I had a blast reading at Underword last night. Well, that was half the fun, getting to present something I’d enjoyed and hearing the wide variety of “cover version” stories the others read. The other half of the fun was going to the pub afterward and getting to meet more Edinburgh book-folk. It’s easy to despair about the state of things, but these people are out there, madly writing, getting their work finished, packaged, and presented, and inspiring people to read and write.

Particularly valuable was a chat with someone from Edinburgh UNESCO City of Literature. I had a lot of cynicism about this organisation and its purpose, which seemed to be about promoting its creators and the work of Edinburgh’s long-dead white guys or the super-rich, don’t-need-the-help mega-authors, while ignoring those of us on the fringes who are trying to create new work.

It ain’t true — not anymore, at least. They may be very small, but ECOL are doing a lot of good work around the city. They’ve even created a bridge between independent up-and-comers and the Edinburgh Book Festival. I never thought I’d see the day. (For years, I’ve dismissed the Book Festival as expensive celebrity worship.)

So it’s time to give up some outdated stories about this city, get out of my cave, and see if I can help make stuff happen. We’re not there yet, but there are fewer obstacles than I thought, and some devoted, willing helpers out there.

I made a copy of Finitude to have in my bag for the occasion, and gave it to the ECOL woman when she told me her compatriot at work is passionate about hand-made books. We also talked about the possibility of a ‘zine community in Edinburgh, like the one she saw in Adelaide, Australia and I’ve seen in Toronto, Canada. This from the ECOL! So I couldn’t have been more wrong about them.

Before last night’s event, after work, I’d been looking at expensive perfect-binding machines, wondering what the next evolutionary stage is for me in bookbinding. Then I gave my head a shake and just made that copy of Finitude, because I can do that already, and fairly quickly. My flatmate reminded me, too: “But your thing is telling people that they can make books themselves without all kinds of industrial equipment!”

Oh, right. I’m forever encouraging people to not ask for permission, not to get mired in arguments about the validity of their art, but just go ahead and do their own thing. Still, there’s that slight twinge of shame that this page is a little crooked or that cover isn’t very fancy.

Each of us has the right to our own “culture of one”, and we should never apologise for the things we create, or get lost in comparisons.

It’s easy to fall into bad thinking. I suppose it provides an excuse for not trying, and sometimes it’s difficult to muster the energy to keep getting back up and getting out there. Sometimes, though, things are better than I think.

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People are forever telling me “You’ve got to read this book!”, but my stack of to-reads is already overwhelming, so I wouldn’t say this to anyone if I didn’t absolutely mean it, but if you’re at all involved with writing or publishing… you’ve got to read this book: How I Became a Famous Novelist, by Steve Hely. You will wet yourself.

It’s about a guy who works as a copywriter and discovers that his ex-girlfriend from college is getting married. He wants to show her up, but he’s a nothing, so he decides to become a famous novelist by writing a perfect con-job of a novel, reverse-engineering the bestsellers so he’s guaranteed to get rich.

Hely sets every last clump of publishing world horsesh*t on fire. He parodies every type of fiction going, and it’s note-perfect. but in the end, he surprised me by transcending it all to tell a story that isn’t just a collection of snark, but has a heart, too.

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My flatmate’s father has a website and a blog now, because he just came out with a book. Today, he wrote a beautiful blog entry about his 43rd anniversary. It’s a lovely tribute to the relationship he and his wife have built.

My parents’ 50th anniversary is in a couple of days, and as I come up to my own first anniversary, I appreciate the wonderful example these relationships provide.

“Story is conflict,” they say, so we don’t often hear stories about enduring relationships. The first blush and later clashes make better drama. Our culture celebrates people making an ugly mess out of the things they’ve started, and actively encourages following our feelings around from moment to moment, regardless of the hurt and damage that causes.

It’s nice to see this proof that with self-awareness, deliberation, commitment, and work it’s possible to make a joy ongoing.

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The fella and I were in Brighton last weekend, where I was finally able to get back to Vegetarian Shoes. My trainers were suffering from “hole in the sole” and my boots had a crack right across the bottom.

I’m not a clothes shopper, but even I will acknowledge that when the rain gets in your shoes, you are either desperately poor or just being stubborn. So I gave in, since I had this chance to shoe-shop in good conscience (as much as possible; man-made materials still have their issues).

How sad, though, to leave behind my old shoes. They’ve carried me through years of life in Scotland, summers and winters in Canada, and on trips to Spain, Italy, and France. All those miles, all those moments.

Bye-bye. Hopefully someone will be able to fix you up into something useful, and those trod-in memories will somehow make it better.

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I’ve been invited to do a reading during the Edinburgh Fringe (details to be announced) — a five minute slot. That’s shorter than anything I’ve got, so I have to write some fresh fiction. I’ve been so focused on creating DIY Book podcasts; I haven’t written anything of my own in ages.
As I contemplate what I could present, the old worries creep in: What if I suck? This is another chance to establish myself here, but what can I do that’ll typify me and impress everyone?
Happily, I know enough at this point to recognise these thoughts for what they are — just stupid fear and wrong-headed priorities. These are easy to pick up, as there’s so much pressure on writers now to constantly think about marketing, selling, and being promotional. But, oh right, the value in what we do begins and ends with telling stories — which we can’t do when we’re thinking about product and effect rather than process, heart, and having fun.
The solution?

• Ask the world. While I’m waiting for a chance to work on this, I can put the question out there: “What story do I want to write?” Like a cat slinking off to catch ‘gifts’ for me, my subconscious often brings me better material than I could ever deliberately manufacture.
• Don’t try to solve the problem on the fly. I can’t get this written while doing copywriting, washing the dishes, or lying in bed. In that state of mind — half-attending to it — I can’t get any deeper than the surface concern about “What will they think?” Worry is what we do when we feel the need to take action but can’t.
• Give yourself time. A corollary of the last point: I know from experience that a project like this needs dedicated time. Then I can get my head into it the way I need to and not be trying to rush right to the part where it’s finished. If this piece will be worth listening to, it’s worth taking time for.
• Give your head a shake. I’ve got to get out a big piece of paper and tip the contents of my brain into a mind-map. If I dredge up the the deep-sea worries and name them, they will die in the sunlight. The fear they contain is completely unconnected to — and unconcerned with — fact. With them out of the way, I can brainstorm possible stories and remind myself of all the good reasons I like to do this work.
• Look behind you! Um, it’s not like this is the first time I’ve done this! The fear likes to obscure the past and make me forget that I’ve created things before and that I know how to do this work. It’s just trying to protect me from change — any change, good or bad. I’m grateful to have that radar, but it’s not useful here. I can derive the confidence I need from looking back at what I’ve already done. The best part of that work came out of my being vulnerable, available, and true to what was inside me to give, not from any attempt to produce an effect. Weird how fear always tells me to vivisect my work and remove all the dangerous, weird, and personal stuff — the things people actually like best.
• Make it a gift, not a test. If I can disconnect from wants and expectations, I’ll find the generosity of spirit to pull something up from the bottomless well of creativity and give it freely to the listeners as a gift. No attachment, no manipulating them so they’ll give me something — people sense that and hate it, ’cause we get it all day long in the form of fake stories called advertising. This is a story to be told around a public campfire; you can’t do anything with the sparks, but they can make the night and connect us to the stars.

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How long will take you to write your novel? And how do you balance this with the rest of your life?

I just received an e-mail asking for advice about making the leap to writing her own fiction. Here’s the advice I would give anyone in this situation:

Screw what anyone else thinks. Your joy as an artist can only come from you doing your thing without apology, and trusting that to take you where you need to go.

Ignore the bad advice you’ll get from publishing industry people and from those whose dreams and sense of themselves is tangled up with getting creative permission from corporations. Very few of us make it commercially, but you can always be happy if you stay focused on your writing as self-expression and as a discipline you can always be growing and making progress in (by getting truer and truer to yourself as you also gain skill).

Do what’s fun for you!

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In this session, you’ll break your story arc into individual chapters, then divide those chapters into scenes — leaving you ready to start writing your book!

I don’t understand self-publishing websites that keep posting articles by literary agents and other tied-to-the-industry people who, of course, don’t want to think about self-publishing as “real”.

Fine, whatever, but some of us are busy trying to do it, so I don’t see what’s helpful when people who claim to also be involved in this keep forwarding the bilious insults to our professionalism, intent, and talent — or else keep engaging in endless blather back and forth about whether it’s legitimate.

Whatever! I’m more interested in engaging with people who are taking their own work as far as it can go, sharing ideas and insights, inspiring each other — making something! This other stuff is pointless.

Indie publishers engaging in the “is self-publishing real?” online spitting contest are like a jilted lover sending a constant stream of e-mails to an ex. It’s not happening — do something else, or you’re a loser!

The industry is like an abusive ex, and our readers are the true love of our life. Which do you want to pay attention to?

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No, I’m not. Strangely, more people have asked me this lately than have when I have been working on a book.

Just yesterday, it occurred to me that it’s about a year, maybe more, since I put out Finitude. I felt funny about it — you know, that old immediate response of “Uh-oh, something’s wrong!”

But nothing’s wrong. I’ve just been catching up on life-stuff, then started the DIY Book podcast. That project is the size and scope of writing a novel, except instead of using my usual process to write content, I’m using the process to write out the process. Kinda odd.

I’ve had the fourth episode of the podcast ready to record for a while, but being away in Canada for the last month I haven’t had a chance to do it. Last night was my first regularly-scheduled writing session since then, and I was feeling hesitant about it: “Who am I to be talking about this when I’m not doing it myself?”

Of course, I knew this was just mental babble, so I had a nap (always a great way to change your state of mind, rather than bloodymindedly ploughing on — as long as it’s a short, timed nap), and while I was lying there I thought, “Okay, just to prove to yourself that you can write something anytime you like, come up with an idea.”

I let my mind go, and I found myself following this young girl around a little town. She had a nasty habit of tattling on everyone and was causing holy hell, wrecking lives hither and yon. The effect was pure evil, but she did it out of a righteous concern for them, or just unconsciously. But then something happened in her life and she needed a secret of her own kept…

So there it was, beginning, middle, end, just as I was going to talk about in this podcast episode on plotting out the acts of your book. I got up, went into my little office-oubliette, and spent the next few hours recording it.

Like I say, “If you’re stuck, it’s always because there’s a question you’ve forgotten to ask or answer.”

Still, I feel the urge to start another book, but nothing is demanding my attention. I’ll know when it’s time.

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