I recently got the edited manuscript of my second novel, Staking a Claim, back from my editor. Prior to handing it over to her, I sent it out to several beta readers. Amongst the feedback I received out of that process were some comments about my protagonist (the heroine of the story, Kate), being unlikeable. This was not entirely surprising. Kate does have some troubling personal flaws and, while I’ve enjoyed writing about them, I can understand why someone might not enjoy reading about them. However, one of the central elements in the series is that Kate has a character arc and, learning from her mistakes, she grows along the way, becoming a better person by the end.
I’ve planned this arc over three books, so it could be happening too slowly for some readers. As a writer, it’s impossible (and completely unnecessary) to please everybody, but while I like Kate, having several readers say they didn’t was a sign that I needed to seriously consider doing something about it.
In response, I added a couple of chapters where Kate acts in a way I hoped would make her more appealing to readers. One of these chapters worked well and had the bonus of improving the setup for another part of the story. I was much less certain about the other. In this chapter, I have Kate agreeing to look after her neighbour’s cat for an indeterminate length of time. Why, you ask? Because people who adopt pets are likeable, right? (Yes, that’s about as deep as my thinking went). While I wasn’t sure about the outcome, I did enjoy writing the chapter and thought I’d throw it in and see what my editor thought.
Not much, as it turns out. Her problem is less with the cat and more with the neighbour (I’ve called her Tabitha). Deep down, I knew that adding a new character late in the story wasn’t the greatest idea. My editor agrees. I thought I could perhaps return to Tabitha in Book 3 but my editor has suggested I get rid of her altogether. She’s also pointed out that Kate only agrees to mind the cat after Tabitha begs her to, rather than doing something selfless of her own volition, thereby having less impact on her ‘likeability’ as a result.
If you’d like to read the chapter for yourself, you can do so in Part 2 of this post, here:
In my imagination, the cat looks something like this, except not quite so welcoming.
Anyway, my latest thoughts are that Kate should adopt a cat, but that she should do it in partnership with the hero of the story, and the cat should be a stray rather than being owned by someone known to her. I’m hoping it will indicate a generosity of spirit that might not have been previously evident and that it will also show a positive development in her relationship with the hero.
I’d love to know your thoughts on this idea. Do you think it could assist in making my protagonist more likeable? Would you think more of someone if they adopted a stray? And while I think about it, I’d also love some name suggestions for a cat looking something like the charming creature in the picture above. I’ve called him ‘Piddles’ in the chapter I’ve written, but that was as much to make a lame joke as anything and I’m by no means attached to it. Let me know in the comments if you’ve got something better!
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A gritty and engaging story of human faults, fears, and frailty, What Friends Are For is the prequel short story to my tragicomic novel, Taking the Plunge. Introduce yourself to the characters from the novel and find out where it all begins for Kate, Tracy, Evan and Lawrence.
Feedback from some of the beta readers for my second novel, Staking a Claim, suggested my protagonist, Kate, was too unlikeable. My solution? Why, have her adopt a cat of course! Below is the resulting chapter.
It was raining. A cold front had come pouring up from the Southern Ocean, transforming the dry heat of the afternoon into a steady downpour that pounded a low and vigorous rhythm on the roof, a curtain of droplets sparkling silver in the light from the kitchen window. On the streetside corner of the house, the spouting overflowed, sending a slender waterfall crashing to the ground below.
Kate took her mug of steaming tea and collapsed onto the couch. Corbin sat on an adjacent armchair, watching a DVD. He should’ve been in bed but after the trials of her day, she didn’t have the energy for that battle. Considering it a win that she’d managed to get his pyjamas on, she was hoping he’d eventually fall asleep where he was and save her some trouble. Adjusting the cushion behind her, she leaned back and sipped her tea. The sound of the TV and the rain was comforting. She took another sip, closed her eyes and was wondering whether a short nap might be on the cards when a noise that sounded suspiciously like a doorknock interrupted her brief moment of peace.
What the… She opened a tired eye, wondering if it was her imagination. Who’d be dumb enough to be out on a night like this? It was the kind of thing Evan might do, but Evan was back at his flat in Queenstown. Besides, she had his car. Then the sound came again, more insistent this time, and there was no mistaking it. Muttering under her breath, she perched her mug on the nearest unpacked box and went to answer the door.
There was a figure on the landing but it wasn’t Evan, nor anyone else she recognised. She switched on the outside light but the weather and the corrugated glass panels of the front door obscured what little there was to make out. The only thing she could be sure of was the figure’s colour: a dark, olive green.
“Who’s there?” she asked.
“Tabitha,” said the figure, the reply almost drowned by the rain.
Tabitha? Kate racked her brain. The name was familiar for some reason but she couldn’t attach it to a face.
“From downstairs.”
Ahh, right, my mysterious neighbour. Works shifts, keeps to herself, Kate recalled. Not the night I’d choose to make an acquaintance, but whatever. She opened the door and was greeted by the sight of a short, plump woman covered from head to toe in a long, flowing, rain poncho. The woman’s feet were covered by the poncho’s hem, her face hidden in the shadow of its hood, and she could almost have passed for some demonic minion of the underworld were it not for the incongruous addition of the bedraggled ginger cat she held clutched to her chest. She’d grasped the sodden creature beneath its forelegs, leaving the bottom half of its belly and its back legs dangling. There was an evil gleam in its yellow eyes and Kate took a step backwards.
For a moment, neither woman spoke. Then the cat let out a pitiful meow and Kate remembered her manners. “Would you… like to come in?”
With a nod, Tabitha shuffled across the threshold.
Moving aside to let her pass, Kate closed the door behind her. “Can I take your raincoat?”
Tabitha’s head swivelled while the rest of her stayed in place, giving an uncanny, robotic quality to the movement. “Piddles!” she squawked.
“What?” said Kate, taken aback. “Oh, you mean the cat? You want me to… I’m not quite sure I… err, hold on then, I’ll grab a towel.”
Darting down the hall to the laundry cupboard, Kate returned a moment later with two of her oldest and ugliest towels. She draped one across both arms while Tabitha carefully placed the sopping moggy onto it. Kate squinted, half expecting to feel the pain of a slashing claw, but the creature remained compliant throughout the transfer. “You can hang your coat there.” Kate dipped her head towards a steel hook screwed to the back of the kitchen door.
Tabitha complied, removing the poncho to reveal an outfit consisting of a pair of baggy grey Nike track pants and a matching sweatshirt. The ensemble was well-worn, with the lettering on the sweatshirt cracked and peeled so that it now read ‘U DO IT’. Kate passed her the cat again, then used the other towel to mop up the puddle of water that had collected at Tabitha’s feet.
“Umm,” she said once she’d finished, “I was just having a cuppa. Would you like one?”
Tabitha’s round, pale lips, which had remained expressionless up until that point, broke into something resembling a smile. She nodded.
“I’m having peppermint. Will that do?”
Another nod.
“Right then. Come and sit down.” Kate arranged the towel at the foot of the door to soak up the water leaking from Tabitha’s poncho, then led her into the lounge. “This is my son, Corbin. Corbin, this is Tabitha, our downstairs neighbour. And her cat… Piddles. Say hi.”
“Hi,” said Corbin, sweeping his eyes over the visitors. Then, the appeal of a strange woman and her cat clearly not matching that of a talking steam engine, returned his attention to the TV.
“Here,” said Kate, removing a pile of clothes from the couch and placing them on top of a stack of boxes. For a moment, she thought the tower might topple, but it held fast. As Tabitha lowered herself stiffly into the vacated space, Kate headed back to the kitchen where she flicked the jug on and dropped a teabag into another mug. Tapping her fingers on the bench as she waited for it to boil, she asked, “would you like some honey?”
“No, thanks,” came the reply.
Kate filled the cup and, returning to the lounge, used her feet to guide another unopened box in front of Tabitha. She placed the cup on top and then, retrieving her own mug, settled into her seat at the other end of the couch. “Sorry about the mess.”
“That’s okay,” said Tabitha, her eyes on the curtains covering the sliding door to the balcony, their absent glaze suggesting she could see right through to the storm outside. The cat lay nestled in her lap, her hand moving rhythmically along the length of its back and by degree, the dangerous glint in the creature’s eyes mellowed, moving from murder to mere mistrust.
“So,” Kate ventured, “Piddles, huh? Is that because she—”
“He.”
“Right, he. And does he, you know, ahh—”
“Oh, no, he’s fully house-trained now,” said Tabitha sternly, transferring her gaze to meet Kate’s, “but he was only a few weeks old when I got him. I was going to call him Slayer but… well, you know what kittens are like. Piddles seemed more appropriate.”
Slayer? Kate doubted pursuing that thought would explain Tabitha’s appearance on her doorstep, so decided to get straight to the point instead. “Well, Tabitha, it’s nice to meet you, but I take it you’re not here to borrow a cup of sugar. So what can I do for you?”
Her brows knitting, Tabitha took a sip of tea before answering. “I need to leave town for a while.”
“Err, okay.”
“Tonight.”
“Really? It’s not great weather for driving.”
“No,” said Tabitha matter-of-factly, “it’s not.” Her hand trembled for an instant, slopping hot water over her fingers, but she didn’t seem to notice. “However, I don’t have a choice.” Her expression morphed, becoming familiar somehow. With a start, Kate realised why — as a champion crier herself, she had plenty of personal experience — it was the face of a woman on the verge of tears.
“Are you o—”
“Mum’s had a fall,” Tabitha squeaked. “Broken hip. She’s in hospital.”
“Oh, God, I’m so sorry.”
“Dad’s a mess. Without Mum… he hardly knows how to boil an egg. I have to go.”
“Of course, of course. You poor thing, what terrible news. Is she going to be okay?”
“I don’t know.” Kate looked from her neighbour’s stricken face to her robotic stroking hand and knew what was coming next. “But I need… someone to look after… Piddles.” Tabitha sucked in a shuddering breath. “I was going to put him in the cattery, but he hates it there. He knew something was up as soon as he saw me packing. Ran away. Took an hour to find him.”
“You should have said something. I would’ve helped.”
Tabitha gave a dejected shrug. “I didn’t want to bother you more than necessary. I hate to ask, and if there was anyone else… but since moving here… well, I’ve found it hard to make friends. And you seemed like a nice person.”
Some would disagree. Including myself, at times. “How would you know?”
“Beth said so. And I… kinda watched you move in, through the window, a little bit. It’s clear you love Corbin.”
At the sound of his name, Corbin glanced over. Kate smiled at him. That I do. “Well,” she began, while spying on me between your curtains is a little weird; given the extenuating circumstances… “I’d be glad to mind… Piddles.” Although I might have to come up with a nickname. “How is he around kids? Tabitha?”
“Sorry, I… I’m just so relieved.” Wiping a tear from her eye, Tabitha continued. “To be honest, he’s not spent much time around children, but I’m sure it’ll be fine. He’s a very friendly cat.”
“Is he? That’s good.” From within the folds of his flannelette enclosure, the tabby’s glare remained one of suspicion. Kate couldn’t blame him. She’d have to be wary. In her experience, the first thing a toddler did when faced with any cat was to yank its tail. She could imagine Piddles’ reaction to that.
She sipped her tea in silence, not sure what to say next. Tabitha followed suit. On TV, a train derailed. Thomas came to the rescue, after which The Fat Controller assured him he was a Really Useful Engine. Then, upending her mug, Tabitha downed the remaining contents in one swallow, again proving her resistance to the effects of hot liquids. Maybe she is a robot, thought Kate. “I’d better get going,” said Tabitha, shifting in her seat. “It’s a long drive to Nelson.”
“Nelson?”
“Yeah, why? Is that a problem?”
“No, no, I just… how long do you think you’ll be gone?”
There was that look again. “I don’t know,” Tabitha croaked. “I’ve taken a week off work, but… once I get up there and talk to her doctors, if it’s going to be longer, I… I’ll make some other arrangements.”
“That’s not what I meant,” said Kate earnestly. She felt the comment required an additional gesture of support and, leaning closer, sent skittering fingers in the direction of Tabitha’s knee. But then Piddles cocked his head in her direction and in the paired stares of… what did you even call a person and their cat?Master and companion?Guardian and feline?Parent and pussy?No, not that… she lost her nerve, settling for her own knee instead. “You do whatever you have to do. But this weather… are you sure you don’t want to leave it till morning?”
“No,” said Tabitha, sliding the cat off her lap and onto the couch. Kate recoiled but, while remaining watchful, Piddles made no move to extricate himself from his enclosure. “The sooner I get there,” Tabitha continued, “the better. I doubt I could sleep anyway. And if I start feeling tired, I’ll pull over. It’s amazing what a good power nap can do.” She poked a pale hand into the pocket of her track pants. “Here’s a key to my flat. There’s some food for him in the fridge. And some money to buy more. I’m sorry, fifty’s all I’ve got on me, but if you give me your bank account number, I can—”
Kate gave a dismissive wave. “Don’t be silly, I’m not taking your money.”
“Are you sure? His tastes are rather… particular. He won’t do no Whiskas.”
“Oh, a Gourmet fan, huh?”
“At a stretch. He likes fresh fish. And eye fillet; that’s his favourite.”
This earned a raised eyebrow. Jeez, when was the last time I had eye fillet? Maybe I should take the money. But Tabitha had already slipped it back into her pocket.
Crouching in front of Piddles, Tabitha scratched behind his ear. “Kate’s gonna take good care of you, so you make sure you behave, d’you hear?” In response, Piddles gave a low purr, the gentle rumble only just audible above Ringo Starr’s sultry narration and the thrum of the rain upon the roof. “Momma’s gonna miss you, my beautiful boy.” She sniffled, then with a final scratch, departed for the kitchen.
Following, Kate fired a glance at cat and Corbin on the way, but neither one demonstrated an interest in the other. She exchanged phone numbers with Tabitha before she re-engaged the services of her poncho and Kate opened the door for her to leave. A wall of cool, wet air flowed through, tickling Kate’s nose. Outside, the rain was falling even heavier than on Tabitha’s arrival. The wind had changed direction, and a fierce gust sent a flurry of drops bouncing off the concrete landing and through the doorway. Tabitha swivelled on the dampened threshold, tears welling in her eyes again, then sprang forward and thrust a pair of stumpy but surprisingly strong arms around Kate’s torso. Seconds passed while the water from the still-dripping poncho soaked its way through the fabric of Kate’s top. The moment extended through awkwardness and into the surreal before Kate discovered there was just enough freedom of movement available for her to pat Tabitha on the back in a mildly condescending fashion, hoping she’d take it as a sign to finish squeezing. It took several before Tabitha got the message and, loosening her grip with a dramatic sigh, lifted her head from where it was nuzzled into Kate’s shoulder.
“Thank you. I really appreciate this. I don’t know how I’m going to make it up to you.”
“Oh, it’s no problem,” said Kate stiffly. “After all, what else are neighbours for?”
“Not everyone would be so accommodating. It’ll give me some peace of mind knowing I’ve left Piddles in such capable hands.”
Don’t be too sure. The last pet I had ended up getting flushed down the toilet.
Raising her hood, Tabitha stepped outside. Kate drew the damp folds of her top away from her skin, watching with an uncertain frown as her new neighbour descended the stairs into the rain-slicked night. Maybe it was her imagination, but she thought Tabitha had spent the duration of their friendly embrace breathing a lot harder than was strictly necessary.
As it turns out, my editor doesn’t like this chapter, so I’m going to make some changes as a result. I’m still going to have Kate adopt a cat, but significantly adjust the circumstances around how it happens. However, I’m still curious about this scene as it’s written here. And while I know it’s hard to make a judgement out of context, I’d love to know what you think. Do Kate’s actions in this scene reflect positively on her as a character and help to make her more appealing?Was I (at least somewhat) successful in making my protagonist more likeable? Let me know in the comments.
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A gritty and engaging story of human faults, fears, and frailty, What Friends Are For is the prequel short story to my tragicomic novel, Taking the Plunge. Introduce yourself to the characters from the novel and find out where it all begins for Kate, Tracy, Evan and Lawrence.
I’ve read a couple of Botur’s short story collections (True and Lowlife) and he’s a masterful practitioner of the form. While the stories in these collections are eclectic, they are connected by both Botur’s powerful and distinctive personal voice and a focus on life at the edges of contemporary society. The Devil Took Her is a little different in that it’s Botur’s first horror-themed collection. That organising principle alone makes it more focused than previous works, but Botur is certainly no one-trick pony and the eclectic nature of his imagination still shines, with the requisite monstrosity of the genre appearing in different guises, from actual monsters (most notably the giant and voracious spirit bird of The Day I Skipped School), through to monstrous people, and on to people trapped in monstrous situations.
In The Devil Took Her, the focus is again on characters operating (or perhaps struggling to operate) on the fringe, isolated from society proper. This makes sense, for isolation is one of the key conventions of the horror genre, and even in stories where the protagonists aren’t physically isolated, they’re psychologically or emotionally isolated; there’s something about them that means they just don’t fit in, no matter how desperately they might try.
Along with the monsters, the tone of these stories is also eclectic. Some are gross and gory, some are haunting, some are creepy, some are threaded with Botur’s trademark black humour. All of them are disturbing. This is not a criticism. I enjoy watching horror movies, or at least ones fueled by good storytelling and genuine scares rather than blood and guts. Watching movies tends to be a social activity and in that environment, being scared can be fun. Indeed, that would be one of the major factors in my judgement of quality — that I enjoyed myself, that I had fun. I know I’m not alone in thinking that.
Reading, on the other hand, is not a social activity and (aside from Underground, the story of an ambitious record label exec’s descent into hell), the stories in The Devil Took Her are not fun. What they are is disturbing. It’s a mark of just how disturbing that my reaction to them was physical. At times, I found myself short of breath, mouth dry, skin literally itching, as if I’d been for a bush walk and brushed up against some evil, toxic plant. At other times I felt sick, my stomach clenched tight, on the verge of nausea. It got to the point where after a few daily sessions I had to take a break from reading because I couldn’t deal with the physical symptoms anymore. Yet compelled, I returned a few days later to finish off.
So, in the end, it’s a challenge to make a judgement call on The Devil Took her. Did I enjoy reading it? Ahhh… no, not really. Does that mean it’s bad? Oh God no, quite the opposite. Would I read it to my kids before they went to bed? No I wouldn’t, but then they’re a little young. Your average older teenager, being the strange, twisted creatures that they often are, could get a real kick out of it. Do I want to read more short horror stories by Botur? Hell yeah, but not today, thanks. I’m more in the mood for something comedic, perhaps even with a touch of romance. I’m just gonna have a squiz in our DVD cupboard. I’m sure there’s a copy of The 40-Year-Old Virgin in there somewhere.
Have you read The Devil Took Her, by Michael Botur, or any of his other books? Let me know in the comments.
FREE BOOK!
A gritty and engaging story of human faults, fears, and frailty, What Friends Are For is the prequel short story to my tragicomic novel, Taking the Plunge. Introduce yourself to the characters from the novel and find out where it all begins for Kate, Tracy, Evan and Lawrence.
A review of the online writing tool, the Hemingway App
I’ve been working on what is, depending on how you want to measure such things, the fifth or sixth draft of my current manuscript. Called Staking a Claim (it’s the sequel to my first novel), I’ve been tweaking some minor but important details to do with word choices, particularly my use of adverbs. Now, I love a good adverb as much as the next man (‘frantically’ springs to mind), but it’s easy to overuse them and doing so only serves to weaken your writing, rather than strengthen it.
The general writing advice is that you should always aim to use a strong verb rather than trying to zhuzh-up a weak verb with a sparkly adverb. Take, for instance, the sentence, ‘She ran quickly down the road’. It’s not an inspired sentence by any means (and certainly not as entertaining as ‘I grapple with my groots and shoot down the grovelers and medicine men with my trusted blunderbuss’, which was my favourite line from the novel I just finished), but if you were writing a story where it was necessary to move a character from one point on a road to another point further along that road, then it would do the job. However, by simply replacing the verb and adverb pairing of ‘ran quickly’ with the single verb ‘sprinted’, you’d have, ‘She sprinted down the road.’ Okay, so it’s still not inspired, but it is more concise, and the picture it paints in the imagination is more focused and vivid.
To assist in this process, I’ve been using the Hemingway App. Created by brothers Adam and Ben Long, there’s a desktop version for Mac and PC which you can buy for twenty US dollars, but I just use the free online version. The app is named after the 20th century writer, Ernest Hemingway.
The Old Man and the Sea: Hemingway on his boat
Ernest Hemingway Photograph Collection, John F. Kennedy Presidential Library and Museum, Boston
Hemingway is well known for his clear and forceful writing style and these two goals underpin the design of the algorithms the app uses in analysing a piece of writing. Among other things, it automatically highlights all the adverbs in a piece, as well as indicating an appropriate adverb count for that piece based on its overall length. So, if you have a passage that’s excessively adverbial, it’s easy to go through and see where and whether any of those adverbs could be removed. Personally, I find this the most useful feature of the app and it’s primarily what I use it for.
You can write text directly within the app, but since I use Scrivener for my fiction writing, I just copy and paste out of that. I pasted every chapter of Staking a Claim into the app. To my surprise, the biggest issue it highlighted was my overuse of the adverbial ‘just’, as in, ‘I’m just going out for a walk,’ or, ‘I just want the patty; no pickles, no sauce.’ Like any adverb, ‘just’ has its place, but I had characters ‘justing’ here, there, and everywhere. On closer inspection, many of these were unnecessary, obscuring my prose rather than clarifying it. It’s not a habit I was previously aware of, so out of curiosity, I pasted a few chapters from my first novel into the app for comparison. The result? Too many justs. Oh well, you live and learn.
Handily, the app also highlights passages written in passive voice. Just like adverbs, there’s a place for passive voice but it’s generally preferable to use active voice as it makes your writing more forceful. What’s the difference? Active voice is when you have someone or something doing something else. Passive voice is when that someone or something is having that something else done to them. Clear as mud? An example should help:
Carlos hit the cricket ball. This is active voice. Carlos is doing something; he’s hitting the cricket ball. The cricket ball was hit by Carlos. This is passive voice. The cricket ball is having something done to it; it’s being hit by Carlos.
The above example of passive voice is clearly a bit weird; it’s not always that obvious and, as I said, there is a place for it. It’s when it’s overused that it can become a problem. According to the app, the overuse of passive voice is not an issue in my writing. I didn’t have a single chapter where the number of instances of passive voice was anywhere near the number the app suggested as being problematic. This is good to know; at least I’ve got that right.
Another useful feature of the app is its analysis of the readability of your writing. It gives you a readability score based on the number of ‘hard to read’ and ‘very hard to read’ sentences within a piece of writing. The score is based on the educational grade level a person would need to understand that piece. So, a score of 6 would indicate someone with a Grade 6 education could successfully navigate that particular passage of writing. This is where you have to be a little careful. Getting rid of all your ‘hard to read’ and ‘very hard to read’ sentences might make your writing more accessible, but it’s also likely to remove all its personality and make it exceedingly dull. I don’t pay too much attention to this feature. Generally, the chapters of my manuscript came in somewhere between a 6 and a 9, which the app considers good. Roughly speaking, about ten percent of my sentences were ‘hard to read’ and another ten percent were ‘very hard to read’. I guess this means eighty percent of my sentences are ‘easy to read’, which seems perfectly acceptable to me.
After toning down my justing, there were only a few chapters from Staking a Claim that came up as being overly adverbial. I tweaked those, tidied up a few other details and then, ta-da! I was done. Time to cross my fingers and send the manuscript off to my editor.
Are you a fan of adverbs? What’s your favourite? Let me know in the comments.
FREE BOOK!
A gritty and engaging story of human faults, fears, and frailty, What Friends Are For is the prequel short story to my tragicomic novel, Taking the Plunge. Introduce yourself to the characters from the novel and find out where it all begins for Kate, Tracy, Evan and Lawrence.
I’m pleased to announce that my second novel, Staking a Claim, is finally ready to go to my editor. She has a list of works in the queue to get through first so I’m not sure when she’ll be done with it, but what it does mean is that I can finally see the light at the end of the tunnel and I can get on with working on the next book, whatever it turns out to be. After the two years it took to write my first novel, I was optimistic I could finish the second one in a shorter time frame. As it turns out, that hasn’t been the case and almost three years have passed since Taking the Plunge was published.
There are multiple reasons why it’s taken so long, not the least of which was I kept falling asleep while working on it. I don’t have a home office, or even a desk, so I’d get up early every morning before work to sit on the couch and write with my laptop resting, funnily enough, in my lap. With a cup of coffee on the bookshelf next to me, it was the perfect setup, cosy and comfortable, and it worked well for my first book. However, it was clearly too cosy and comfortable because the second time round, day after day, more often than not, I’d fall asleep. Writing a book while asleep is very difficult, hence my progress was considerably impeded.
A few weeks ago, after months of struggling to stop myself from sleeping on the job, I finally arrived at a simple solution. It’s so simple that I don’t know why I didn’t figure it out a couple of years ago, but there you have it; life’s like that sometimes. My solution was to move my writing setup from our cosy couch to our ancient dining room table with its petrified and bum-numbing wooden chairs. When I say ‘petrified’, I’m not exaggerating; sitting on one of our dining chairs is literally akin to sitting on a slab of rock.
Here’s the dining room. A little minimalistic, perhaps, but the view more than makes up for it.
I still do nod off occasionally but, unlike the couch, where I can easily fall asleep and wake up an hour later, our dining chairs are not conducive to prolonged snoozing and after a few moments, my subconscious brain tends to snap me awake with the warning that if I sit still for much longer, I’ll be so stiff there’s every chance I’ll never move again.
And if that doesn’t work…
The result has been much-improved progress over the last few weeks and I’m feeling more optimistic about my writing. It helps that we’re through the worst of winter. It’s my least favourite season and the lack of sunshine always takes a toll on my mood. Now we’ve got daffodils blooming in the garden and there were at least one day last week where it didn’t rain, so things are looking up. Roll on, Spring.
FREE BOOK!
A gritty and engaging story of human faults, fears, and frailty, What Friends Are For is the prequel short story to my tragicomic novel, Taking the Plunge. Introduce yourself to the characters from the novel and find out where it all begins for Kate, Tracy, Evan and Lawrence.
A review of Let’s Go (So We Can Get Back): A Memoir of Recording and Discording with Wilco, Etc. by Jeff Tweedy
I’m partial to the occasional rock star biography, so when I saw Let’s Go (So We Can Get Back), by Jeff Tweedy,the lead singer and songwriter of Wilco, one of my all-time favourite bands, amongst the pile of books for sale at the 2019 Auckland Writers Festival, I snapped it up.
There’s no guarantee that just because you can write great songs, you can write great books, but on this occasion, Tweedy manages it. As is usual with rock star biographies, some space is devoted to exploring the personality conflicts between bandmates, but there’s a warmth and humility to the writing that is atypical for the genre. There’s no braggadocio to these anecdotes, nor does Tweedy have any axes to grind. He’s happy to admit that he only got to where he is today with the assistance of others, most notably his family. The book includes a couple of transcribed conversations with his wife and children which provide an authentic insight into their family dynamic. It’s a little gimmicky, perhaps, but it works. It also delves into Tweedy’s struggles with mental health, drugs, and addiction in a way that is refreshingly honest.
What I most enjoyed about the book was the personal exploration of both Tweedy’s dedication to songwriting (he tries to write a song every day), and his songwriting process. Tweedy’s lyrics are often open to interpretation, and it’s no wonder when one of the lyric writing exercises he uses is to take a list of random verbs and another list of random nouns and then pair them up. “It might start as gibberish,” he says, “but it’s amazing how hard it is to put words next to each other without some meaning being generated.” Inclined to agree, I thought I’d try it out. Here’s the list I came up with (I swear these were the first words that popped into my head):
Nouns Chicken Refrigerator Tractor Laptop Children
Verbs Run Fry Smoke Swim Love
And here’s the resulting ‘lyric’. Appropriately, for a verse inspired by Jeff Tweedy, I can hear it as an Alt-Country song called something along the lines of The Modern Farmer.
Hangry Laptop fried and tractor smoking, I run inside and scan the refrigerator. It’s empty. Aside from a lone chicken wing, Swimming in brown sauce. I love my children But man, can they eat.
Anyway, back to the book. If you’re a Wilco fan, then I highly recommend it. If you’ve never heard of Wilco but like rock star biographies, you might enjoy it too. Then go listen to some Wilco. They’re awesome.
Are you a Wilco fan? Do you like rock-star biographies? Read any good ones lately? Let me know in the comments.
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A gritty and engaging story of human faults, fears, and frailty, What Friends Are For is the prequel short story to my tragicomic novel, Taking the Plunge. Introduce yourself to the characters from the novel and find out where it all begins for Kate, Tracy, Evan and Lawrence.
While the majority of books I consume come in physical form, I do enjoy a good audiobook, and with a 45-50 minute daily commute to work, I’ve got ample time for listening. I’ve thought about creating audiobook versions of my own stories, but the process has traditionally been a time-consuming and expensive one, so the thought has remained just that. However, with the opening of Google’s auto-narrated audiobooks service on Google Play, I’ve been able to take my first step into the wonderful world of audiobooks.
Hmmm… hard to know. I’d say it’s a toss-up between ‘Geronimo Stilton and the Curse of the Cheese Pyramid’ and ‘Finnegans Wake’.
I thought I’d try a couple of short stories to begin with, just to see how it all works. Google isn’t the only company working in this space, but they’re the first ones to open it up to the indie-author community and while the service is currently in beta, the technology behind it is pretty impressive. At this point, they have more than thirty different voices to choose from in English and Spanish. In English, there is a range of male and female voices with American, Australian, British, and Indian accents. Unfortunately, there are no Kiwi accents as yet, and given the size of the New Zealand market, I’m guessing the wait could be a long, if not interminable one.
The first story I selected to work with was The Art of Cigarette Smoking. Since it’s about a young man and his relationship with a packet of Marlboro cigarettes, I figured a male American voice would be most appropriate. I chose the one Google calls ‘Mike’. All the American voices have names beginning with ‘M’, so I don’t suppose it’s ‘his’ real name, but there is a solid, amiable quality to the voice that I think suits the story, as well as sounding perfectly ‘Mikeish’.
After selecting a voice, the process is pretty straightforward. The voice simply narrates the words from an uploaded manuscript. Mispronounced words can be corrected by either spelling the word phonetically or speaking the desired pronunciation into the software via a microphone. Pauses between words can be extended by typing extra commas, and there’s enough natural variation in the AI technology behind each voice to make it sound human and organic. It even places a rising inflection at the end of words followed by a question mark.
What it doesn’t allow for is EMPHASIS and yes, I tried typing in capital letters but it made no difference. I’m sure this feature will come at a later date, because it would make a big difference. For descriptive passages without dialogue, it’s not overly noticeable, and since The Art of Cigarette Smoking just happens to be a story without dialogue, I was pretty happy with the end result. You can check it out here:
I’m a little less happy with the outcome for the second story I tried, The Golden Cockroach. Since it’s set in Australia and written from the point of view of a young woman, I selected ‘Charlotte’, an Ozzie female voice, for the narration. As much as we Kiwis enjoy taking the piss out of any and all things Australian, it was actually awesome to have this option, and I felt it really helped me to visualise the main character, Nina, and her situation. However, The Golden Cockroach is a story with numerous passages of dialogue, and while overall, the reading is still an impressive one (and again, Charlotte’s voice sounds perfectly ‘Charlotty’), the lack of any emphasis in these spoken exchanges is noticeable. You can check it out for yourself here.
So, is this service a welcome one for indie authors? Absolutely! The audiobook market is a growing one and it’s fantastic to be able to cater to ‘readers’ who want to consume stories in audio form, for whatever reason.
Is it as good as having a real live person performing a customised narration? No, but given the minimal costs involved in creating an audiobook via this process, I think the end product can be sold at a price point that reflects this. Recording a custom-narrated audiobook is an expensive process, and so the end-product commands a premium price. An auto-narrated audiobook needn’t.
Will I be creating any more auto-narrated audiobooks on Google Play? Not at this point in time, at least not until the ’emphasis’ problem is solved, or a Kiwi accent is added to the mix of voices available. Or unless readers tell me they want me to.
Are you an audiobook fan? Got a favourite one? Would you like to hear any more of my stories in audiobook form? Let me know in the comments.
FREE BOOK!
A gritty and engaging story of human faults, fears, and frailty, What Friends Are For is the prequel short story to my tragicomic novel, Taking the Plunge. Introduce yourself to the characters from the novel and find out where it all begins for Kate, Tracy, Evan and Lawrence.
My upcoming novel, Staking a Claim, is the sequel to Taking the Plunge and due for publication in 2023. Here’s a taster.
Kate perched on the edge of the gantry, her legs bound, looking down. Forty-three metres below, the Kawarau River surged with spring melt, swirling around a jagged rock that burst from beneath the whitewater, black and dangerous. “You ready?” She turned her head towards the voice, stomach clenching. Both young men standing at her back flashed reassuring smiles. On the left, the pasty English one named Simon suggested, “On the count of three?” She nodded, took one last glance at the galloping waters, then closed her eyes. “One… two… three!” Wind whistled. River roared. “I did say three, didn’t I?” “Uh-huh. Loud and clear.” “And she agreed, right?” “Yep.” “Kate?” Her name came dancing on the wind, teasing. She didn’t answer, her feet rooted to the gantry as if encased in concrete rather than stretchy rope. “You didn’t jump.” She shook her head. “Why not?” “I’m enjoying the view.” “But your eyes are closed.” “They are?” As she slowly opened them, the two men came swimming into focus. “Shall we try that again?” asked Manny, brown eyes glinting from his swarthy, Chilean face. She opened her mouth to agree but nothing came out. “There’s nothing to worry about. It’s been weeks since we had an accident.” Simon cuffed his colleague on the shoulder. “Accident?” “He’s kidding,” said Simon, scowling at Manny. “We’ve never had an accident. And we’ve been going since nineteen—” “That’s right, we’ve never had an accident.” Manny’s grin was wicked. “Sometimes the people jumping have an accident, but not us. It always pays to bring some spare underpants.” Simon dug him in the ribs. He laughed, warm and hearty. “I’m sorry. Look, Kate, let’s try it again. You’ll be fine. Everyone’s scared their first time. But I guarantee, once you’ve done it, you’ll be back up here begging to go again.” Kate looked beneath her feet at the rope, swaying in the wind above the raging river. “I’m not sure about that.” “Don’t worry, you’ve got this. On the count of three again, yeah?” She swallowed. “Okay.” “Right then, here we go. One…” She bent her knees and spread her toes. “Two…” She closed her eyes. “Three!” She opened them again, only to discover that the view looked exactly the same as before. The river was no closer, and the world was definitely not upside down. Dipping her head, she noted her feet were still firmly planted on the edge of the gantry. “Umm,” said Manny, “perhaps I didn’t make myself clear, but the idea is that you jump on three. There’s people waiting, you know.” Back on the bridge, the young woman who was next in line gave her the evil eye. “I’m sorry. I really thought I had it that time.” “Kate?” Evan strolled hand in hand with Corbin towards her along the bridge, a camera hanging from a strap around his neck. “What’s going on?” She gave a theatrical groan. “I don’t know. It’s scary up here.” “You’re not wrong,” he said, chuckling. “I was scared too.” “You didn’t look scared.” “Fake it till you make it. Come on, you’ve got this. You were so keen after you saw me go.” “That all changed when I looked down.” “Then don’t look down.” “I tried that. I closed my eyes, but the picture in my head was so vivid that it didn’t make any difference. Even from behind my eyelids, those rocks look awfully sharp.” “You’re not going to hit the rocks.” “I might. What if a gust of wind blows just when I jump?” “Wishful thinking,” said Manny. “We weighed you, remember?” Kate stared daggers at him, but his cheeky grin refused to budge. “Look,” said Evan gently, “if you don’t want to go, it’s okay. We can try again some other time. Right guys?” “Yeah, of course,” said Simon. “I do want to go. It’s just…” “There’s no shame in backing out.” “Oh, I don’t know about that.” Manny gestured across the canyon to the onlookers crowded along its edge. “Look at all those people watching. I’d be ashamed if I was you.” “Manny, you’re not helping,” growled Simon. “No, he’s right,” said Kate. “I didn’t come all this way to turn around and go home without doing what I came for.” “Mummy jump?” Corbin poked his nose through the railings, peering at her. She cast her eyes around the canyon, sweeping from the bungy and cafe complex out over the raging waters to the far side of the gorge, steeling herself. “Yes,” she said, clenching her fists, “Mummy jump.” “You sure?” asked Evan. “Uh-huh.” Her tummy disagreed but she overruled it. “Let’s do this.” “On the count of three?” said Simon. She nodded, swallowing. “Good on ya, Kate.” Evan winked at her before raising the camera to his eye. “Okay then, here goes,” said Simon. “One…” This time, Evan joined in the chorus. “Two…” She rose onto the balls of her feet, knees bent, pulse pounding. “Three…” Then pushed. “You did say you wanted to be dunked, right?” said Manny. “Wait, what?” She flailed, but it was too late, her body past the point of no return, slicing an arc through the crisp canyon air, the wind whipping at her hair. The river rose up to greet her as she screamed towards it, impossibly fast, and her brain barely had time to form the words ‘you bastards’ before a plume of water leapt at her, arms open to grasp her in its icy embrace. The rope at her feet caught and stretched, the bonds tightening, her headlong plummet slowing. When the tips of her fingers touched the surface she yanked them back as if stung. The scream died in her throat and was replaced by the rush of water and a chorus of cheers from above. Hauled back up into space, she saw Evan and Corbin waving down at her. Her heart raced, the pressure in her chest so great that it crushed the coal of terror into a diamond of elation. At the apex of her bounce she screamed again, then fell, dropping with giddy joy. Her shrieks become whoops, and by the time she’d stopped bouncing she was giggling madly. Dangling over the water like a worm on a hook, she was lowered into the boat, the crew scrambling to untie her from her bonds, the indignity of it all swept away in the sheer joy of the moment. She was congratulated and helped from the boat onto the shore, where she made her way breathlessly up the steep path cut into the face of the cliff to the rim above. Into Evan’s arms. “How was that?” he asked, beaming at her. “Thrilling,” she panted. Corbin tugged at her trouser leg and she raised him up, sliding him onto her hip. Her gut did a somersault and the gas rose in her throat, making her burp. “I feel a little queasy now, though.” “Here, come sit down.” Placing a hand on her back, Evan guided her along the gravel path to a low rock wall bordering a well tended garden. She collapsed onto it, her legs tingling, then placed Corbin beside her. Her insides danced again, a bead of sweat running down her temple despite the chill wind. She brushed it away, and squeezing Corbin’s knee, said to Evan, “Thanks for inviting me.” “No problem. It’s good to see you again.” She smiled. “You too.” Two weeks had passed since she’d last seen him. Two weeks where she’d found herself thinking about him far more frequently than she expected given the circumstances of their last encounter — far more than she wanted, truth be known. As if things weren’t complicated enough. And then he’d called, asking if she was free to go bungy jumping on Friday and her answering ‘yes’ had been uttered before her brain was even aware of what her mouth was doing. She’d been nervous on the winding drive over from Cromwell, Corbin chattering away in the back seat, but now that she was here next to him it felt… good. Really good. She liked the way he looked at her with those intense blue eyes, the wind tussling his curling blonde locks, a shadowed stubble crusting his jawline. And the hug at the rim of the canyon, his arms warm and strong around her back — she especially liked that. A whoop from across the canyon made her turn in time to see evil-eyes plummeting from the bridge. “It looks so easy from here.” She lowered her gaze to the gravel at her feet. “I never thought I could be so scared.” “It’s a different story when you’re standing on the edge looking down. You did well.” “Thanks.” “So… ahh, what’ve you been up to?” Fantasising about your naked body entwined with mine? No: TMI. Eating more and exercising less than I should be? No, still TMI. She settled for, “Nothing much. You?” Evan shrugged. “I dunno. Yumiko’s gone.” Hearing the name caused another flutter in her belly. “Where?” “Back home to Canada, so Noemie says.” “What about Jamie?” “Him too, back to Oz, thank God. Licking his wounds like a dog, no doubt.” “That’s a little harsh, don’t you think? He did say he was in love with her.” Evan gave a bitter snort. “The only person Jamie loves is himself. I’m not worrying about him. He’ll be fine, believe me.” “But you worry about Yumiko?” “Yeah, but she’s gone, and I don’t blame her after the way I treated her.” Sighing heavily, he added, “Anyway, it’s all in the past now, isn’t it? Time to move on, embrace the future.” “Yes,” she said simply. But what will that future look like? They sat in silence for a while, surveying the scene on the bridge as Manny and Simon prepared the next jumpers, a couple this time, legs bound together and hugging each other at the edge of the precipice, anticipating their leap of faith. Her belly burbled again and she frowned. Surely it shouldn’t take this long to settle. “Mummy, I’m hungy,” said Corbin. Maybe that was the problem. How long had it been since she ate lunch? “Let’s get something to eat, then,” said Evan, standing. “Wanna ride?” Corbin giggled as Evan lifted him onto his shoulders. “You coming, Kate?” She nodded but the frown stayed put. “Just give me a moment, I feel a little…” The words faded as she clutched the leg of Evan’s jeans, pitched forward and threw up, splashing vomit all over his shoes.
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A gritty and engaging story of human faults, fears, and frailty, What Friends Are For is the prequel short story to my tragicomic novel, Taking the Plunge. Introduce yourself to the characters from the novel and find out where it all begins for Kate, Tracy, Evan and Lawrence.
Happy days! I essentially finished the third draft of my second novel, Staking A Claim, last Thursday and celebrated in style by having two slices of lime in my afternoon rum and coke. I say essentially, because it’s not quite complete – I’ve left a few notes to myself sprinkled throughout the manuscript with reference to details that I still need to iron out.
Since the novel is mostly set in the small South Island town of Cromwell in 2003, some of these details relate to the cost of things back then and there. For instance, one thing I wanted to know was how much it cost to purchase a brand new Hyundai Santa Fe in New Zealand in 2003. I sent an email to Hyundai New Zealand, figuring that if anyone was going to know, surely it would be them. Rather than answer my question, however, they just subscribed me to their mailing list, so now I get daily emails prompting me to purchase a new Hyundai. I’d love to, especially an Ioniq 5, but the cost of a new Hyundai is not in our budget. I’d have to sell the house first, and I’m not sure there’s enough room in an Ioniq to sleep a family of five. However, I’m still none the wiser as to the historical cost of a Santa Fe.
The 2003 Hyundai Santa Fe, known for its luscious, sweeping curves and a tendency to roll over on tight corners at high speed.
Interestingly, my other emails to private businesses also fell on deaf ears. I wanted to find out more about house, land, and rent prices in Cromwell in 2003, so I contacted a couple of house building companies with franchises in the area, as well as some local real estate agencies. I got nothing in reply from any of them, not even an email prompting me to buy or build a new house. On the other hand, I contacted the Ministry of Social Development with a question about historical welfare payments. Within a week or so I received a letter informing me that my request had been processed under the Official Information Act. The letter included several links to central and local government websites where I was not only able to find the answers to the particular questions I’d asked, but also, with a bit of digging, the answers to my queries about house, land, and rent prices in Cromwell in 2003. I’m not sure what this says about the pros and cons of the state versus private enterprise, but it did make me think that at least some of my tax dollars had been spent in a useful way.
The other notes I’ve left to myself are mostly to do with the physical manifestation of emotions in characters. Say for instance, a character is happy. They can demonstrate this by smiling. But you don’t want to overuse the word, ‘smile’, so perhaps they might ‘grin’, or maybe, if they’re exceptionally happy, they could ‘beam’. And that’s about it – there aren’t many synonyms for ‘smile’ in the English language. If none of those words will do, but I still want that character to express their happiness, then they’re going to need to do something else. So, I’ve got several instances in the novel where I wasn’t quite sure what that ‘something else’ should be, but rather than slowing myself down racking my brains trying to figure it out then and there, I’ve left a note to come back to it later with my secret weapon, The Emotion Thesaurus.
The Emotion Thesaurus, by Angela Ackerman and Becca Puglisi
This is a fantastic book for writers – you just look up the emotion you’re wanting your character to express, and it lists a whole range of ways in which that emotion can be physically manifested.
Here’s just one example: One character, (let’s call her Macie), has just said something to a second character (let’s call him Abeeku, which is apparently the Ghanian word for one who is born on a Wednesday), about which he is somewhat dubious. Rather than rolling his eyes, which would be my go to response, or emotional crutch, as Ackerman and Puglisi would say, he could instead (and this is just a small sample of the available options):
Bite or chew on his lip;
Hem or haw;
Reference similar events from the past that did not pan out (here’s looking at you, Dad); or (and this is my personal favourite)
Wrinkle his nose like there’s a bad smell.
So, the next time someone screws up their nose at you, just be aware it might not have anything to do with the state of your armpits or underpants; they might just be a little skeptical.
FREE BOOK!
A gritty and engaging story of human faults, fears, and frailty, What Friends Are For is the prequel short story to my tragicomic novel, Taking the Plunge. Introduce yourself to the characters from the novel and find out where it all begins for Kate, Tracy, Evan and Lawrence.
I finally finished the second draft of my second novel (which currently has the working title of Staking a Claim) earlier in April, during the NZ school holidays. We were on a family vacation in the Hawke’s Bay at the time and so celebrated this milestone by going out to the Taradale RSA (Returned and Services’ Association) for roast beef and gravy. It may not have been the most prestigious of venues but it did have the advantage of serving cheap drinks and being located right next door to the motel we were staying in — it doesn’t pay to be sober or have far to walk home when going to dinner in an unfamiliar town with three hyper-stimulated and squabbling children in tow.
I’m not quite sure what sins my wife and I committed in a past life to deserve it, but I swear that every time we go out for a meal with our children one or the other of them will spill their drink all over the table. Sure enough, it happened again at the Taradale RSA. To be fair to the child responsible, we had (mostly) finished eating by then but, with liquid waterfalling over the sides of the table and into our laps, we took that as the cue to return to our motel unit, where the drinks were even cheaper.
Now that the celebration is over, it’s back to the hard slog of writing. I’m currently in the process of reading through my story chapter by chapter and making notes of things that need tweaking or clarifying for the next draft. I need to find the answers to such pressing questions as ‘how much did it cost to build a four bedroom, two bathroom house in Cromwell in the year 2000’ and, ‘does a 2003 Hyundai Santa Fe have keyless entry?’ Unfortunately, historical research is not exactly the first thing that comes to mind when I think of ‘activities that get me excited and make me wish I could spend every waking hour participating in them’. Since I’m writing humorous fiction, a certain amount of implausibility is necessary to serve the story, but there’s a balance to be found between the improbable and the impossible that’s easy to get wrong if you’re not careful. There’s always that one person so obsessed by plotholes and anachronisms in their literary fare that they’ll write a letter to point out that the cylinder on a Smith & Wesson revolver actually spins counter-clockwise, not clockwise.
Speaking of historical research, one of the most fun things I did with the children in the school holidays was take them to an open day at the Whangarei Museum, Kiwi House and Heritage Park. They loved the kiwis (who wouldn’t), but were even more taken with the old school building on site; it was set up so they could dress in old-fashioned clothes and sit at the old wooden desks drawing on chalk slates and practicing their cursive handwriting with a fountain pen and ink. Of course, the same child that spilt water all over our dinner while on vacation knocked his inkwell all over the floor of the schoolhouse, but the demonstrator didn’t seem particularly bothered by it. “It washes out,” she reckoned. “Maybe not the first time, but, you know, eventually.” Anyway, it was very cute and the kids loved kickin’ it old school and want to go back and do it all over again.
“Wasn’t us, Miss, honest — we’d never put no pins on your chair. We was jus’ sittin’ here practicin’ our letters the whole time.”
I just wish they could get that excited about going to school on a normal day.
FREE BOOK!
A gritty and engaging story of human faults, fears, and frailty, What Friends Are For is the prequel short story to my tragicomic novel, Taking the Plunge. Introduce yourself to the characters from the novel and find out where it all begins for Kate, Tracy, Evan and Lawrence.
