How many drafts before I can call myself a writer? #amwriting

Writing a novel is easy. You just need a bit of time, a good idea and considerable curiosity. Re-writing a novel, now that’s the hard part. And it’s where I am right now, working on the second draft of a new novel. By ‘working on’, I mean agonising over each and every one of 80,000 words, wondering why I ever thought this was a good story to tell, or why I thought that these characters could carry it.

I started writing fiction because I wanted to write freely, and at length. My professional life has always contained a huge amount of writing, and people have always very kindly said that I do it well. But I had always written for someone else – an organisation, a manager, a publication – and to a brief defined for me, not by me.

Writing fiction provides the space in which to write without constraint, to think about the audience only once the first draft is nailed onto the page; only then do I have to think as if someone else is in the room, trimming the long florid passages about food and landscape to serve the needs of plot and character: my study floor is littered with the remains of darlings that have been killed.

Well that’s the idea, anyhow. It is perhaps the most cited piece of writing advice of the last hundred years: kill your darlings. But its glibness belies its brutality in action. A phrase, an image, a scene of which you are immensely proud does not advance the pipeline of narrative or character: no matter how fondly it is held, it must be put to the sword. You can kid yourself that you’ll store it away for future use, but unless your filing system allows for remarkable cross-referencing, it will in fact go the way of countless beloved words from my current manuscript: forgotten and lost forever.

I work according to three maxims: writing is laying pipe; don’t get it right, get it written; and be ruthless in the rewriting. The first two are easier to pull off than the last, and that is why the process of turning a first draft into a second is so much less joyful than the initial outpouring. In part, this is because it is the first time that the ‘Reader’ has been in the room, judging my attempts to make a world. But there is something more: I am in no way as heartless in the face of a well-turned phrase as I like to pretend.

I love words: it’s why I do what I do. I can play with their concatenation for hours, turning over their sound and savour like wine in my mouth. One of the characters in my second book, The Cursing Stone, is largely as he is because I wanted to use the word muculent. And when I stumble on a beautiful combination of them, I am a little too pleased with myself to let them slip away unused. I have to work hard to resist the temptation to break the pipework of my plot to jemmy in a beloved, fleeting phrase.

I have been here twice before. Perhaps this stage of the process is why I still find it hard to describe myself as a writer. This is where the work lies, beyond the fun, and I’m still not very good at it. To pronounce myself a Writer seems too much of a claim. I doubt dentists have the same engulfing sense of charlatanism when asked at parties what do they do for a living; I doubt they mumble something about teeth and pain while staring at their shoes.

But this will pass. I will eventually pull these 80,000 words into something that is fit to be seen by other eyes and then I will share them with the lovely people who tell me what works and what doesn’t, and then I’ll agonise again for a while, but for less time and in less agony. And maybe, maybe, these words will become a book that will stumble into the light and I will feel able to say, without embarrassment, that I write.


This post is brought to you by Adrian Harvey.

Just write…

Writing a novel can be a daunting experience, which is why a large number of people’s debut novels did not originally start out as novels. They started out as ideas for a story that needed to be told. But writing can itself be therapeutic. It can help the writer deal with anger, aggression, guilt, and pain, among other things. And that is why writing ANYTHING is A Good Thing.

While on my second maternity leave, my husband snapped, and sat me down for ‘a talk’.

“Enough of looking after everyone else but yourself. Do something for you,” he said.

And so I took him at his word. It started with (excuse the pun) baby steps, enrolling on an online fiction-writing course, which kickstarted the long-buried urge to write. I rediscovered my love for words, for structure, for playing with perspective. And, somewhere along the line, I realized that my few thousand word story was just the beginning.

I sat and plotted. I knew what I wanted to do (interpret the same events differently depending on protagonist), so I sketched out events that would bring my characters to the boil (excuse the mixing of metaphors). I dreamed up situations and wrote them down from various angles, blurring the narratives or pulling them apart as I saw fit. Real life seemed very distant as I wrote.

But real life did creep into my narrative. Not my life which, at the time of writing, was caked in baby slobber and toddler snot, but the life I wished I could relive: the carefree years of youth. And so the choice of setting my book at university became the obvious one for yet another reason.

It was difficult to write. My brain, addled as it was by trying to juggle multiple roles with lack of sleep, was struggling to cope with four distinct voices. Spreadsheets littered my writing space, noting everything from each character’s preferred phrases to their timetables and interests. I had lists of major events at the time the book is set (early noughties), major sporting matches and games, and even hit songs.

It was this last list that I compiled into a playlist that lifted me out of my muddy-brained zombie routine back into some semblance of humanity. Music returned to a dwelling that had, for what seemed like years, been dominated by screaming babies.

At the same time, the writing took on a life of its own, waking me up instead of my children in the middle of the night with a flash of an idea or a thought that I knew I had to write down or forget forever, or pushing me through the exhaustion barrier back to sanity.

And then, suddenly, it was done – a finished manuscript of Lost in Static, just as maternity leave came to an end. And the best part? That was only the beginning…


This post is brought to you by Christina Philippou.


Interview with The Sender

My novel, The Sender, follows the journey of a mysterious and inspiring unsigned card, interconnecting the lives of four women from different backgrounds and cities who are all facing unique adversities. The card instructs each woman to hold it in their possession for six months before choosing another woman in need to send it to, and invites them to meet in Edinburgh two years from the date of its inception.

The card seems to hold an extraordinary quality that helps the women face their challenges head-on, though none of them can imagine who the anonymous sender is or why they were the chosen ones.

This interview is with the instigator – The Sender.


Toni: First of all, it’s a pleasure to meet you and I’d like to say I wish there were more people like you in the world. What was the reason behind your decision to send the card?

The Sender: I watched my friend going through a terrible time in her life and I felt helpless. She was devastated by what was happening to her and I knew she felt scared and vulnerable. I just wanted her to know she was strong enough to get through it and that she had someone looking over her.

Toni: Why did you decide the card should be anonymous?

The Sender: I thought it would be more meaningful that way. I think there’s something special about receiving a gift from someone who doesn’t want to be thanked for it. It has an air of mystery about it and that means the thought lingers longer.

Toni: Did you have the idea of ‘paying it forward’ in mind when you decided to send the card? Is that why it was to be sent on again and again?

The Sender: That’s right. Not only would those receiving it experience the feeling of being in someone’s thoughts, they would also get to pass that gift on to someone else. That’s a win-win situation and I hoped the message would spread.

Toni: Was there any significance in having four women meet two years after the card was first sent?

The Sender: Firstly, the card has a four leaf clover inside and each woman is asked to take a leaf from the clover before they send it on. It was symbolic of the good fortune I hoped they’d be experiencing since receiving the card. And secondly, I thought that having the card for a six month period might be long enough to help their healing process take hold. I then wanted them to meet to celebrate the good deed they’d done for each other and to let them share their stories. That worked out to be a two year timeframe.

Toni: Why did you instruct them to choose another woman to send it to and not include men? Surely anyone would be touched to receive this card?

The Sender: I did ponder that one for a while. I settled on women because I wasn’t sure the card would necessarily be sent on as I intended. I thought it was more likely that women would do it. Next time I’ll include men. It would be interesting to see if that works.

Toni: Does that mean you intend to do this again?

The Sender: That’s the plan. I think small acts of kindness can have disproportionately large effects on people and the more of that we have in the world, the better.

Toni: Thanks for your time. It’s been great to chat with you.

The Sender: My pleasure. I’m only too happy to spread this message.


This post is brought to you by Toni Jenkins.

Autism Awareness and the Power of Stories

I’m passionate about the power of stories to transform attitudes. That’s why they’re used by politicians, religious leaders and advertising moguls when trying to influence our choices. But a good book goes much deeper than this. It allows us to immerse ourselves in another person’s reality, inhabiting their mind and their world for a few treasured hours with no intermediary but a piece of paper.

Novels stimulate our imaginations. They show us the lives of others and enable us to enter into the sufferings and joys of a stranger. Whether you are a writer or a reader, fiction offers the possibility of going inside the Other to experience vicariously a little of the strange and wonderful and terrible thing it is to be human. That’s the power of story.

27 March – 2 April 2017 is World Autism Awareness Week. According to the National Autistic Society, there are more than 700,000 people in the UK on the autistic spectrum. People don’t grow out of autism. Autistic children become autistic adults. At one end of the spectrum, there are those with severe learning and communication difficulties. At the other end, people with Asperger’s Syndrome suffer from high anxiety and sensory overload triggered by social situations.

It’s encouraging that autism is more widely understood than it used to be. One sign of this is that writers and programme makers are recognising the unique outlook and experiences of autistic people and think these are worth portraying and celebrating.

A few examples:

  • The A Word, a family drama with autism at its heart, was aired on the BBC last year.
  • The Undateables on Channel 4 often features singletons with Asperger’s or autism.
  • Benedict Cumberbatch’s portrayal of Sherlock highlights the autistic traits of Sir Arthur Conan-Doyle’s detective, and then there’s Saga Noren, the autistic detective from The Bridge.
  • Something of a literary sub-genre is developing, instigated in the public’s mind by the excellent Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night Time by Mark Haddon.
  • The Reason I Jump by Naoki Higashida, depicts the experiences of a 13 year old autistic boy from Japan. The book includes an introduction by the novelist David Mitchell who has an autistic son himself.
  • Romantic comedies such as The Rosie Project and The Rosie Effect by Graeme Simsion introduce a man with undiagnosed Asperger’s Syndrome into the world of commercial fiction.
  • My personal favourite at the moment is Schtum by Jem Lester. It’s the heart-breaking account of the struggles of a father and grandfather to obtain the right school placement for ten-year-old, non-verbal, Jonah.

These stories depict in varying ways the lives of autistic people, giving a voice to those who find communication with others fraught with pitfalls and failures.

And that’s why I wrote my debut novel, The Girl at the End of the Road. I wanted to give a voice to those who find it difficult to tell share their experiences. Ironically I prefer to hear disabled voices directly, rather than having others speak for them, so it was with some trepidation that I introduced a woman with Asperger’s into my novel. My only justification is that most of the stories portraying autism depict men on the spectrum rather than women. Thus in literature, as in life, autistic women are doubly overlooked.

Autism is a hidden disability. You can’t tell by looking at someone whether or not they are autistic. This in itself can fuel misunderstanding and a lack of compassion. Far more boys than girls are diagnosed, possibly because girls are better at masking their difficulties. They also present differently from boys, and professionals don’t always adjust their diagnostic criteria accordingly. As a result autistic women and girls have a higher mountain to climb to receive a correct diagnosis and support, and often end up with mental health issues as well.

So, how might a woman make the most of her life while living with Asperger’s?

Reluctant to narrate the story as if I were an autist myself, the novel unfolds through the eyes of high-flying financier, Vincent Stevens. He has lost everything in the economic crash – smart London flat, trophy girlfriend and champagne lifestyle. Humiliated and depressed, he returns to the backwater Suffolk village of his birth to live with his parents. He wants his old life back at any cost, but when he meets Sarah, an enigmatic girl from his past, everything he believes and values is thrown into question.

I’ve worked with autistic teenagers and have had direct experience of the condition with a family member. I know it’s easier to remain fixed within one’s own limitations and expect the autist to change their behaviour rather than to enter into their world and change yourself as a result. But autistic people can’t enter the neurotypical world without help, and to help them we have to connect on their terms. It’s another step of imagination. It’s no accident that parents and professional use social stories to help teach autistic children the social skills they need to survive the neurotypical world.

Autism is a horrible disability, but autistic people themselves shouldn’t be demonised or viewed in a negative light. Each one should be recognised as an individual, not lumped together as a collection of deficits. Without their unique take on life, their creativity, personal integrity, focus and intellectual abilities, our world would be a poorer place. Although evidence is inconclusive, certain character traits suggest that Amadeus Mozart, Sir Isaac Newton, Michelangelo, Charles Darwin, Lewis Carroll, Emily Dickinson, Albert Einstein and Andy Warhol might have been on the spectrum.

‘Autism’ literally means ‘selfism’. We live in a culture that values success, appearance, achievements and possessions above all things, a world where the drive for personal fulfilment and individual self-expression can sometimes end up imprisoning us in a self-centred community of one. Let’s not judge those who are socially isolated through no fault of their own. It’s only by opening our minds and our hearts, making ourselves vulnerable to each another and using our imaginations, that we can truly grow in our relationships and develop truly inclusive communities.


This post is brought to you by K A Hitchins.

Should you pay to write?

In 2014, Hanif Kureishi, gave an interview to ‘The Guardian’ in which he stated that creative writing courses were a “waste of time”. This might seem a bit ironic considering that Mr Kureishi, who wrote ‘The Buddha of Suburbia’, teaches creative writing at Kingston University but the question is; does he have a point?  Now, this isn’t the first time that I’ve heard someone say that creative writing courses are a waste of time and money but if you ask me, they’re only a waste of time and money if you just don’t have the talent. I mean, I can sing a bit and I can hold a note reasonably well but I doubt very much that a singing masterclass is going to turn me into Aretha Franklin.

Kureishi went on to say that “a lot of my students just can’t tell a story” whilst Matt Haig, who also contributed to the article, said that “Creative writing lessons can be useful, just like music lessons can be useful.”  I don’t believe that you can teach someone how to write. You can’t teach a person how to use their imagination and create a story but a writing course can teach someone who has the talent for writing to learn how to craft a story.

In September 2016, after winning a crime writing competition, I started a Master’s degree in Creative Writing at City University. The course allows you to focus on either Literary Novels or Crime Thriller Writing. Those who know me will not be surprised to learn that I have chosen Crime Thriller Writing. Over the course of two years, I will be experimenting with writing styles, applying the fundamentals of fiction to my work and finally completing a novel. Now, you may be wondering why I’ve enrolled on this course when I’ve already written and published a book (The Sisters) and contributed to an anthology (No Way Home)? Without blowing my own trumpet, I can clearly write but I don’t think that there’s anything wrong with going on a course to improve your skills and to elevate your writing.  When I’m not writing, I’m a practising criminal defence solicitor and every year the Solicitors Regulation Authority require me to identify any learning and development needs and complete any necessary courses. It’s all about improving your skills and a creative writing course should be utilised in the same way.

So far, I have enjoyed every minute of my course. I usually write contemporary fiction but I knew that writing crime fiction required a different skill set or tool box. I have learnt to take risks with my writing and have also been forced out of my comfort zone. In addition, I have also had the luck of meeting a few of my crime writing idols and have been exposed to the reality of the publishing world.

If you go on Amazon, there a ridiculous number of ‘How to write’ books but unless you have an experienced creative writing teacher who can show you how to apply those writing techniques to your writing and provide you constructive feedback, then those ‘How to Books’, and any creative writing course, will be as useful as an inflatable dartboard. I love a good quote and I think that the familiar quote of “All the gear but no idea” is most apt. A creative writing course is only useful if it can provide you with the correct tools that will enable you to tell a compelling story. The tutors on the course need to show the students how to use the tools, otherwise, there simply is no point.


This post is brought to you by Nadine Matheson


Where are you from?

It’s the most innocent of questions, and yet, I am almost always stumped by it: ‘Where are you from?’

Do I say, ‘Just outside London’ (where I have lived for almost two decades and which is now my home)? Or ‘South India’ (which is where I grew up)?

I suppose this is why I write, why my characters tend to have the carpet pulled out from under them, why they grapple with identity, who they are. I am trying to answer this fundamental question of who I am, where I belong, what is home, via my books.

I had an idyllic childhood, growing up in a picturesque village nestling by the Arabian sea, spending the endless, sugarcane scented summer afternoons playing cricket and lagori in the fields, running amok among the fruit orchards, stealing mangoes and guavas from neighbourhood gardens, getting bitten by ants and hounded by the posse of stray dogs that roamed the village. I suppose those torpid, lazy days have been branded in my memory as they make their presence felt while I am writing my books and an echo of those somnolent, carefree afternoons weave a thread of nostalgia into the prose I am composing.


The village where I spent my childhood was a hotbed for gossip and secrets. I used to eavesdrop on conversations and discover intrigue, snippets of gossip thrumming with undercurrents which I never fully understood until I was an adult. And, as I grew older, I also began to comprehend that secrets are most prevalent in families, that we tend to keep confidences from the people we love the most, fired by the misplaced conviction that we are protecting them.


When I sat down to write my first novel, I looked up all the advice that new writers are given. The one which stuck with me was, ‘Write about what you know.’

Okay, I mused. I can do that.

I spent a few days pondering and finally decided to address the strange ailment that strikes me mute when people ask: ‘Where are you from?’

And this is how my first novel, Monsoon Memories came into play. Shirin, the protagonist of Monsoon Memories, wants to answer the question, ‘Where are you from?’ with India, but she cannot, for she is no longer welcome there. For her, home will always be the one place which has shunned her, which she has run away from and yearned for ever since.

We all do things we regret, but the choice Shirin has to make is one that changes the course of her life forever, alienating her from almost everyone she holds dear and the country she loves.

Home, I have come to understand is where you feel comfortable, rooted. Where your family is; your loved ones, all those who matter to you. Home is where you are happiest, where you are most yourself, the place you keep returning to in your memories. Shirin, the protagonist in my debut, Monsoon Memories doesn’t have that luxury. She is bereft floating in a no-man’s land, denied the memories that are rightly hers because to access them she has to face the thing she did, the thing she cannot get past.

Home, for me, is in one sense, the wind-battered, rain-kissed house in the suburbs of London where I live now. It is also, in a wider sense a sun-warmed, bustling, multi-hued, multi-faceted country of contrasts, the constant warmth of a benevolent sun matched only by its sunnier people.


Both these places have shaped me, India in growing me up and London in forming the adult I have become.

Where are you from? What do you think of when you think of ‘home’?


This post is brought to you by Renita D’Silva.

That time of the year

It’s that time of the year when the crocuses are sprouting, the snow drops nodding their heads in the breeze. The evenings are getting lighter. The weather…okay, perhaps we won’t focus too much on the weather right now but we know warmer days, sunnier days, are on the horizon.



Spring is here, and my thoughts turn to…Christmas.

If you’re a writer, you’ll be nodding your head in understanding. If you’re not, you’ll be thinking I meant to type Easter. And of course March is the month when the sane amongst us begin to picture fluffy bunnies and baby chicks. Gambolling lambs and chocolate eggs. I, on the other hand, will be imagining pine trees, fairy lights and reindeer. Because I’m about to write a Christmas novella.

Sax reindeer

A more organised writer would have started this book a few months ago – perhaps actually during Christmas. I was too busy finishing my last book, too busy juggling my other (medical) writing work. Now I’ve left myself just a few months to write my story so that by the start of the summer it can be edited.

And by November it will hopefully be published.

Is it hard to conjure up Christmas in spring? Actually no, it’s not. You see, I’ve lived through a lot of Christmas’s – far more than I’d like to admit to – so the atmosphere, the feeling, the spirit of the season is firmly embedded in my memory bank. Easy to draw down on whenever I need it. I’d find it much harder to write about something I’ve never experienced. I am in awe of those who create new worlds, different species. Who go beyond the human, into the supernatural. I don’t have that creativity.

Thankfully, when it comes to dreaming up characters and how they might meet, interact, in particular for me (as I write romance) how they might fall in love, my imagination is fully on board. Just as well, because writing a Christmas book isn’t about describing baubles or pretty snow scenes in perfect accurate detail. It’s about creating compelling characters people will want to read about at any time of the year. Their story just happens to occur around Christmas time.

So enjoy the spring. Enjoy the warmth of the sun on your face (when it finally decides to show up). Enjoy watching the buds begin to blossom. Enjoy those Easter eggs. And I’ll enjoy tucking into my mince pies.

mince pies


This post is brought to you by Kathryn Freeman.