More motivation

Having spent a few days banging my head against walls and things I’ve been thinking a bit more about motivation and producing some work. I’ve recently been in touch with a couple of published authors who offered me some advice on keeping productive and finding ways to write or overcome a dry period.

Best selling crime writer Mark Billingham had this to say;

‘I'm committed to publishing a book every year and to be honest I'm happy with that. All the writers I respect do the same - you pretty much have to. I don't have a daily word target I stick to (although I'm always happy if I hit 1000) but I get it done. I have a good inbuilt calendar which tells me when I'm able to take a day away from writing, and to be honest, those days are often when the best work is done, albeit in my head. So, I don't write every day, but the book is always with me. Yes, of course it's easy to be distracted, but once a deadline starts to loom you tend to get focused again. I can't honestly say I always love sitting down to write, but on good days it's fantastic. I don't write at set times, though I find it easier at night, once kids are in bed and the house is quiet - and it's easier to come up with this stuff when there's nothing on the other side of the window to distract me.

'Hope some of that helps a little. Yes, a daily target can't hurt, but don't beat yourself up. Better 500 good words than 2000 duff ones. And re-write as you go along, it works for me.’

The idea of producing a book a year is obviously automatically setting yourself a deadline and another crime writer to offer advice was Danny King who said;

‘It's fine to give up. Don't feel bad about it. It's good to go down the pub. It's nice to hang out with mates and you shouldn't feel bad about spending your free time doing things you enjoy rather than trying to write. Because at the end of the day, no one's waiting for you to write this stuff. You're not keeping any publishers waiting and no one's chewing on their fingernails hoping you'll fulfil your own potential. You don't have to be a writer. You can do anything you want with your life. There are a thousand and one careers out there for you to pursue and if you never write another word as long as you live if you don't want to. The only person who's feeling bad about it is you. The world's not mourning over what it's missing, so do whatever you like. Because the only person who wants you to be a writer is currently you. So if you don't want to do it, don't do it. It's really okay.

'If however, you do want to do it, then stop talking about it and start doing it. Because I'm sorry to say that it's all down to you. Nobody else can help you.’

Which also raises some good points and does serve well, although of course, I do have deadlines to meet and tutors waiting to mark my work. Maybe this is one of the reasons I am becoming stuck; because I feel like I have to write. I’ve always thought that I’ve written because I had something to say or I had a need within me.

Danny goes on, ‘When most writers are interviewed and asked why they write, the answer they give is the same as you just gave below [in an email response]; because they feel they have to. They are compelled to. That it’s not something specific they need to get off their chest, just a need to write in itself… It's not about the money or the notoriety or the kudos, but because it's serving a need inside you. If you already feel this way then I suspect you'll be writing until the day you drop no matter what I or anyone else says.’

Obviously I knew professional writers would have experienced the same problems but it’s good to hear it from them and how they deal with it.

But I also have a feeling that I might not have anything left to say, that I’ve said everything I’ve wanted to, and now I simply have nothing to say because I’ve said it all, maybe some more life experience will help.

Luckily Danny thinks, ‘…slumps come and go. Like I said, I've been through them myself, particularly in my twenties, so don't beat yourself up over it. Just work through it and you'll shift the blockage.’

Echoing what Mark said, ‘Better 500 good words than 2000 duff ones,’ is an exercise that Danny suggested;

‘*Write a short story of at least 2,000 words. But don't write it all in one go.
*Write just 200 (for example) words a day. No more, no less. (or whatever wordage you feel comfortable with, but you must do the same each day)
*Write them in one hour sittings (or less – no more). But write every day, at a regular time.
*You don't have to know the whole story when you come to write it, just concentrate on the 200 hundred words you have in front of you, then worry about tomorrow's 200 words tomorrow.
* Give yourself a treat when you finish your sessions, either a beer or an hour of Raymond Chandler. Whatever.’

So that is what I propose to do. Starting from tomorrow I will write 250 words of a short story at 3PM, for an hour, and will continue to write another 250 words each day at 3PM until I reach 2000 words. This will allow me to concentrate solely on those few words within that hour as well as keeping me active.

Aside from that, I did manage to write the opening of a short story on Wednesday (15th). And whilst I had no idea how it would develop when I started, I was enjoying working with a few basic characters and ideas because they soon expanded and had me thinking. Whenever I’m working on a piece of writing, it plays at the back of my head when I’m not writing, it’s like what Mark said, ‘when I'm able to take a day away from writing, and to be honest, those days are often when the best work is done, albeit in my head. So, I don't write every day, but the book is always with me.’ It’s certainly true of me; Don Findy is always there. Likewise, this short story has been running through my mind too, even though I had no major plans for it. It’s quite possible I will go back to it and maybe try to finish it.

I must admit I did have trouble starting this short story so, as an exercise to force me into starting something, I opened the nearest detective book I had to hand, which was Chandler’s The Long Good-bye, and started my short piece in a similar way to which that starts; just by looking at the first sentence. The opening line of The Long Good-bye’ is, ‘The first time I laid eyes on Terry Lennox he was drunk in a Rolls-Royce Silver Wraith outside the terrace of The Dancers.’ You’ll notice how my story uses this as inspiration to get started.

Before I post the start of the story, I would like to say that I found it good to be writing again. I was enjoying playing with a few throwaway characters and I wrote a few lines that I think I’ll go on to use, or expand, in the Don Findy piece.

Untitled Story

The first time I laid eyes on Chloe Waters I could tell she was the obsessive type. There was something about her, she was shaking slightly and her backside looked as if it wanted to leap from the chair as soon as I’d sat in mine. She had big marks around her eyes, the kind coffee cups leave on wood. She opened her mouth to speak but I held my hand up to stop her. She looked like she might start balling and that’s when my eyes finally soaked up her looks.
Her long blonde hair was messy but the I-made-it-messy sort of messy. It probably suited her most of the time but with the tear soaked eyes she looked as if she’d been fighting. The clothes however, said otherwise. She was wearing a black dress, with a twist front that tied up at the back, and a pair of new looking black heels that showed the tops or her toes. She was wearing newly applied red nail varnish that also matched that on her slim fingers that were clutching a ball of tissue. Only one finger housed a ring and you know which finger that was. A big black coat was resting on the back of the chair she sat in. My eyes caressed the smoothness of her legs for a while before I really focused on her face.
Some girls can have any man they want. This was some girl.
‘Who is he?’
‘How do you know there’s a he?’ She was quiet, probably putting it on.
‘There’s always a him and there’s always a her, that’s how it works.’
Her blue eyes tried to break me, or at least soften me.
‘It’s my husband. I want you to follow him.’
‘On what grounds?’
‘Well anywhere really, wherever he goes…’
Cute. It had to be an act.
‘I mean why? Why have this man followed?’
‘Does that matter?’
‘Well usually in these situations it does. Look, what do you think this is?’
She flinched as my voice got louder. It was instinct when I got frustrated at somebody dumb or somebody playing dumb.
I watched her feet kick slightly under the table, swinging like a child. I warmed to her then.
‘I think he’s cheating and I just want to be sure,’ she sniffed.
It’s her husband who’s playing dumb.
I let her words hover for a while knowing she’d speak soon enough. I looked at her body some more.
‘Think you can do it?’
‘Think I can follow somebody? I think that’s a pretty safe assumption.’
‘What are your fees?’
‘Well, that would depend on several things. Firstly, risks I mean, this husband of yours – heavy is he?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Got a lot of muscle? Carry?’
‘No, neither of those.’
‘What’s he do?’
‘He owns Triple Techs.’
Now it was starting to fit together like a puzzle of an Ikea bed.
‘So you must have a fair whack then?’ I said looking straight into her eyes.
Her laugh was soft but real.
‘He has no idea what the insides of his trouser pockets even feel like.’
I liked her. It was as if she was standing at the bottom of a cliff and I was mid jump; falling, falling, falling.
‘Do you get on?’
‘He says he’d like a child some day.’
‘Let’s not be vulgar.’
My heart thumped on my insides for a release. I started to sweat and my natural instinct was to reach for the bottle of scotch in my desk drawer.
‘Drink?’
‘It’s 10AM’
‘Yeah, sorry, I would have offered sooner but my mind was elsewhere.’
She smiled, revealing a matching set of dimples either side of her face.
I reached back in the drawer for a glass.
‘So,’ I started after I’d poured myself a double double, ‘Where’s this suspicion come from?’
She started to get teary eyed and I didn’t know what to do. The only women I’d ever seen cry before were ones I’d made cry.
I sipped at the whisky and placed it back on the table. I picked it up again and shot the rest.
‘I’d rather… I don’t really want to talk about it,’ she forced out.
I wanted to wrap her in my arms and keep her safe.
‘So, when do you propose I…’
‘Tomorrow, he’s going away. On business he says.’ She played with the ball of tissue and looked like she might crack again.
‘There’s nothing to worry about. With the majority of these cases I have, the suspect is usually completely innocent.’
‘Really?’
Of course not you poor thing.
‘Yes.’
There was that traffic stopping smile of hers again. She started to slip into her coat. As she delicately started buttoning the holes she said, ‘I’ve written down some times and other information. The train he should be getting and so on. They’re here somewhere.’
She explored her pockets before pulling out a brown envelope. I reached out to take it from her and, as she leant forward, I could smell her perfume. It was subtle and that’s what excited me. I hadn’t smelled it right away like with most women I dealt with. I thought about knocking the file onto the floor just before she did up the top few buttons of her coat but thought better of it.
I placed the envelope onto the table and said, ‘What time is he leaving your house tomorrow?’
‘Why’s that?’ she said having now finished buttoning her coat.
‘Well I’ll need to follow him from the outset,’ I said sharply, ‘because if he is lying, and I’m not saying he is, he could be lying about everything.’
‘So he might not even be getting that train?’
‘Exactly, he might not even get a train.’
She seemed to think about this for a moment.
‘I really must be going,’ she said standing. ‘Your fees, what are they?’
‘We’ll discuss that later,’ I said.
‘Thank you,’ she smiled and headed towards the door.
I watched the curves fighting through the bulk of her coat. She gave me a little smile and wave before closing the door leaving me with thoughts of reincarnation as a coat. I sat there with a silly grin on my face, my face on my hands and my hands on my desk.
The door opened again and her head squeezed through and she whispered, ‘I’d like constant updates, if that’s all right. My phone number is in the envelope.’ The door closed and I fumbled for the envelope.

***

I stored her phone number in my mobile phone, my address book, my computer and my brain. I’m a reasonable man, and I reasoned that I didn’t want to go losing that number any time soon.
I now began looking through the other contents of the envelope. The first item I came to was a picture of, I assume, her husband. He had a face like mashed potato. The big nosed brute. He didn’t want to dance with me that was for sure. Treating a perfectly good woman like that. A beautiful woman.
I was halfway through my bottle of scotch, and looking at brute’s timetable, when the phone rang.
‘Hello,’ I said.
‘Is that Lester Raymond?’ a voice whispered.
‘Who is this?’
‘It’s Chloe. Chloe Waters. I was just in your office.’
I would have straightened my tie had I not taken it off a few minutes after she left.
‘Ah, Chloe. How can I help?’
‘Tomorrow, well, I’ve told James I’ll see him off at the station so he’ll definitely be there at the time circled on that schedule. I thought… You know, if you were caught outside the house or whatever, I didn’t want there to be any connections to you.’
‘That sounds like a good idea,’ I said.
I could hear her smiling, I’m sure of it.
‘Thanks Lester. Goodbye.’
‘Goodbye.’
She put the phone down first.


---------------------

I’ve already thought about what will happen and how. I’m thinking that Chloe wants somebody killed and knows that Lester will be willing if he gets involved further. The picture, and the man Lester goes to follow, is not her husband – she just wants him killed for some reason (which I haven’t decided). I’m thinking of rewriting the beginning a bit so when Chloe shifts and moves in the chair she reveals a number of marks and bruises that further angers Lester.

I’ve already thought that I might adapt the mashed potato line for Don Findy to something like, ‘His face was like mashed potato and I wanted to cover it in ketchup.’