How Do You Get People To Take You Seriously?

Today, I was asked this question by a fellow creative; not an author but someone who is clearly fighting the same demons that I see being fought in the author community all the time.

You take yourself seriously -
you step out
into the world and you 'be'
who you want to be in the future.
This is me signing in Paris this
 summer.  This didn't
happen by accident. I made
it happen.

We didn't have long; it was a snatched conversation and I literally had a child hanging off my back at the time.

But I hope in that short 3 minute conversation, I instilled these important messages.  So what did I say in response to his question?

• Firstly, before you can ask others to take you and your art seriously, you have to take yourself and your art seriously - you invest in your art; you seek out those who are where you want to be and you observe, study, reach out, learn from them and then emulate them, discovering your own unique 'you' along the way. 

• You have to stop apologising for not being good enough - as a creative, you are constantly evolving, improving (You'll never be 'good enough' but you are as good as you need to be at this point) 




• You invest in your community. You give to the creative tribe, and you give - and then you give some more - and do you know what? It comes back. You build friendships, relationships, mutual respect - I refer to it as 'TRIBE' but you may just as well call it your 'ARMY'. 

You build an army of fellow creatives and you look after your
comrades, you nurture the friendships, and you learn from each other.
You support one another and you trust one another

and most importantly, 

You define yourself as artist and you live
your life as artist. 

• You stop waiting for others to define you as serious (sic, successful, talented, worthy, valid) YOU DEFINE YOURSELF as ARTIST. As CREATIVE. You are entirely free to be who you want to be. As my mentor, Janet Wallace  (Founder of Social Deviants) would say, "Be the future you in the present." Stop waiting for the fabled land and make it here, right now. 

I say these things like they're easy, as if they are a magic potion - and trust me, I know they're not. Unshackling the doubt demons, the fear of ridicule, the little voice that whispers 'you're delusional', 'You're a pipe-dreamer' is hard - and for some it's harder than others. 

We live in a world that prioritises money and celebrity and tries to measure everything within those terms - but the creative life isn't like that, and when you try to fit your art into such measurable quantities, that's when the tension and the doubt, and the fear smacks you in the face. 

There's a sense that unless you're doing everything on some crazy epic scale; you're topping the charts, you're making millions, you're winning awards, you're featured in magazines, on the television, that your name is part of pop-culture rhetoric, then you're a failure - that you're not serious... but that's.... well, it's rubbish! 

Nobody has the right to EVER tell you that your art isn't worthy, isn't valid, isn't 'proper'. Believe in yourself and believe in your art - and hold your head up high and wear your armour well - and if you've been wise enough to follow my advice - you're army will be standing right behind you. 

Have a wonderful Week. Go and make beautiful things, moments, and friendships. 

Kate x

The Demons that come in the night: My true-life experiences of sleep hauntings.

Today's blog post is a little different, it is inspired by the situation of my final read through of Book 2 of The Meadowsweet Chronicles, and the reading of a scene which is actually based on  my very real experiences of Sleep Paralysis (Sleep Haunting)

They are experiences that have truly led me to question my understanding of the scientific world. They have led me to question my own belief that demons don't actually exist - because part of me thinks maybe they do. Don't believe in such nonsense, then read on and see if I can change your mind.


The Nightmare by John Henry Fuseli 1781 - a painting that
conveys my experiences with unnerving similarity.

I know so many of my posts on here are fictional works, but not this one. This is the account of three very real events in my life, which I hope by sharing may bring comfort to some that they are not alone, and for others, offer some curiosity.

BACKGROUND.

My mother had always told me that she dreamed differently to other people; she would recount tales of waking in the night to look out of her window across the familiar landscape outside her window. She'd feel a sense of calm and wonder, and then something curious and beautiful would catch her eye - she'd turn around to tell my father of it, and discover that her body was still in bed alongside him- sleeping. She would walk up to herself and watch for a while - knowing she was neither asleep or awake, but somehow she had slipped through the dimensions of consciousness into some in-between place. On other nights, she would 'float' through the house, happily.

She informed me she had looked it up on the internet, and discovered after all these years that she has Sleep Paralysis, but she wasn't worried because she liked the episodes, there was something restful about them, and she'd always had them.

This always bemused me, you see I rarely recall my dreams. In fact I'm not sure I dream at all - mostly. I can probably recall the only five dreams I can ever remember having. When I put the sleep monitoring app on my phone, I discovered I hit 'deep' sleep - as in right at the bottom of the scale - within several minutes of getting into bed, and I pretty much stay there, down at the bottom like a river trout, pretty much flat-lining until the alarm wakes me.

This is much to the annoyance of my light sleeping husband, who has undertaken years of milk runs to the babies.

But when I was pregnant with my first child, the most horrendous event happened, one which still haunts me to this day. To call it a dream - even a nightmare, is an inadequate name for what happened.

Understand that in my daily life I am a great pragmatist - I am an evolutionist, I am a curious atheist who calls themselves a Christian because I believe that the values of Christ were a good model to pin my humanity on. I have an amateur interest in science, and in another life, I would love to have studied Quantum Physics. I have an understanding of human psychology and transference and trauma responses. I am a lazy fair-weather follower of Plato - I value reason, science and rationalisation - and yet...

In all three incidences of what they call Sleep Paralysis, I can not fully accept that I wasn't truly visited by a demon.

The impact of these three events over my life have been unsettling to say the least. They are truly the material of a terrifying psychological horror film - indeed, when I watched the film 'Insidious' I could not shake the frightening level of shared experience and understanding it conveyed.

What is really fascinating about this type of Sleep Paralysis is that when you go onto the worldwide forums, regardless of apparent cultural influences, there are startling similarities in people's experiences. In some cases, the accounts state exactly the same words being spoken, and physical properties of the manifestation. Strange don't you think?


EPISODE 1.

I was eight months pregnant. I had not been sleeping as well (a new experience)  and I became aware of being awake - but not yet with eyes open. I felt  a presence at the side of my bed - bodily warmth, some living being - and then large firm hands pushing in from the side between the mattress and my back. They were firm hands, real hands - man's hands. I opened my eyes and saw my husband sleeping soundly beside me. I daren't look around to face my assailant.

All at once I was lifted into the air by incredibly strong arms, the cold winter air rushing in under my back. My husband becoming further away. I neared the ceiling. I began to cry out - but no sound would come out. I was turned ninety degrees and then hurled with full force towards the far wall of our bedroom - I braced myself, wrapping my arms around my baby bump - knowing that when the contact was made with the wall, the baby would be harmed.

I didn't make the wall - I landed in a crumpled heap at the end of the bed - limbs, hair and tears in one big knot.

I tried to orientate myself and pull myself back up the bed - only there was somebody asleep in my space. I rocked back on my heels and watched myself asleep in bed.

In that moment, I had no idea how I was ever going to get 'back inside' my own body. Sensing my disturbance the hubby called out my name, and I opened my eyes to be suffering a near panic attack - tears streaming down my face.

For days afterwards, I was dazed by the event. It was no different in my head to having been violently assaulted in reality.

Six years passed and thankfully, there were no other incidences. I put it down to hormones and latent fears etc.

EPISODE 2

We were staying in an old fisherman's cottage. The bed was aligned with the door so I could see right down the hallway from my pillow. Our daughter was two years old and in the room at the bottom of the hall. I woke in the night, thinking I had been disturbed by our daughter. I lay there, completely awake, watching the hallway, convinced that there was somebody standing in the night gloom but not able to actually make out a full form. I sensed a female presence.

I shivered. It was freezing cold, but it was February and the house was old. I sensed a grey movement. I started to worry. I went to get out of bed and couldn't - I was too heavy, as if made of lead. I turned to my husband. A horrible pressure filled the room, like when it's about to break a thunder storm.

My chest began to tighten and I couldn't breathe. It was as if my lungs had simply decided to give up working.

Then she manifested. This old crone dressed in black. She pressed her hand down onto my chest, squeezing the air out of my chest. Laughing.

In her other hand, she held a gleaming syringe, which I knew contained a heart-stopping poison. The weight on my chest was crushing, and I felt my self go dizzy, and then the tip of the syringe pricked my heart space and I woke screaming and sobbing.

EPISODE 3

About six months ago (and no, I wasn't pregnant) I found myself waking in the night. My eyes were open (of that I was convinced) Our bedroom was exactly as it is. I was awake. I cursed, thinking how irritating it was to wake in the night and feel 'perky'. I was just about to swing my legs out of bed when I discovered that I couldn't.

Quickly I discovered that despite being awake, I was entirely paralysed. My heart rate burst into a rapid staccato. I tried desperately to move my fingers. I began to panic, thinking that maybe I had had a terrible stroke in my sleep. I slid my eyes to see the hubby asleep.

A terrible pressure started to mount in my chest. Something had entered the room. Something dark  - something seriously malevolent - something that wanted me to die. I tried to call out my hubby's name, but my voice just wouldn't work, I couldn't even croak.

I knew that from the corner of the room, that something was watching me.

I began to feel tears sliding down my cheek. I knew it was approaching me.

I screamed silently - begging the hubby to hear me, desperate to move my hand to alert him.

Then all at once, there was something by the side of my bed. I can not express in words the sense of dread I felt. I honestly believed my heart was going to stop.

Slowly, I slid my eyes to the left (I sleep on the left) and there was a form, a mass of white face and blood red lips, of dark black eyes, but deformed, just as if an oil-painter had streaked their fingers through a portrait whilst the oils were still wet.

It was only a momentary glance, but I knew she, for I was certain it was a woman, was truly a demon from some other world. There was a great whooshing sound as she flew up over my body and disappeared.

I breathed a heavy sigh of relief - began to feel the movement in  my fingers return. Then from the corner of the room came a voice - a voice not human - a voice not of the real world, but something earthly, elemental, primitive. It travelled from the shadows towards me.

"I'M. RIGHT. HERE!" it growled.

I shot upright in bed, soaked in sweat - realising that I had not been awake at all - but I hadn't been asleep either.

I had been trapped between two worlds.

I woke the next morning, feeling literally traumatised. The sound of the voice, the words 'it' had spoken refused to leave. It was like they had stained me - they have ever since.

10 TIPS TO REDUCE YOUR EDITING COSTS: Preparing your MS

This is going to be a short and sweet post because I am currently undertaking the second round of edits on 'Vengeance'. Any of you second + bookers will know how consuming this is. For you newbies, rewrites and edits take almost as long as the original writing - if not more.

Writing 'The End' at the end of your story is a bitter sweet triumph. Seven novels in, I now reserve the popping of the champagne cork for the actual publish date; instead I buy in the quality coffee, a bulk supply of Jaffa cakes and A4 plain paper.

So editing. It's a difficult beast to wrestle. Everybody I've ever spoken to in the indie publishing field agrees that a professional edit is essential to avoid public devastation in the review game. I agree absolutely. Readers have an amazing ability to spot a type error or grammar error at a hundred paces.

But here's the real pain of an edit, and it's not that someone helpfully rips apart your beloved MS, it's the cost. For a full professional edit on an 80,000 word manuscript you can pay anything between £400 and £1000.  A perfectly reasonable amount considering how many hours of somebody else's life a complete edit and commentary takes.

But...

The sad fact is, most indie published books will be lucky to sell 30  copies a month, and because of a whole other blog post of reasons, most indie books have to fight their way on the $0.99 platform, which Amazon penalises with a 30% royalty. I guess, by now, those more mathematical than me have worked out that to just cover the editing costs alone, you need to sell ..... one hell of a lot of books! I mean, you have to be selling at the same level as the blockbusters.

So what can you do? You can reduce your editing costs substantially (I pay around £200 for an 80-100 word edit) because I have proved with my editor that I'm not a big job. I ensure that my MS is in a state that makes it a relatively 'easy' job that doesn't take a lot of their time.

Here's how I do it, and as ever with my 'advice' posts, I'm still living and learning, and making those big old mistakes, so this isn't expert and I haven't perfected it all yet - not by a long way, but the more I do it, the better I get at it.

1) I PLAN and PLOT out my books carefully, minimising plot inconsistencies as much as possible.

2) I accepted my weakness in never learning formal grammar (80's empathy, write a diary entry type of English education) I purchased  a grammar book and I tried to learn it, cover to cover. I learned why we actually use commas and punctuation - and no, it's not where you naturally breathe or pause; it's all to do with clauses. LEARN YOUR CLAUSES!

3) Follow, with diligence, the their / they're / there / its / it's / you're / your checklist - every time any of these are used in a sentence, stop and double check - and then triple check. These are the MOST COMMON ERRORS, and unless you consciously attack them, they will slip through.

4) Put your MS onto 140-150% ZOOM and edit it big - I know it will look ugly and you'll want to look away, but it makes you read your MS sentence by sentence and makes smaller, minor errors like possession apostrophes and the list above, a lot more obvious. It stops you scanning, which we all inevitably lapse into.

5) Complete your primary edits AS YOU GO. At the beginning of each writing session, start by heading back over the section you read before. This will not count as a full first edit, but it is great for the first stage of snagging those pesky errors, putting you in a much better place for your first rewrites, and it is relatively painless.

6) Make a proper CHARACTER LISTS / NOTES as you go, you'd be amazed how hard it is to keep track of those minor extras. Note any details you give, such as eye colour, hair colour, tattoos - you'd be amazed how you can slip like that.

7) Get some A4 paper and after the first edits of each chapter, write out a quick set of notes on what is happening and any threads that need to go throughout the rest of the MS. UNDERLINE THREADS in red, so it makes easy reference, these threads might be symbols, objects, concepts etc. Don't write too much for each chapter; just a few lines 5-10.

8) Eradicate any non necessary words. Read sentence by sentence. Is every word needed? Can you SIMPLIFY and REORDER the sentence structure so it reads with more clarity and simplicity. This doesn't mean you should eradicate some of the longer, more poetic imagery or sentences, but use them sparingly to create the biggest impact; they're precious.

9) Check that DIALOGUE PUNCTUATION. If you're not sure then learn once and for all how punctuation works in dialogue clauses.

10) EDIT SOBER and fresh. As Hemmingway once reportedly said, 'Write drunk, edit sober'. To be honest, I try to do both sober now; it's less of a hangover in all senses. Of course when I embarked on my first novel it was the romance of the paperback writer, late nights into early mornings, bottles of red wine and glasses. Now, you're most likely to find me writing early in the morning with the fresh coffee, freshly showered and ready for 'work'. As a result, my writing is much cleaner (in all respects LOL) I now save the red-wine for the inspiration moments, the note-taking and the poetry first drafts :)

When all of this has been done, then it's time to find an editor who will be brutal and honest. If you've already been brutal and honest with yourself, then their lives will be easier and it will cost you less in all senses.

Remember, it is NOT your editor's job to take your drunken, inspired, creative outpourings and tidy them up into a novel that is readable and five-star worthy; they're there to edit, not re-write.

 Also, a small caveat, this post has not been edited, and so the errors in it go to serve my point LOL.


So, fellow writers, I'd love to know how you approach your edits? Drop your advice in the box. Feel free to disagree. Living and Learning.

Who owns your life story?

I've just had this meme flash up on my Facebook timeline and it got me thinking about something I have thought about a lot.

It's an interesting point, one for which I spent many MANY hours discussing as part of my Autobiography module on my MA Lit course; the idea that there is no absolute or fixed truth in personal history, just different perspectives, perceptions and responses to experiences, which all lead to a truth for each individual; which is still a truth even if we don't agree with it.

One of the reasons I have found this particular idea complex is because of my own personal history. At the age of thirteen my father suffered a full mental breakdown and the manifestation of serious bi-polar and personality disorders, which led to him being hospitalised on many occasions. Twenty years later he is better than he was, but he is still a very damaged and vulnerable man; and I guess on some level, all those who loved him are a little bit the same.

The meme suggests that those who might be badly portrayed should have behaved better, but so often other people's 'bad' or negative behaviour comes out of their own damage and suffering. Does this make them entirely responsible? I believe so but there are caveats. What about behaviours suffered due to addiction or abuse survival? What about behaviours conducted because of psychological illnesses? You see, it's a far more complicated issue than the meme suggests - as empowering as it is.

The experiences I lived, some of them truly horrific, at a formative time of my development, have of course influenced who I am both in my daily life and as an author. My own psychology clearly plays a part in my creative outputs.

For a long time, I didn't write anything 'public' about living with a parent with mental illness, not because I was ashamed, far from it, I believe we should all start talking about it more openly, but because although it was very much MY story, it was also the story that belonged to my father and my mother; as a result it has became the big elephant sitting on the writing desk.

How can something so significant to my own make-up be kept hidden? I've gone around in circles for years about my responsibility to share about my experiences in the hope that it might offer strength, inspiration, information and hope to other young people living with parents who don't quite fit the job description.

A few months back I wrote a short story for a Radio 4 completion titled 'Mad Dad', which was the first time I actually wrote autobiographically about this period in my life. Before submitting it, I spoke with my mother about her feelings on it. That conversation was too personal to share here, but the outcome was that I should go for it and submit it. It didn't get accepted, which I had prepared myself for as it was stated in the guidelines that they were looking for works that were lighter in their tone and I guess that mental health was a shade of darkness to far.

I have to say, that part of me is incredibly relieved. It would have been a big step to go so audibly public with such a personal story, and I'm not really sure how I would have felt hearing my world from the mouth of another. So 'Mad Dad' now sits in my trunk, waiting to be unpacked at another time in another place.

I know it isn't just me that has battled with this whole idea of life story ownership - there was a controversy over this idea of story and experience ownership in the novel, 'The Help', where those involved in the story believed that they had been exploited for financial gain; especially when the film rights were sold. Should everybody portrayed have received a cut of the money?

And on the other side of things, I guess it's interesting to think about how we might be represented if we were to be written into the autobiography of someone we knew - would we feel confident that they'd treat our behaviours, motivations and actions warmly?

Has anybody else struggled with this dilemma? I'd love to hear your stories and ideas.

Serial Killer: The Complexities of Writing Serials.

So about a eighteen months ago, I had the great idea that I'd write a seven book series. I mean, after all how hard can that be? I'd completed the Knight Trilogy, and woefully suffered the grief of ending a series that I'd lived and breathed for nearly five years. It was around a third of the way through book three of the trilogy, 'Star Fire' that I really began to regret calling it the Knight TRILOGY. Yes, I could have gone all Star Wars and ignored the fact that trilogy normally means 3, but not me - I like things in numeric order or else I fear the universe might implode.

So seven books, right? I mean the original plan was that I would bash out at least two of the series in the first year in 50,000 word sized novels and then maybe three in the next. I'd given up the day job after all - what could be the problem?

Well the problem is that the first book, 'Witchcraft' ended up being 120,000 words of carefully crafted, edited and rewritten novel - oh and it took almost a year to write. The second problem was that I fell far too in love with the characters and the world that I had built to let myself just 'bang it out' without much care.

The second book, 'Vengeance' has come in at 100,000 words, and I'm more in love than ever. Even if nobody else ever reads it, I have created a story and characters that I am pleased to spend my days living with.

Now I am in the last few thousand words of Book Two and for  some reason, those last 3,000 words are my nemesis. I mean, it's all planned - of course - but some strange, almost supernatural force is stopping me from getting on with the damned thing.

So I stopped. I realised the reason I couldn't end it was because I wasn't absolutely sure of the details of Book 3, and by that I don't really mean plot; that kind of has a way of working its way out, but I wasn't entirely sure of all my characters' motivations, emotions and relationships. I needed to see the characters as their future selves so I could fully craft their present.

During the 6 hour round train trip from London to Paris and back again, armed with a lot of notepaper, a half bottle of champagne and a handful of hope, I plotted out the character development of Book Three, which allowed me the clarity I needed to do re-writes in Book 2 - when I've done those (Hopefully in some crazy two week binge of inspiration and creativity), I will write the epilogue.

You see, I'm a stickler for narrative details, and even more so for character development (building people is hard, both as a parent and as an author)  - and more importantly when it comes to sticklers, so are readers. Inconsistencies between books in a series are jarring and highly irritating, especially if like me, you consume a series in the space of a few days (weeks at most). This of course flags up any kind of plot or character horror that may have somehow occurred during the annals of time that it took the author to write the epic saga. 

Approaching it by creating a beautiful chaotic map of all that might happen, and more importantly why it might happen, has flagged up some serious but entirely fixable issues in the earlier part of Book 2 and I am so pleased that I have worked through them now rather than have to face them in a tangled mess of strings half way through the writing of Book Three. (There's a lot to be said about writing the whole series before pressing the publish button - but seven years is a long time not to eat!)

So, to all of you serial writers out there, I'm really interested to see how you approach the writing of a serial. Do you grow organically from one book to another? Or, do you plot out the whole epic saga on the back of a napkin? Or are you one of those gifted individuals where everything is worked out when your asleep, coming through as lucid dreams?

Drop a comment in the box and share x

Tales From The Rookeries II: The Night of The Storm.

Hello, and welcome back to the series, Tales From The Rookeries. Today's dark little tale from The Rookeries; 'Hospital for the Insane and Morally Dissolute,' is called 'The Night of The Storm.' I guess you could call it a very twisted little love story.

To find out more about this blog series of 'Tales From the Rookeries' and the original series, 'The Meadowsweet Chronicles' you can read the introductory post HERE. To read more stories in the series, there is a link menu in the sidebar.

Please note that these are flash fiction pieces, designed to be playful in style and genre. They have not undergone professional edit so feel free to add constructive criticism in the comments - always learning, always growing!
 

The Night of The Storm (1854)

 

It’s been raining all day and all night. The lower floor, which sits mostly underground, has bars at the high level openings that serve as windows. Once there was glass, but it was not long before the ingenuity that comes with solitary confinement caused that to become rather a fatal problem; solved easily by not replacing the windows when they became broken. Now, the barred openings lead out onto the woodland, allowing the rain to channel down the mulchy slopes and into the building, creating muddy puddles on the brick tiled floor of the cells. The lunatics appear to accept this fate, like most others; it is just another layer of misery upon the many folds of misery they already wear.

On return from my rounds, I ask the matron if there is anything that can be done. She is a woman of God and believes that such natural discomforts are fitting for creatures who have abandoned Him. When I ask if her God would abandoned his own children, she reprimands my insolence and dismisses me to my duties with the veiled threat of permanent dismissal and a dented reputation. In my situation, as a young woman with no family and no home, it may as well be a threat on my life.

Hoping for more compassion and action, I interrupt the good Doctor Carson to inform him about the situation; he offers me a face that suggests a level of concern but no actions that might solve the situation.

    “The problem is, my dear,” he replies, “we would have to move them, and there is nowhere to move them to.”
     He gives me a kindly smile and then returns his attention to his notes. After an incredibly long minute of silence as I wait for some kind of eureka moment, I take my leave, closing the door quietly behind me.

The stormy weather does something to the lunatics; it’s as if they are mirrors to the wildness of nature; its unstable and often cruel moods are reflected in their actions as if they are turning nature’s energy into some beautiful but confused choreography. I cannot imagine the primal horror they feel when the crack of thunder and lightning splits heaven open like a wound bleeding the wrath of some angry God.

I have promised Henry that I would return within the hour, when I have found a solution to his increasingly wretched position. Unlike most of the patients housed on the subterranean floor, he is lucid, even with the weather – almost too lucid, so that you might think for a moment that it is you who is mad and that it is he who is sane. He has this way with him – a cold calmness, even on the hottest of Summer days; it’s a trick of his madness; the same madness that allowed him to savagely murder seventeen people in one weekend of night-time park prowls and then return to his work as an eminent surgeon on the Monday.

 It was not the first killing spree he had committed; although he has told me he has very little recall of the actual events of the three previous times he had mutated from calm and efficient surgeon to savage and insatiable predator.

Nevertheless, of all the patients I have responsibility for, I like Henry the most. He is always polite, and he has a gently burning fire behind his eyes that suggests amusement; in a similar way that a god might look down on earth and find his creations somewhat ludicrous.

 As I walk my rounds with my leather nurses’ boots treading echoes in the halls, the cries of the sad and desperate join in melancholy chorus with the wind. I wonder if, like them, I will ever leave this place, or whether we are all doomed to spend our lives within its grey, unkindly walls.

With the lower floor flooding, the rats are spilling up the stairs, stalking their quiet shadows against the tiled skirting. There will soon be more cries of horror as they seek sanctuary within the cells and add more lace to the patients’ fears. The drafts have blown out many of the candles that usually offer some small, reassuring light, and now as I turn on my journey towards the care-taker’s office, I am entering a dark and shadowy world, lit only by the candle that I carry.   

A scream, far away and yet close, barrels through the corridors, causing the hairs on my neck to prickle and rise. I am used to cries of sadness, of woe, and of pain, but there is something about this scream that is different to the rest; in it is a perfect clarity of understanding; like waking one morning to see the face of Satan in place of your own. I stop in my tracks, waiting for it to end. It is some moments before it finally quiets, and then the silence is almost worse than the sound of the scream. I pick up my skirts and turn towards that awesome absence of noise; my soles tap quickly on the hard floor and my candle-light flickers with the threat of extinguishing at any moment. For a while, my thoughts of Henry are gone.

When I bump into Doctor Carson, also plucked from his own purpose by the sound of such a blood-curdling scream, I almost laugh with relief.

    “You heard it too, Elizabeth?”
I nod my head and bite down on my lip. I am hoping he is going to dismiss me to my duties and spare me the investigation that he is clearly about to undertake.
   “Come then, we had better see what awaits us,” he says, unable to hide the anxiety in his voice.

I follow in his steps. I am grateful that in this part of the building, there is no need for the candlelight as it is serviced by the gas lamps on the walls. I blow out my candle and when sure that the wick is cold enough, I stick it into one of the depths of my large apron pockets. On this dark night, I want to carry the light with me.

Now that there is nothing but the eerie yawning silence, it is hard to navigate our way, but Doctor Carson, through some kind of intuition, carries on, taking turn after turn until I can hardly believe that a scream could travel so far.

We arrive at the office of the Matron. My heartbeat trips over itself as I see the spray of blood across the glass of her office door.
    “Stay here,” Doctor Carson whispers.
I notice how a light sweat has broken out on his brow. He scans the corridor hoping to see reinforcements in the form of the male orderlies. He does not want to face the scene alone, even though he is no stranger to violence or blood.

He reaches out a tentative hand and pushes open the door. I read his face, searching for the narrative; it flickers with the crisis before resettling into some kind of blank calm.

   “Find help!” he says. I note how his voice has cracked between the words.
With morbid curiosity, I try to peer around his bulk to see inside, but he has positioned himself to ‘protect’ me.
From inside the room, I hear the death groans of the matron. He mistakes my hesitation for fear.
    “Quickly child, there may be a chance we can save her,” he says as he rushes to her side. Before the door swings shut, I see him pressing his hand to a wound that is pumping out blood like some kind of macabre fountain. She needs a surgeon.

I pick my skirts up with both my hands. Adrenalin and inspiration fuel my flight through the endless corridors and down the stairs past the rats and into the darkness. I have no time to stop and light a candle. It is not the light I need. As I reach the bottom of the stone steps, I barely notice that the hems of my skirts are damp with flood waters. I have a clear purpose. I feel in my pocket for my hoop of keys, searching out the key that I should not have but which I could not resist stealing. Maybe in my heart I had always known that one day I would free him.

I am calling out his name, as if to raise him from the dead.

    “Henry! Henry!”
My feet slosh through the water and I try not to think about the human waste and the disease that is churned up in it. By the time I arrive at Henry’s cell, the last one of the row, he is waiting for me. A look of saintly calm upon his face.
   “Elizabeth?” he asks.
He should not know my name and giving it to him was perhaps the very first turn of the key that would inevitably unlock him.
   “I need your help,” I plead.
He looks at me with eyes that tell me he has been waiting for this moment. They barely flicker with surprise. Every thought I have tells me that this is a wrong choice and yet every feeling I have confirms it is right.

I place the key in the lock and turn it, springing the locking mechanism. It is surprisingly easy, as if God is condoning my actions. A boom of thunder rattles the walls. Even in the short few minutes I have been back down here, the waters have risen, and with them, the cries of the patients. As much as I feel driven to save them, I know that leaving them here to drown is equally a kindly act.

For a moment, my hand rests on the handle of his cell as if I might have a change of heart. Henry waits. I open the door.

    “We need a surgeon,” I hurriedly explain, “and it will be at least half an hour before Mr. James can get here. It’s the Matron… someone has attacked her.”
    He nods. “It’s been a while,” he says almost apologetically.

It’s been three years almost to the day. I remember the very moment he arrived.

I lead him away from the cell, past the other patients who call for rescue too. I do not fear having my back to him – although I should. He seems in no hurry and I have to urge him on.
   “Quickly, please. She’s already half-dead.”
As soon as we are free from wading the flood waters, I trip up the stone step, hidden by the swirling waters. His hand strikes out to steady me.

When we arrive, Doctor Carson flinches before proclaiming,

   “My God, Elizabeth, what have you done?”
I do not answer. Henry is already assessing the Matron’s wounds and shaking his head. He says,
   “This is not good: the wound is too deep. The weapon has caught one of the main veins; I can tell from the spray of blood on the glass. There’s nothing to be done. It’s a priest you need, not a surgeon.”

Doctor Carson has his eye fixed on Henry in the way that venison fixes on a hunter.
   “Thank you, Henry,” Doctor Carson says gently. “Perhaps, Elizabeth could escort you back to your room if there is nothing to be done.”
   “I can try to stitch it,” he says, “but I don’t hold much hope.” Then almost as an aside he whispers, 
   “She’s dead anyway.”
The blood is still pumping out from between Doctor Carson’s fingers and then, just like lightning illuminates the sky, I see that the Matron is more to Doctor Carson than a colleague. He loves her.

Doctor Carson nods, giving his permission for Henry to do whatever he can. I feel the sensation of others at my back, and turn to see two of the male orderlies crashing through the door. They are about to take hold of Henry, but Doctor Carson raises a hand and they stop. Silence fills the room as Henry works. Despite the years of confinement, the rough treatment and the pain, I watch as his hands work like the hands of an artist. I cannot imagine those same hands ripping apart bodies like they claimed.

Eventually, the blood stops to a mere trickle, but I am not sure whether this is because Henry has been successful, or because the Matron is simply empty. Then, Henry sits back on his haunches, holding her wrist in search of a pulse. I am holding my breath as we wait, and it is only when I see Henry’s shoulders rise and fall with laughter that I breathe out.

    “I can still do it,” he says. “I still am.”

With the crisis over, Doctor Carson instructs me to call for Mr. James. We all know that the Matron is far from saved. There is an awkwardness in the room. All is out of joint. This man, the lunatic, has saved her life – for the present. He is more than a creature, more than a murderer, more than a lunatic, and nobody knows how to treat him.

Finally, Doctor Carson issues the instruction for the orderlies to return the patient to his room. I begin to protest. We all know that it isn’t a room, but a cell – and tonight, it is no more than a tomb.

    “But, Doctor, surely we can…”
    “Elizabeth, please hurry with word to Mr. James.”

I am just about to leave when the room erupts. From somewhere there is a terrible yawping roar and a flash of white cottons and flesh. I try to make out the scene, but there are so many bodies. Blood splatters the walls, and floors, and faces. There seems one body too many, and as I stand somewhere between terror and fascination, I see that it is not Henry that is the painting the room red, but another patient, Joe, who has been hiding in the Matron’s office watching his crime play out like a play. There is something sharp and glinting in his hand, but I am desperate for him not to see me and so I hide behind the door frame. Dread causes my legs to turn to sculptured stone. The rich copper smell of freshly slaughtered meat.

 All at once, I am being pulled along the corridor.

    “They’re all dead, Elizabeth,” Henry says with his hand in mine. “We have to go!”
    “All?” I ask, knowing that within the last few minutes, the beast in Henry has appeared. His hands are stained with blood and his face is jewelled with blood.

As we run, I know that no matter how deeply I love him, I am holding hands with a beast that will both love and destroy me.  

Help! Everybody Is Doing Better Than Me! #Authorchat

You know those days - you're trying desperately to focus down on your WIP, the deadline is looming, it's the next book in the series and you've been trying to crack on with it, but you find yourself constantly heading over to Facebook and Twitter, where you're assaulted with all the brilliance of your author friends.

You're pleased for them, genuinely you are, but it makes you question yourself even more. You look longingly at their Facebook posts; citing new glittering 5 star reviews, becoming finalists in The Best Indie Book on The Planet; there are pictures of them at signings and conventions, and in the local press, and you....

...well you feel like you're treading through mud. You've worked just as hard, just as smart. You've done everything that every writing and publishing blog has told you to do - but the sales are quiet, the reviewers all see completely buried under TBR piles and, worse of all, you're plagued by thoughts of quitting.

Well don't - don't ever give up, because 90%* of success is down to sheer bloody mindedness.

TOP 7 TIPS FOR BREAKING THE CYCLE OF GLOOM - (because 5 wasn't enough and it's not as complicated as 10!)

1. STALK (clearly in a non threatening or creepy way) your author buddies by visiting ALL of their social media platforms; maybe they are doing something that you aren't - it's easy to be standing so close to the trees that you fail to see the forest. Maybe you're missing something really obvious - like not properly engaging with your readers. (Make notes! I'm serious, this is like homework.)

2. REVAMP your blog, your website - create a logo, update your bio: remember you are a professional and maybe your 'tiredness' is being reflected in the state of your social media platforms. Who wants to visit and engage in a blog that hasn't been updated in a month, or a website where everything seems so static?

3. PLAN; make it pretty and use coloured pens. It doesn't matter if you never look at it again, but it will help you focus on your end goals and remind you of all that marketing stuff you already know but aren't putting into practice.

4. RECONNECT with your fan-base, your author community, your FB page followers. It can be really difficult when your esteem is low to keep a public face. Many of my author buddies are introverts - myself included, and one of the recurring patterns I see is a negative self-fulfilling cycle of disconnection. Because we feel that we aren't as shiny and glittery as our fellow authors, we retreat.

5. ADMIT it, you know there are flaws in some aspect of your publications; it maybe the blurb, cover, ending, you've never quite been happy with. Change it. Simples!

6. GIVE to others and the karmic nature of the universe will come full circle. If you don't feel that you have much to shout about your own work, then showcase and spotlight your buddies. Cheerlead and support them. Become a totally engaged member of the author community and watch as the love is returned.

7. WRITE your WIP. A lot of the most successful indie writers out there are doing so well because they have momentum. By writing a lot, and getting more publications out there, they've got more to talk about, there's more energy, more excitement for potential readers to engage with. It keeps their marketing profile fresh and energised. It also keeps readers invested.

Now these tips are not coming from some kind of sanctimonious self-appointed expertise, (heck, I've even made some of the stats* up) but they come from my own broken ego. It's hard, and the longer you've been doing it, the harder it becomes in some way. It can be hard to maintain the youthful optimism of when you started out, and things are getting tougher.

Thanks for stopping by. I'd love it if you shared your own tips for pulling yourself out of the inadequacy doldrums. Let's connect and engage :) x

This writer's life ... The attack of the lazies.

Welcome back creativity. The sun is shinning, the birds are singing - the muse is dancing. Creativity is a strange thing - well in my experience. I can easily understand the link between artistic genius and insanity, (however I seem to be having more of the insanity and a little less of the genius!)

So why haven't I been writing?

For me creativity is a fickle and bewitching thing. She will quite often arrive with the sounds of trumpets and then fade away in the middle of the night leaving me a little confused as to why I'm sitting on the sofa unable to face the WIP.

I'm amazed by some of my fellow writers who appear able to keep up a relentless pace of productivity. I click onto their Amazon site and see that they have produced 12 or so (yes that wasn't a type error) novels in the last two years and I sigh with something like a mixture of longing and perplexity.

You see it's not a lack of inspiration. It isn't writer's block. It's a different beast entirely. The stories are there in my head. I'm often mentally writing whole scenes as I'm doing the school run, the ironing, the hoovering, the commute to work, the shopping, the ... (ah, the joys of the writer mom with day job too)

I too have at least 12 novels all there waiting like little beans tucked up warm and snug in the dark of my imagination but it's getting them actually written. And I can't even say it's a time issue. There has been plenty of time in the last month when I've been sat on the sofa stuffing my face with baklava and watching Man versus Food (Which is understandable because it's awesome but for the third run through?) when I could have been sat at the desk writing the last 10,000 words of my new novel.

Yes, you noted that... the LAST 10,000 words, so the other 65,000 have been written and I'm idling away the time when I should be racing towards victory and pounding my deadline into the ground - which oh, thinking about it was meant to be June. I guess we'll make that July now. (Note to self, go change the dates on website)

I've tried to be more disciplined; to write a daily quota but it just isn't me - my muse just rattles her chains to the point I cannot focus.

Now you see, I'm at the end of this post and I haven't even managed to arrive at the solution I hoped the writing of this would offer LOL. So I guess it's up to you guys to offer me your tips on how to beat the attack of the lazies.

Why I've serialised a novel on Wattpad.

THE OUTCOME OF NANOWRIMO 2013:

Back in November of 2012 I undertook NaNoWriMo, one of the best things I have ever done. It taught me so much about the writing process, and also about my writer's mindset. For those of you who don't know about NaNoWriMo then it's basically an international challenge to pen a 50,000 word novel within one month. This is no easy undertaking, especially if, like me, you are the kind of writer that likes to take over a year to write a draft.

However there is something magical about NaNoWriMo and that is it cuts you free. You're forced free of your inner editor (there isn't the space or time for it), it allows you to type, at speed, an authentic flow of your thoughts, words and stories. You don't worry constantly about the reader's experience - you just get on and write the story that is buried in your heart; the one that under normal circumstances you'd never write because you'd be crippled by anxiety and a million questions.

The result of my NaNoWriMo is the short novel, 'When Sorrows Come', a very modern reworking of Shakespeare's Hamlet.

THE SYNOPSIS:

A New Adult (16+ contains more adult themes) story of insanity, love and coming of age. A very modern reworking of Shakespeare's Hamlet. When Malachi's mother marries his uncle, his whole world turns on an axis. Dark and disturbing suspicions plague his mind over his uncle's attentions to his fourteen year old sister, Maud, and before long Malachi begins a truly self destructive journey that jeopardises everything he loves.

Like a light in a storm, Ophelia offers Malachi his only chance of salvation, but she has her own issues to deal with. With her bi-polar mother, Maud in and out of psychiatric hospital, Ophelia's love for Malachi threatens the very last semblance of her own sanity. The dark and dangerous chemistry that pulls Malachi and Ophelia unhealthily together in a twisted survivalist bond, is sure to lead to only one end; a tragedy - that is unless, Ophelia can find the strength to accept the light that comes with a true and pure love. The question is, will Ophelia submit to the darkness or take her only chance to escape from the one she desires above life itself?

PUBLISHING DECISIONS:

By the time I got to the end of November, not only did I have a novel in the trunk, but I had a novel that I really loved. However, I was in a dilemma. Because I had written it under such speed, the novel was (in my mind) completely unpublishable without months and months of editorial work. And with a new project of a seven book series (The Meadowsweet Chronicles) looming, I really couldn't foresee how this could be achieved. I was initially happy to shelve it for a while (It was going to be a long while) but then I read Chapter One and I discovered that far from needing the months of close editing I imagined, there was freshness to the work that gave it a certain energy, perfectly fitting for the story.

In the end I decided to take the plunge and treat the whole novel as an experiment, (much like Aldous Huxley used to do in his automatic writing exercises) and publish it with the minimum amount of work done on it. By this I mean all that has been done is a spell check and a check for consistency in details and plot but as far as structure and language go, it remains in it's purest form.

I have not done these checks all at once, because I knew that as soon as I opened the document to start fiddling with it, my inner geek would not allow me to leave it alone, so I have been proofing it one chapter at a time before uploading it on to Wattpad.

WATTPAD:

I'm still fairly new to Wattpad and in truth I'm still not entirely sure how it works, however I thought it was a great platform for serialising the novel and I love the fact that readers can comment and vote in direct response to a part / chapter that has been posted. In this way I hope to get some good critical feedback that I can store away for a future date when I 'properly' publish 'When Sorrows Come.' So far 'When Sorrows Come' has had over 380 hits, which is really encouraging.

ISSUES WITH DEFINING:

Because I wrote this novel straight from the heart without a conscious application of genre, trope, audience and 'purpose', it has been hard to try and define this novel. This was particularly highlighted when I tried to categorise it on Wattpad. It didn't really fit into Young Adult fiction which goes as low as thirteen (there is drinking, drugs, sex and swearing) and yet it seems a little harsh to classify it as 'restricted', because the sex is not erotica or hard core 18+ porn although it is unconventional and 'unhealthy', the swearing is the 'norm' for most 15+ year olds, the drinking (which is seen as much more taboo in U.S Young Adult Fiction than it is in U.K) is 'just' part of the teenage experience and the drug use explores the abuse of 'legal' highs rather than illegal drug taking.

As a result, I've batted safely and put it under the 'R' category with a warning that it is suitable for 16+ because we come back to that old dilemma of Young Adult writers being slammed for representing the authentic experience of adolescence when really most of society wants to think we are still in the world of Anne of Green Gables. (Ooh, feel another post coming on.)

Ideally, Wattpad would have had a NEW ADULT category, which is an increasingly used category for authors and stories with exactly the dilemmas I have outlined.

KDP SELECT - How to work it.

So for those of you who follow my journey, you'll be aware that almost a year ago (May 2012)  I wrote a post on 'Why Amazon KDP and I are on a break' 

In that post I explored the reasons why KDP wasn't working for me. Well a year later, I've approached the whole KDP thing in a different way and hopefully the results will be quite interesting.

The biggest issue with KDP is the exclusivity clause; which is in my opinion is unnecessary and aggressively oppressive. It is certainly not something that the Big 6 are playing ball with, which led me to the question, 'How are the traditional publishers using KDP select to their advantage?'

There are 2 main ways.

1) They are releasing sample chapters in the guise of 'books' - offering the reader a few free samples with a link to purchase the full novel.

2) They are having their author's release a short story or a novella with plenty of links to the other works (which are not on KDP select)

What they are NOT doing is signing up their main or whole novel up to KDP select and the exclusivity clause.


In order to do option 1, releasing sample chapters, they are having to 'publish' and register it as a separate work on Amazon. This does NOT involve having to register it with another ISBN or a catalogue at Neilsen, it simply means uploading it via Amazon KDP platform and having an AISN assigned to it.

Somehow this option doesn't quite sit right with me; yes, it's a clever way of directly targeting new readers by hitting the rankings in the FREE listings, but all they are really offering the reader is the same as the downloadable sample chapters which Kindle already provide. What it does achieve is the cluttering of the free rankings with samples of traditionally published novels that are already high up on the paid listings.

However, I have learned a lot from option 2 and have come up with the following plan.

NEW COVER

FRONT COVER: Firstly, it is more important than ever to have a front cover that grabs the readers' attention when jumping into the free for all race, so I have had my front cover professionally designed with an image that is fresh, eye-catching and immediately communicates genre.


SHOWCASEEven though they are shorts, I have invested in having them Beta Read and edited professionally - they are going to be the potential portal to my other works for new readers, so the first impression needs to be good.

OLD COVER

VIEW IT AS A PROMOTIONAL PACK: Secondly, I have thought about this 'giveaway' novella as a promotional pack. A teaser / gift pack for the reader. I ensured that there was plenty for the reader to enjoy so that they did not feel short changed. I included a personal note, a biography and YES, I INCLUDED CHAPTERS 1-4 OF MY NOVEL as a sample read at the end of the 'gift'.

CONNECTIONS WITH THE READER: The personal note explained how the short story, 'The Venus Club' led to the writing of 'Beautiful Freaks'. This then led onto sample chapters of 1-4 of the novel with a comment at the end saying TO READ THE REST OF BEAUTIFUL FREAKS FOR $0.99 CLICK HERE.

FOLLOW UP: I have ensured that the price of 'Beautiful Freaks' is reduced to $0.99 for a significant period after the promotion because I want to capture the reader once their curiosity has been hooked.

PREPARATION: 
TIMING: The promotion is on at the same time as a major blog tour for 'Beautiful Freaks' a connected piece of work, which means that there is quite a lot of internet media coverage going on already, allowing me to piggy back off of it.

MEDIA PACKS & BLOGGERS / FRIEND'S SITES: I also created a media pack and let other writers and bloggers know that it was available, making it really easy for them to create a spotlight on their blog. This has allowed me to direct my twitter followers and facebook followers to the spotlights and links to the promotional giveaway without directly hitting them with 'spammy' links to the promo. (Although it is acceptable in my opinion to use some of these direct links and posts because after all, your followers need to be kept informed)

CALLING IN FAVOURS: If you have worked hard at becoming an integrated member of the indie writers' community, shouting out and supporting your fellow writers then every now and then it is okay to ask them for a favour. Our community is awesome and I've been really touched by the efforts and support some of my fellow authors have offered.

INVEST: Set a budget for the promotion function on Facebook and some coverage on Twitter. It doesn't have to be a fortune but it offers a little boost to getting your information posts out there.

WORK IT BABY: During the promotional period you have to be on it, checking your stats, tweeting your peeps and announcing the achievements you are making. It's about letting the world know you're showering them with gifts without harassing them.

Watch this space for my evaluation of this promotion. So far it is going really well. 'The Venus Club + Song of The Moth' (2 Fairy Tales of Horror) has made the top 100 in the Horror charts in both the U.K and the U.S and has been in the top 20 for Historical Fantasy in both the U.K and the U.S.A. It would be really nice to see if it can hit the hallowed #1 spot but we'll just have to wait and see.

AND ON THAT NOTE, YOU CAN PICK UP YOUR FREEBIE ON THE FOLLOWING LINKS UNTIL MONDAY MIDNIGHT GMT.

U.K Link >>>  http://www.amazon.co.uk/Venus-Club-Horror-short-ebook/dp/B004V0VXFQ

U.S Link>>>   http://www.amazon.com/dp/B004V0VXFQ