Today we sent off the printing files to SRP in Exeter. It's all up to them now, to turn what I've written into a tangible book. How do I feel? Free! I'm so thoroughly engaged by my new project that, in the end, the trilogy became something of a distraction. But anyway, today's the day that the long, awful process of bringing it to completion finally ended.
And what do I see as I look out of the window? Why, floods! The water isn't quite as high as it was in the summer, but the meadow is a lake and the water's still rising. We're back on high alert. I over-reacted in July; perhaps now I am too complacent - we went to bed last night leaving the new TV where it is. It's very hard to gauge the right mental response. I think this time I shall trust to instinct more than to dire warnings from governmental agencies. But the pop-sock sandbags are poised, and we have stocked up on water and cereal bars. Yesterday we went out and bought proper wellington boots so at least I can get to the allotment and rescue the leeks from the sucking mire.
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Thursday, 17 January 2008
Monday, 14 January 2008
The End is Nigh
I've just finished checking the fourth set of page proofs for The Rebirth of Venus. Fortunately my typesetter is long-suffering and doesn't mind my hopeless quest for perfection. Between us, we've just cured all the hyphenations, and naturally I've taken the opportunity to tweak a little here and there. But it really does feel like dusting a finished statue now.
The cover was just as difficult to finalise as the book. I had nothing in mind before we started playing with colours. Naturally the image had to be from Botticelli's The Birth of Venus. I wish it didn't -- it's so hackneyed. But David in his brilliance thought of flipping it and focussing on the head. Now the image is both familiar and strange all at once, and different qualities emerge in the goddess, more introverted and soulful. As for the colours, we gave ourselves headaches with the pantone palette. I tried lots of different backgrounds but only two created that sense of inner affirmation which says, 'That's it!' One was pink, and I feared it would put men off from reading it in public. The other was laid-back, elegant cream. It seemed right but it didn't seem perfect, not until we arrived at deep cherry for the type. Then, in a moment of illumination, I took up a copy of A Tabernacle for the Sun and realised it was the same colour-combination, only reversed. Then it seemed perfect.
I had an email from Lindsay Clarke today. The novel he's working on has been even longer in gestation (twelve years) and he's finding it just as hard to get it finished. Perhaps our mutual difficulty is in the stars -- I'd like to think so. 2008 -- the year of elephantine births.
Meanwhile I learn that poor Tewekesbury is putting out the sandbags again. Our watermeadow is flooded but that is normal for this time of year. But if Gloucestershire floods again, so will Oxford in all likelihood. And despite numerous community meetings, we're still unprepared. All talk, no action.
The cover was just as difficult to finalise as the book. I had nothing in mind before we started playing with colours. Naturally the image had to be from Botticelli's The Birth of Venus. I wish it didn't -- it's so hackneyed. But David in his brilliance thought of flipping it and focussing on the head. Now the image is both familiar and strange all at once, and different qualities emerge in the goddess, more introverted and soulful. As for the colours, we gave ourselves headaches with the pantone palette. I tried lots of different backgrounds but only two created that sense of inner affirmation which says, 'That's it!' One was pink, and I feared it would put men off from reading it in public. The other was laid-back, elegant cream. It seemed right but it didn't seem perfect, not until we arrived at deep cherry for the type. Then, in a moment of illumination, I took up a copy of A Tabernacle for the Sun and realised it was the same colour-combination, only reversed. Then it seemed perfect.
I had an email from Lindsay Clarke today. The novel he's working on has been even longer in gestation (twelve years) and he's finding it just as hard to get it finished. Perhaps our mutual difficulty is in the stars -- I'd like to think so. 2008 -- the year of elephantine births.
Meanwhile I learn that poor Tewekesbury is putting out the sandbags again. Our watermeadow is flooded but that is normal for this time of year. But if Gloucestershire floods again, so will Oxford in all likelihood. And despite numerous community meetings, we're still unprepared. All talk, no action.
Saturday, 5 January 2008
The Semi-Colon under Attack
Since writing about semi-colons last month, I've read an extract from a book published in Quest, the journal of the Queen's English Society, no less, which to my astonishment spoke out for the extinction of this species of punctuation. To quote: 'Semicolons are pretentious and overactive.' Hmmm - 'semi-colons' should be hyphenated, you know. 'These days one seems to come across them in every other sentence.' Oh yeah? Not if you read Philippa Gregory. 'If the undergraduate essays I see are representative, we are in the midst of an epidemic of semicolons.' I haven't had one undergraduate who hasn't had to be reminded what a semi-colon is and encouraged to use it. 'I recognise that my reaction is extreme. But the semicolon has become so hateful to me that I feel almost morally compromised when I use it.' What guff!
Here is a 'sentence' from Philippa Gregory's The Queen's Fool. 'I tried to fight it off, this court would be the worst place in the world to tell the truth.' That's only one of very many examples from this book of separate sentences joined by commas. In one there were about three sentences: I wish I had noted it down but I didn't. This line I've quoted is, of course, two sentences, and is exactly the right occasion for the use of a semi-colon.
It's a good book and I enjoyed it, but my enjoyment was ruined by having to re-read so many sentences badly punctuated. Of course, my eye was keen for semi-colons and I came across about three; on each occasion it was wrongly used and should have been a comma. As John Gardner says in The Art of Fiction, we must never disturb the fictional dream. Because of the lack of stops or semi-colons, I could never fully enter her dream. Other reviewers say the same, that the story stretches credibility, never completely grips, etc. Could it be merely because of punctuation? It's possible. What a salutary lesson.
Here is a 'sentence' from Philippa Gregory's The Queen's Fool. 'I tried to fight it off, this court would be the worst place in the world to tell the truth.' That's only one of very many examples from this book of separate sentences joined by commas. In one there were about three sentences: I wish I had noted it down but I didn't. This line I've quoted is, of course, two sentences, and is exactly the right occasion for the use of a semi-colon.
It's a good book and I enjoyed it, but my enjoyment was ruined by having to re-read so many sentences badly punctuated. Of course, my eye was keen for semi-colons and I came across about three; on each occasion it was wrongly used and should have been a comma. As John Gardner says in The Art of Fiction, we must never disturb the fictional dream. Because of the lack of stops or semi-colons, I could never fully enter her dream. Other reviewers say the same, that the story stretches credibility, never completely grips, etc. Could it be merely because of punctuation? It's possible. What a salutary lesson.
Saturday, 15 December 2007
The Unloveliness of Modern Times
I’ve just finished Ackroyd’s The House of Doctor Dee and am stunned. Not only is it superbly well-written, it dips into the gold of truth, which makes it one of those rare books: one that changes the substance of the reader. An alchemical book in all respects.
The sections set in Dee’s time of the sixteenth century are written so gorgeously that it makes the sections set in the present tedious by comparison. This is something that troubles me, how the past can throw the present into the shade. Towards the end, John Dee asks the author, ‘Why not write of your own time? Why do you fly from it? Is it because you fly from your own self?’
I find it impossible to write of my own time. This age lacks all colour and interest, not least in language. Oh, that we could say something like, ‘I could easily answer your fond comparisons, no doubt taken from some flibber-jibber knave that feigns tales. But I am not disposed to argue the matter.’ Instead I gaze in sorrow at fashions that are unspeakably dull and unflattering, and listen to language that lacks all colour and the texture of variety. Write of my own times? Some succeed. I think of nature writers, or travel writers, or poets such as Laurie Lee (although even he was nostalgic). But write a novel reflecting modern times? Oh, my chin falls at the prospect. Take a look at David Mitchell’s Cloud Atlas to see a perfect portrait of the horrible decline of language from the loveliness and nobility of the nineteenth century into the monosyllabic gobbledegook of the future.
Arise, England! Learn to love words again! Learn rhythm and variety! Claim your amazing inheritance!
The sections set in Dee’s time of the sixteenth century are written so gorgeously that it makes the sections set in the present tedious by comparison. This is something that troubles me, how the past can throw the present into the shade. Towards the end, John Dee asks the author, ‘Why not write of your own time? Why do you fly from it? Is it because you fly from your own self?’
I find it impossible to write of my own time. This age lacks all colour and interest, not least in language. Oh, that we could say something like, ‘I could easily answer your fond comparisons, no doubt taken from some flibber-jibber knave that feigns tales. But I am not disposed to argue the matter.’ Instead I gaze in sorrow at fashions that are unspeakably dull and unflattering, and listen to language that lacks all colour and the texture of variety. Write of my own times? Some succeed. I think of nature writers, or travel writers, or poets such as Laurie Lee (although even he was nostalgic). But write a novel reflecting modern times? Oh, my chin falls at the prospect. Take a look at David Mitchell’s Cloud Atlas to see a perfect portrait of the horrible decline of language from the loveliness and nobility of the nineteenth century into the monosyllabic gobbledegook of the future.
Arise, England! Learn to love words again! Learn rhythm and variety! Claim your amazing inheritance!
Wednesday, 12 December 2007
Endangered Species No. 2 - the indent
Once upon a time, all text was continuous on the page. The only division was into chapters to denote a change of topic. The Greeks devised a slash mark called the paragraphos to separate one idea from the next, and it came into the West, I believe, via the printing house of the Venetian, Aldus Manutius. The modern symbol for the paragraph break is found on the toolbar of Word, but it's only used to show us the hidden line breaks on a page.
I don't know when starting a new line with an indent began, but it was certainly before the invention of the typewriter. When that piece of new technology arrived, writers had to push the carriage back to the left and hit the tab. Ah - what a moment. It could be a brief but useful respite from typing (no RSI in those days), or it could be a means of self-expression. When the carriage returned to base it rang a bell, so in typing classes, in order to be top budgie, all you had to do was make your bell ring more often than anyone else's; and in your employment you sent the carriage back hard enough for everyone to know what you felt about your job. When word processors came along, they rightly emulated the use of the return bar and the tabulated indent, but unfortunately it is a silent process offering no respite at all.
Bob advises me that the way to do paragraphs in this blog is simple if retrogressive: use the space bar. It seems not to work: in preview I lose all the indents. I've looked into it further and Wikipedia says that if you use the p code at the beginning and at the end it will form paragraphs - will it heck: it just gives you a double-line space. I think I can safely declare the indent to be an endangered species.
Modern simplicity has much to recommend it. Back in the 70s I was told off by my boss in a publishing house for not indenting each line or using commas when typing an address on a letter, but I simply could not see the point of all that time-wasting. Perhaps I've grown into my boss, but I abhor the business practice of separating paragraphs by two line spaces and no indent, at least I abhor it as a general application. The style does have its place and its use. In fact I use it all the time when writing reports on novels, in which I tell the authors not to use it.
Open any novel and you will not find the text laid out that way. If it is then it has been produced on the cheap by chimps. Agents and publishers still want to see manuscripts in double-line spacing. If you use the new-style paragraphing, it not only looks repellant - especially in dialogue - but it wastes acres of paper.
The indented paragraph is literary. It presumes intelligence on the part of the reader, the ability to follow a flow of ideas. Bite-sized, bullet-pointed information is for corporate reports and other low forms of the written word.
I don't know when starting a new line with an indent began, but it was certainly before the invention of the typewriter. When that piece of new technology arrived, writers had to push the carriage back to the left and hit the tab. Ah - what a moment. It could be a brief but useful respite from typing (no RSI in those days), or it could be a means of self-expression. When the carriage returned to base it rang a bell, so in typing classes, in order to be top budgie, all you had to do was make your bell ring more often than anyone else's; and in your employment you sent the carriage back hard enough for everyone to know what you felt about your job. When word processors came along, they rightly emulated the use of the return bar and the tabulated indent, but unfortunately it is a silent process offering no respite at all.
Bob advises me that the way to do paragraphs in this blog is simple if retrogressive: use the space bar. It seems not to work: in preview I lose all the indents. I've looked into it further and Wikipedia says that if you use the p code at the beginning and at the end it will form paragraphs - will it heck: it just gives you a double-line space. I think I can safely declare the indent to be an endangered species.
Modern simplicity has much to recommend it. Back in the 70s I was told off by my boss in a publishing house for not indenting each line or using commas when typing an address on a letter, but I simply could not see the point of all that time-wasting. Perhaps I've grown into my boss, but I abhor the business practice of separating paragraphs by two line spaces and no indent, at least I abhor it as a general application. The style does have its place and its use. In fact I use it all the time when writing reports on novels, in which I tell the authors not to use it.
Open any novel and you will not find the text laid out that way. If it is then it has been produced on the cheap by chimps. Agents and publishers still want to see manuscripts in double-line spacing. If you use the new-style paragraphing, it not only looks repellant - especially in dialogue - but it wastes acres of paper.
The indented paragraph is literary. It presumes intelligence on the part of the reader, the ability to follow a flow of ideas. Bite-sized, bullet-pointed information is for corporate reports and other low forms of the written word.
Tuesday, 11 December 2007
Endangered Species No. 1 - the semi-colon
I first noticed semi-colons in the novels of Melvyn Bragg. No doubt I'd been introduced to them at school, but I'd never used one. Having come across this tadpole of punctuation while trying to analyse the beauty of Bragg's style, I picked it up and took it home.
These days the fashion is for short sentences. We think they make our work pacey. In fact they make it monotonous. In the quest for variety, the semi-colon is a very useful tool. The rule is simple: it separates two related sentences. Either side of the semi-colon there will be a verb somewhere.
Example: Semi-colons are vital for good writing; they are, however, best used sparingly.
Another current virus, set fair to infect the future, is the new style of paragraphing. I'll save my spleen on that one for another day. Meanwhile, anyone know how to do the proper kind on a blog?
These days the fashion is for short sentences. We think they make our work pacey. In fact they make it monotonous. In the quest for variety, the semi-colon is a very useful tool. The rule is simple: it separates two related sentences. Either side of the semi-colon there will be a verb somewhere.
Example: Semi-colons are vital for good writing; they are, however, best used sparingly.
Another current virus, set fair to infect the future, is the new style of paragraphing. I'll save my spleen on that one for another day. Meanwhile, anyone know how to do the proper kind on a blog?
Saturday, 24 November 2007
Finished - again
The proofs arrived in October. It's only when a book is on the page that you can begin to see it objectively. I found a few typos that two proof readers had missed, but I found a great deal more things simply requiring improvement. My typesetter is nice and sympathetic - I'm sure she won't mind that I've changed what seems to be every other word. And flipped two chapters (how did I miss that?). At least I haven't introduced any new characters at this stage.
I have a writer friend who agreed to read the book some time ago. He emailed a couple of comments as he read then went silent. I waited a year. Then I asked another writer friend, could he possibly? would he have the time? Amazingly he agreed, but after I sent the typescript I heard nothing more.
I chose to go the self publishing route after some bruising experiences with the big guys, and I love it. Apart from allowing you to do what you want with your book, it puts you in direct contact with the reader, and you don't have to go to any dreadful parties and pretend to be enjoying yourself amidst literary strangers. You can throw your own parties and invite your friends. But self publishing has one great drawback: just as there is nothing between you and the reader, so is there nothing between you and publication. No editor with a quick eye and sharp mind, someone who could point out to you what proof readers cannot - that you have two chapters in the wrong order. I could employ one, of course, but it would be a great expense. Perhaps I will in the future.
In conversation with the first friend (after I decided not to be frosty any more), it turned out that I'd told him to stop reading because I was making so many changes. When this was discovered, he began reading the proofs, starting about a week after me. Next thing his computer crashed big time and, after having had comments on the first 150 pages, I have heard no more. As to the second friend, I emailed him to say I was at proof stage and, hey, life's busy - no hard feelings. Just as well. We met today unexpectedly and both laughed out loud, realising that if we hadn't had that exchange in the last couple of days, we'd have both been scurrying in opposite directions. He's been working himself into a ghost this past year and hadn't even the time to frame a grovelling apology. No hard feelings.
So, I've gone to press without any help from my friends. Is this finally it? I will, of course, get the corrected proofs back to check. But I'm beginning to feel light and empty instead of down and depressed - and that's a very good sign that it's all over.
I have a writer friend who agreed to read the book some time ago. He emailed a couple of comments as he read then went silent. I waited a year. Then I asked another writer friend, could he possibly? would he have the time? Amazingly he agreed, but after I sent the typescript I heard nothing more.
I chose to go the self publishing route after some bruising experiences with the big guys, and I love it. Apart from allowing you to do what you want with your book, it puts you in direct contact with the reader, and you don't have to go to any dreadful parties and pretend to be enjoying yourself amidst literary strangers. You can throw your own parties and invite your friends. But self publishing has one great drawback: just as there is nothing between you and the reader, so is there nothing between you and publication. No editor with a quick eye and sharp mind, someone who could point out to you what proof readers cannot - that you have two chapters in the wrong order. I could employ one, of course, but it would be a great expense. Perhaps I will in the future.
In conversation with the first friend (after I decided not to be frosty any more), it turned out that I'd told him to stop reading because I was making so many changes. When this was discovered, he began reading the proofs, starting about a week after me. Next thing his computer crashed big time and, after having had comments on the first 150 pages, I have heard no more. As to the second friend, I emailed him to say I was at proof stage and, hey, life's busy - no hard feelings. Just as well. We met today unexpectedly and both laughed out loud, realising that if we hadn't had that exchange in the last couple of days, we'd have both been scurrying in opposite directions. He's been working himself into a ghost this past year and hadn't even the time to frame a grovelling apology. No hard feelings.
So, I've gone to press without any help from my friends. Is this finally it? I will, of course, get the corrected proofs back to check. But I'm beginning to feel light and empty instead of down and depressed - and that's a very good sign that it's all over.
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