent posts. In the gap I released novel number four, ‘Foundling’ (which, I’m delighted to inform you, is out now – link at the end of this post).

Writing a novel is all-consuming, and coupled with all the other chaotic distractions of modern life, can be entirely overwhelming. Blog entries sometimes must wait. I saw a brilliant and pithy quote once that expressed this sentiment very well:

Now, obviously this is tongue in cheek, but the author (unknown to me) does have a pertinent point. Once upon a time it undoubtedly would have been easier to focus one’s attention entirely on one’s work, for their were no distractions of the modern world;  technology, travel, etc. And yet have times changed for the writer so drastically in reality? Wouldn’t even Dickens have suffered from writer’s block and procrastination? Wouldn’t he have been distracted by other work and necessary day-to-day chores and errands? Would the local public house with its cheery warm fire and golden pints of ale have seemed more tempting sometimes than putting in another few hours working on chapter four of ‘Bleak House’? For sure.

At the risk of sounding like a stuck record, I’ll say what I have said many times before on this blog; writing fiction is hard, not least because real life often forces itself in the way. Writers have to possess themselves of a dogged determination to press on regardless, sometimes even going against their own better instincts, just to get the work done.

And once they have, and it is done, what then? Then begins the laborious task of marketing and promotion, accompanied by that heart-in-the-mouth, stomach-churning hope that people will actually like what they’ve written as they release it into the wider world.

Writing – serious writing – is not for the faint-hearted. Nor for those with little patience or lack of determination. It’s a calling, a vocation… a way of life.

But it can be worth it, when readers tell you they love what you have created. And let’s face it, we’d write even if it wasn’t worth it, wouldn’t we? We’d write even if no one ever read our work.

I, at least, know no other way of life; chaotic and distracting and hard as it may be.

 

“All of me.”

Well, I promised you a couple of sneaky book previews, so here is an initial little taster of ‘Foundling’. Please bear in mind that these previews are unedited, and are therefore subject to change in the final version of the novel.
In this scene we see our protagonist, Jake Malloy, having an arrow removed from his arm…

~ When Jake stumbled through the ranch house door, streaked liberally with blood, and with Aketcheta’s arrow protruding from his arm, Clara did not scream, merely rushed to his side and supported him as he made his way to the chair by the stove. She settled him down and knelt beside him to examine the wound.
The arrow had embedded itself in the flesh of his upper right arm. The wound was a narrow slit, already bruising black and purple. It seemed to have missed any major arteries as the entry point was not pulsing blood, and instead it had planted itself into the wide muscle of the lower shoulder.
Jake’s face was ashen; almost grey, but he was not complaining.
“Tell me what I need to do,” she said calmy looking up at him, her eyes wide.
He grimaced. “Get the damn arrow out.”
“I realise that much, but how?”
“I’m guessin’ it’s a flint broadhead. Twist it.”
She frowned but took the arrow shaft gently between her fingers and slowly turned it. Jake sucked in a sharp breath.
“Okay, it’s not lodged in the bone. You’re gonna need to push it through.”
“Push it through what?”
“My arm!” He laughed, his voice rough. “You can’t pull it out – you’re not strong enough, and anyway you’ll tear my arm to pieces with the flint teeth.” He glanced around the room, his eyes settling on one of his bottles of moonshine. “Get me the whiskey.”
She pushed to her feet and rushed to get it, presenting it to his good hand.
He shook his head. “You first.”
“Me? But why should…”
“Listen. You’re gonna have to snap off the shaft of this arrow leavin’ a short piece, which you’re then gonna place the flat side of the blade of my knife against. You’re gonna to hit that blade hard – damn hard – with the flat of your spare hand to force the arrow out the other side of my arm. Then, if the arrow hasn’t broken inside me and if you haven’t passed out, I’m gonna make you wash the wound with alcohol and sew it, front and back. It’s gonna be difficult, and it’s gonna be bloody; I’m probably gonna curse you and cuss despicably, and you’re gonna need a strong drink.” He nodded at the bottle hanging limply from her hand.
She slowly lifted the bottle to her lips and swallowed deeply. The whiskey was strong and she coughed as it hit the back of her throat. Wiping her mouth with the back of her arm she passed the drink to Jake. He tipped the bottle up and drank until it was almost empty. His eyes became hooded, his voice slightly slurred. He directed her as she fetched the things she would need from around the house.
When she was kneeling at his feet again ready to begin, he grabbed her hand.
“Whatever I say to you in the next few minutes, I don’t mean it. It will just be the pain talkin’.”
“Will you allow me one thing before I start?” she asked him.
“He grinned rakishly at her. “Now you’ve just put all kinds of possibilities into my head. But why do I get the sinkin’ feelin’ I ain’t gonna like it?”
She pulled her hand away and took a deep breath. Slowly she gently pushed his Stetson away from his head. His hair fell around his face; dark and long. She placed the hat on the floor.
“What d’you do that for?”
“I need to see your eyes when I do this. I need to see how much pain I am causing you, and I can’t see that from the hard set of your mouth. Your eyes are always in shadow.”
He nodded at her slowly. “I am always in shadow, Miss Casey – all of me.” ~

Set the author free

I have often wondered (and deliberated about on this very blog) why authors write – what motivates them. There are the oft mentioned reasons:

• Because they have to – writing is a compulsion
• Because they have a story to tell
• Because they rather hope their novel will be the next ‘Game of Thrones’ or whatever, with its own TV series and cult following.

Whilst these are all valid reasons for writing (perhaps with the exception of point three), I think there’s something else. In researching and writing my fourth novel, I have noticed another motivation:

• Because we are creating fantasy worlds to live in… not necessarily for our readers, but for ourselves.

Let me explain. Authors of fiction are dreamers. There are no two ways about it. We constantly create exciting stories in our heads (often in which we hold the starring role) as a form of internal amusement. It’s a form of elaborate daydreaming, but on the grand scale of a Hollywood movie. It’s escapism of the highest order. Don’t like your present situation? Fed up of bills and work and responsibility? Not a problem for the author, who can slip into an alternate reality without even closing their eyes. Suddenly real life ceases to exist and you are a princess in a castle, or a spaceman, or an FBI detective, or whatever floats your own particular boat. This is adult child’s play, and no one knows you’re doing it!

Until you start to write it. (And here’s the secret, readers. Whatever you read is a direct looking glass into the writer’s fantasy life). You can bet your bottom dollar that if a writer has created an epic medieval saga, they have been fantasising about being a knight or a maiden, or maybe even a peasant. A space travel story? They want to be Doctor Who.

I’m currently writing a novel set in the American West in the 1800’s. Have I been dreaming of cowboys and Indians? Honky tonk saloons and gold mines? Stetsons and spurs? Too right, I have. Would I secretly like to be a gun-toting, chap-wearing cowgirl? You bet I would.

But why write it down? Why turn the private daydream into a public document? That is the curious thing. Now, I can only speak for myself here, but I think it’s a strange belief that authors hold that if they write it down it goes some way to making the story become reality. It makes the dream come alive – it sets it free! Some parents live vicariously through their children – projecting their own life-long desires onto their offspring. Authors do the same with their characters. As long as people are reading it, then the story lives. I am that cowgirl every time someone turns that first page and immerses themselves in my tale.

So next time you pick up a book, take a moment to doff your hat to the author’s fantasy. You hold it in your hands. In reading it, you are about to set them free.

 

Ask an author

So, I’m researching gunshot wounds. Holy moly, I’m seeing things I never thought I’d see! Did you know a man in America once survived 21 bullets which entered various parts of his body all at once? And a bullet entering the brain travels faster than the tissue can tear, so the brain-matter simply expands and stretches as the bullet passes through, then rips in its wake. Er, wow.

One of the delights of being a writer of fiction (particularly historical fiction) is the amount of research one has to do. I’m sincere when I use the word ‘delights’. Even when I’m staring at hundreds of photographs of open gun wounds to the brain, or the chest, or one extremity or another, I’m learning something, and I love learning! Over the years I’ve researched smuggling in England; costume throughout the centuries; the history of currency, health & hygiene, and medicine; how transport has changed over time; furniture in medieval England (particularly focussing on wardrobes and cupboards); food eaten by different classes; farming techniques in Victorian East Anglia, and far more.

I doubt I am unique as an author in adoring researching a book. It’s half the work of writing a novel, after all, so finding it dull would rather cripple one’s career, I would imagine. I simply cannot understand why some authors choose to pay a researcher. Finding out facts to give authenticity to your fiction is FUN, and is part of the writing process. If I don’t truly understand what I’m writing about, how will my readers believe in my stories?

Ever short of a team member for a pub quiz or a game of Trivial Pursuit? Ask an author. You’d be AMAZED at the weird, wonderful, and varied things they know from years of researching.

Later on this evening I have some intensive research on ‘the history of weaponry used in the American West’ lined up, and I can’t wait. Just make me a cuppa and let me get stuck in.

Really.

A place that’s yours

Ever wondered where writers write? Okay, probably not, but I found an article on the very subject the other day and it turns out that it was quite interesting stuff.

It would seem that writers are as unique and diverse in how and where they write as they are in their writing styles, and how they think up a story, and how they like their eggs for breakfast (if, indeed, they eat eggs at all. I’m a ‘Ryvita and honey’ kind of girl, but I digress).

For me, writing can happen pretty much anywhere. I’m as likely to turn out a chapter in a bustling coffee shop as I am at my kitchen table. But I do have three preferred spots.

Firstly, my knackered old wingback armchair. It’s threadbare and tired, but so very comfortable, and I do like to feel comfortable when I’m penning my novels. It’s near my open fire and that is a definite plus too. I don’t know why it works, but it does. I sit in it and I know it’s time to write.

Secondly, my bed. I have a ridiculously beautiful antique French oak bed – utterly elaborate and over-the-top. It has a plethora of cushions and the softest of duvets, and is incredibly comfortable. Oh, there’s that word again… I’m a night-owl, and my brain switches on at about 8pm, so climbing into bed doesn’t always equal sleep to me. I write well in bed. But if I’m tired I don’t climb in! My laptop has been known to slide to the floor as sleep has claimed me.

Thirdly, my writing desk. Yes, I have one! It’s a traditional old thing that has been given a bit of a facelift and I adore it. I’m not comfortable when sitting at it but sometimes I need a hard chair and a firm surface- it focuses the mind; it tells me in entirely unequivocal terms that I am about to write, no excuses. I have a few knick-knacks around that inspire me and once I’m seated, off I go. I finished the final chapters of my current novel at this desk and I’m editing it there now.

Sometimes it doesn’t matter where you write- it’s simply the act of writing that’s important. But it can help to have a ‘place’; a place that says, ‘I’m now going to pen my book. I’m going to get it done.’ A place where you are undisturbed, a place that people recognise as your working spot. A place that’s yours.

One good excuse

I’ve been a bit quiet on this blog of late. I’m sure you’re bracing yourselves for a list of excuses. There is only one really: all my spare time has been taken up with finishing my amazing new novel. That’s a good excuse, right?

It will be novel number three and I’ll give you a little three ‘bullet-point’ insight into it…

It’s set in England in the seventeenth century.

It is the story of my real-life ancestor, highwayman John Nevison.

The plot covers many historical events, including the Black Death and the Great Fire of London.

I hope you’re going to love it. I think it’s the best thing I’ve written so far. But you’ll have a little bit of a wait for it to be released as there is a huddle of publishers with their noses stuck in it as we speak. So in the meantime, why not buy yourself a copy of my current novel, ‘Black Pool Hill’ and submerge yourself in the world of smuggling.

Ready, set…. GO!

It’s here, and it’s good to go!

Novel number two (well, number one if you’re being pernickety, as I wrote it first but published it second) is ready for your reading pleasure.

UK readers of this blog may be enjoying the current series of ‘Poldark’ (I know I am! It’s so good, right?) and this would be a great book to read if so. ‘Black Pool Hill’ is set in 1755 in Devon and is a dark, brooding tale of smuggling, class struggle, and forbidden love.

You can order your eReader version here (the paperback will be available very soon):

http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/aw/d/B00UIM66T4/ref=mp_s_a_1_5?qid=1426343107&sr=8-5&pi=AC_SX110_SY165&keywords=black+pool

Black Pool Hill

I love teasing my faithful readers with new work.

So, this is not from ‘The Painted Fire’, but is a tiny little taster of my new novel ‘Black Pool Hill’, coming soon:

BLACK POOL HILL; A passionate, brooding tale of smuggling, mooncussers, & forbidden love, set in Devon in 1755. By author, Anna Quicke.

‘Just as they had arranged, there was a small rowing boat manned by one of Raphael’s band waiting to transfer them out into the channel and around the rocky coastline to the wreck point. The water slapped and sucked at the side of the boat and it rocked wildly as they climbed in.
The night air… was crisp, making Charlotte’s cheeks tingle. She trailed her fingers in the water, feeling the resistance of the waves as they made their way across the harbour. Seaweed wrapped around her hand as though it was trying to draw her in to the icy depths beneath. Her knee was pressed against Raphael’s thigh and, despite the cold, it burned there, where she touched him. She shivered and he looked at her then but he was not seeing her. His eyes seemed to be ablaze as though a thousand fires burned behind them. His whole body was tense and rigid like a coiled spring, and she realised it was a side of him she had not witnessed before. He was a ravenous tiger preparing to pounce; feral, and merciless. And yet she could sense the fear seeping from him like a foul odour. It wrapped around her like a cloak. She was taken aback and unnerved to realise he was afraid.
She reached out and took his hand in hers. He flinched and tensed, and looked at her properly then.
“It is all in place. It will happen as we planned it. You do not need to be troubled,” she whispered, leaning in to him.
Raphael pulled his hand from hers.
“I am not afraid,” he sneered.

But Charlotte felt the tremors passing through his body.’

COMING SOON to Amazon Kindle.