Time Management for Writers

So you have a lot of work to do, so you are sitting down all the time, drinking coffee and scrunching your spine into the chair. Meanwhile all that housework and gardening and DIY are piling up and making your life feel chaotic and indulgent.  So what do you do?

I have adopted a simple but effective system of 45 minutes on / 15 minutes off.

But when I say ‘off’, what I actually mean is doing something else.  So I start on the hour, write for 45 minutes, and then I get up and mow a bit of the lawn, put on a batch of washing, do the washing-up, tidy my bedroom, recycle the beer bottles, etc.  On the hour, I sit back down and do some more writing.

What have I observed?

  • If I do 3 or 4 rounds a day, I can make huge progress with the writing, but also  get quite a lot of stuff done;
  • It is surprising what can be achieved in 1 minute;
  • 50 minutes is too long; 45 minutes is just right;
  • I get more done doing this than I do if I have a whole day ‘free’, because it makes me do it and do it quickly;
  • I realise that there are no minutes in the day for simply fiddling about with Facebook;
  • I don’t get stiff;
  • I can’t wait to get back to the writing.

What can you do in 1 minute?


Structure, viewpoint, tense

Find MeFind Me by J.S. Monroe
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

This book proved incredibly useful for my work on structure and modes of narration. It came to me serendipitously as a freebie from the London Book Fair just as I was considering for The Scottish Exiles the question: ‘What stories do I want to tell?’ I had identified four interweaving plot lines which, like in Find Me, involved different characters, and different points in time.

In part one of Find Me, the basic structure is that Jar tells the present (‘real time’) and Rosa tells the past, in alternate chapters. In part two Rosa tells the real time present in italics, and Martin is introduced as a viewpoint character. This is an unwelcome jolt, especially as he is not a sympathetic character. In my novel I will avoid this by introducing each character early and sticking with them throughout, albeit to varying degrees.

In Find Me, Munroe’s uses of past and present tense are quite complex. For example Rosa, telling what happened in the past (5 years ago), is telling it in the present tense (as a diary) but referring both to the immediate past (earlier in the evening) and to the ‘present’. There is a difference between ‘linguistic past’ and ‘story past’. I must note that this complexity is all good: it doesn’t come over as complicated as my analysis suggests; it is more or less invisible, yet also subtly rich.

My current strategy, after reading Find Me, is to attempt four interweaving stories of female protagonist present, female protagonist past, male protagonist present and antagonist present, all culminating in the climax: i.e. ‘what happened’.

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How to Learn ‘How To’ From Fiction

The Lie of the LandThe Lie of the Land by Sam North

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

I chose this book because my novel in progress, The Scottish Exiles, is set on Dartmoor. I live near Dartmoor and can do writing research trips with ease, but I don’t want my story to read like a natural history book. I wanted to see how authors portray Dartmoor in fiction; how they encapsulate its atmosphere. I also wanted to see whether I am on the right track about daily life on Dartmoor: is my character’s life plausible? Am I making it too easy for him? Are his preoccupations representative of the lifestyle? I did get insight into these things, and I will refer to it again when I am later ‘editing for atmosphere’.

But serendipity prevailed, and the best thing about Sam North’s book is the way he describes in such detail all the jobs his farmer character Jane has to do. In some places it almost reads as a list – well not exactly, but it reads a bit like my own ‘To-Do’ list, some of which I write as a ‘Did’ list, in a desperate attempt to give myself a feeling of accomplishment and progress. Jane has endless tasks that have to be performed, seasonal tasks repeated yearly, things breaking that need repair and unexpected crises to deal with. In between she stoically opens a tin of sardines, or eats a lump of cheese or a Mr Kipling Farmhouse cake.

The specificity of the detail is wonderfully entertaining, but it does more. It actually tells you how to do the things – or at least how the things are done. As a child I loved Swallows and Amazons for the sailing technique and camp craft, The Little House in the Big Woods for making maple syrup and butchering a pig and and My Side of the Mountain for tanning a hide and making a bed and mattress. When I began my novel I called it, with humour and inability to classify genre in equal measure, a ‘dystopian agricultural romance’. I wanted it to incorporate a ‘how to’ for things that Davey Kirk has to do living in his off-grid mountain shack, and for Rosa Retallack’s survival skills before she meets him. But my question to the market was: do adults want to read this stuff?

Well The Lie of the Land answers this for me, in the affirmative. Because it is exactly what made this book stand out.

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The Case for Dialect in Fiction

Say your novel is full of Scottish characters and has a Cornish protagonist.  The question is: do you depict dialogue, and if so in what way and to what extent?  Even devoutly following the ‘less is more’ advice, there are still decisions to be made about exactly where to pitch it on the dialect spectrum.

Dialect only in the imagination

Unless I am directed otherwise, I hear characters in my own accent. The problem with using no dialect at all is that you lose a useful tool . Dialect can:

  • Distinguish between individual characters
  • Distinguish between character, author and narrator
  • Establish atmosphere
  • Establish setting – or a character’s alienation in a setting
  • Establish time period
  • Indicate alien storyworld
  • Identify a character’s background geographically and socially
  • Hint at a character’s backstory

If I read a book about Scots, I want to hear Scots.  If they all apparently speak in English accents, I would be unconvinced and disappointed. In Find Me by J.S. Monroe the male protagonist is, we are told, Irish. Luckily his origin is not integral to the story,  because with the almost entire absence of dialect, I continually forgot this.

Rhythm, cadence and word choice as dialect

This is the approach often recommended to and by writers – see for example Cameron Michaels in his article Writing Dialect: It’s In The Rhythm.  The idea is to use local words, or to arrange them and punctuate in a way that makes dialect clear to the reader. In The Scottish Exiles use of the obvious words ‘lass’, ‘wee’ and ‘aye’ would be examples, as would ‘outwith’.

Alternative spelling as dialect

Regional word usage is not always enough without a key to its pronunciation. When Munroe’s Irishman interjects “Jaysus”, it has to be spelt this way or the reader would simply assume ‘Jesus’.  If Rosa my Cornish protagonist meets someone in the street, instead of ‘Hello’ or ‘Hi’ she would say ‘Alright?’ But she wouldn’t pronounce it ‘all right’; she would say ‘A’right?’. The only alternative to spelling it in dialect would be for a third person narrator or another character to make reference to the pronunciation.  How contrived and cumbersome to say ‘”Alright?” said Rosa, dropping the L in a distinctly Cornish manner.’

“Five shillings mair,” said he, “and hersel’ will bring ye there” says a Scottish character to Robert Louis Stevenson’s David Balfour in Kidnapped.  At a glance you can tell who is speaking.

Written dialect might look a little odd, but as soon as you form the words in your head, you hear them.  Some people speak in accents when they quote someone or tell a story, and the story is instantly enlivened.  To actors it is an integral part of their job. Whether verbal or written, dialect needs to be done well and with precision, but we don’t question the principle of whether actors should speak ‘properly’ (i.e. standard English) instead of using dialect. The downside of writing dialect rather than speaking it is that you can never be sure how the reader will ‘hear’ it.

There are different types of alternative spelling.  These include elisions like the Scottish ‘hersel” or Rosa’s Cornish ‘a’right’, or contractions like the English ‘don’t’ instead of ‘do not’. There are what might be described as ‘mis-spellings for the sake of pronunciation’ like Stevenson’s ‘mair’ instead of ‘more’.  Each of these represents a choice that needs to be made by the writer of dialect.  Different words as dialect

Alternative spelling and pronunciation

The next stage on the dialect spectrum is where a word both pronounced and spelt differently, yet does not constitute an entirely different word.  An example would be ‘dinnae’ instead of ‘don’t’, which is include in the Oxford English Dictionary, or an archaic word such as ‘ye’ for ‘you’.  There are also choices within these alternative spellings: ‘dinnae’ or ‘dinna’?  ‘Ye’, ‘ya’ or an elided ‘y apostrophe’ as in the American ‘y’all’?  These words, used consistently but sparingly, can convey immediately the origin and identity of the character.

Incomprehensible dialect



Jennifer Sommer‘s thesis blogpost cites several novels with what she calls an ‘extreme level of dialect’.  Robert Burns is a good example of dialect that is so strong and broad that it is difficult for the English to understand.  While for the sake of our audience we may not wish to emulate Burns, I would still question whether it is  essential that the reader understands every single word. If there is an incomprehensible sentence or two by a particular character, does this matter – especially if the character would have been incomprehensible or difficult to understand if you heard them speak?  The alternative might be to ‘tell’ rather than ‘show’: ‘Blah, blah,’ he said incomprehensibly.’ or  ‘I could not understand a word he said.’

In The Scottish Exiles, Davey Kirk is the Scot doing most of the speaking. He has minimal dialect, because he is a viewpoint character and too much would be too much. But when they meet other Scottish secondary characters a broader dialect makes a contrast. Deeper research and listening to audio material can help establish characters in a particular area, for example in Aberdeen they say ‘fae’ instead of ‘from’.

Narration in dialect

A step further on the dialect spectrum is where the narrator uses dialect. Lewis Grassic Gibbons’ Sunset Song is an example. He provides a glossary for terms that may not be understood. It is probable this will be used only by native speakers.  There are numerous modern examples of Scots dialect being written by Scots although there is a difference between informal banter between friends, and more formal writing in an identical accent. Contrast the language used by Lesley Riddoch in The National  with her own Facebook page where she announces she is going ‘aff tae bed’. This informal v formal use might usefully be compared with character v narration.

While Stevenson, Gibbon and Riddoch might use dialect, is there a level of cultural appropriation if a non-Scot writes in a Scots dialect? In OutlanderAmerican Diana Gabaldon’s uses character dialect words and also some Gaelic phrases. Evidently it did not affect adversely either publication or sales. However, to narrate in dialect might overstep cultural acceptability.

Dialect overlapping with language

In An Introduction to Modern Scots Andy Eagle lays out the history of the Scots language, and notes its effective diminution into ‘a dialect’.  Perhaps the answer to the dialect conundrum is to place the dialect words or phrases in italics, as latin might be. But the reason for this would surely be more academic than literary or practical. If the problem is the flow, or the reader’s understanding, use of italics is unlikely to help. As regards a writing device for delineating character or creating atmosphere, italics would simply get in the way.


Novel written entirely in another language

It may appear facetious to carry the idea to this extreme, but it bears at least a mention. To vast sections of the world, a book written in English is a book written in a foreign language. English is not somehow ‘neutral’. Is it simply our palate that desires a book to be written in an unsullied version of English? Should this be pandered to? I could potentially (had I the skill, the time, the knowledge, the dedication) write my novel in Gaelic, Scots, Doric – or a mixture of these, depending on each character’s origin. But my protagonist is English. There would need to be dual language at least. Then there is the narration to consider.  So it might be an interesting exercise, but it would plainly create difficulties both in craft and as regards publication in Britain or America. Effectively I would be an English writer translating into Scots, only for a translator to translate back into English. Let’s not go there.


The Tyranny of the Critique

Why do I shed some peer critiques like mountain rain off Goretex, whereas others drill down into the core of my confidence?  Why are some criticisms a welcome and joyful experience whereas others are simply belittling? This post is starting as a rumination, and over the next few weeks will turn into an analysis. Please keep coming back… and add your own comments below.

What makes a critique OK?

  • A pre-planned, delineated set of critiquing criteria
  • A written critique
  • When it is delivered in private
  • When it is delivered by someone whose opinion I value
  • When the critique is emotionless and objective
  • When it is a critique of a polished ‘as good as I can make it’ draft
  • When it is a piece that is complete in itself
  • When the critic identifies the nature of the criticism
  • When the critic frames their criticism as personal preference
  • When the critic queries word choice
  • When the criticism is specific

What makes a critique not OK?

  • Ad hoc critiquing adopted piecemeal by the critic there and then
  • A verbal, ‘in person’ critique
  • When it is delivered in public
  • When it is delivered by someone whose opinion I do not value
  • An emotionally charged critique
  • When it is a critique of a first or early draft
  • When it is a critique of a random section and the critic is not familiar with the earlier sections
  • When the critic frames their criticism as me doing wrong
  • When the critic substitutes their own words for mine
  • When the criticism is general
  • When I don’t agree with it

Tips for preparing work for critiquing

  1. Polish it as much as time and skill will allow. That way the critic will be focusing on the remaining errors or weaknesses, rather than the things you already knew you had to edit or research. You will get a better quality of critique.
  2. Place ‘to be researched’ passages or words in [square brackets], and tell the critic this is what they are.
  3. Only solicit critiques from people whose opinion you trust.

Choosing tense and viewpoint

This is the post excerpt.

I have been writing The Scottish Exiles for almost 4 years. Much of this time has been spent fiddling with tense and viewpoint, Cmd F and Replace being my tools of choice. It is not simply a technical decision of ‘Who is speaking?’ and ‘When did it happen?’ It is a question of:

What impression do I want to give my readers?

Rosa is alone on the moor. We are accompanying her in the action, in her loneliness and fear. She has no one to talk to, and she is thinking thoughts and feeling emotions about what has happened to her, debating with herself her current predicament and how she is going to resolve it.

At first glance, it would seem sensible to write this as follows:

  • In the first person, because we need to be inside her head. How else are we going to know how she is feeling or what is she planning?
  • In the present tense, for the immediacy that this brings, the closeness to the action.

But this has raised a secondary issue:

When is she telling us her story?

Will the present tense give the impression that she is gabbling out loud to herself or the wildlife?  Even if we suspend the absolute literal implication of a present tense account, the question still remains: how do we know about the story? Is Rosa recounting it later? In which case, wouldn’t she be speaking in the past tense?

Margaret Atwood in The Handmaid’s Tale uses the present tense for the ‘now’ of the story and the past tense for recounting the past. It is a story set in a dystopian future where reference must be made to a previous time, as is The Scottish Exiles. Atwood’s use of the present tense does not suggest Offred is talking aloud to herself. It rather gives the impression that this is current, that ‘this is what we do’ as opposed to ‘this is what we did’. It is a new regime, and being a handmaid has lot of rules and conventions.

I am tempted to follow suit. However, in Atwood’s classic we find that the stories were taped. Does this make any difference? No, not really – because she isn’t talking into a dictaphone while she is doing it. She recounts it later – after she escapes, the academics think.

So is it all about atmosphere?

There is an approach that I am calling ‘onomatopoeic narrative’. Not in the strict sense of one word sounding like its meaning, like ‘tinkle’, but in the general way the prose is written giving the atmosphere of what is being written about. An example might be Janice Galloway’s The Trick is to Keep Breathing, where the character has a breakdown – reflected in the novel, which falls apart as she has the breakdown, words falling off the page.

Is it always a good plan to give this layer of meaning to the narrative? I would identify one good example of not doing this: where the character is boring. I am not sure it is a good plan for the character to drone on for pages just to make a point to the reader.

Creating a Dystopian Storyworld

The Handmaid's TaleThe Handmaid’s Tale by Margaret Atwood

This is an example of establishing the plausibility of a future dystopian storyworld. Sufficient background is given for it not to have just come out of the blue, and the final chapter, where academics review the era in a more distant future, explains more of this.

Atwood creates a series of social concepts to build her world, and contrasts these with the protagonist’s reminiscences and memories of former times. Some of these seem a little trite, almost infantile. I would question the realism of this, in as much that one might expect the protagonist to distance herself, refer to the ‘so-called’ [whatever it is]. She evidently doesn’t accept the world and its concepts; I think she might question language a little more.

Taking the dystopian society ‘backward’ (regressive, old fashioned, impoverished) is a useful device for avoiding speculation about future technology, and thereby ‘dating’ the novel. As a 2017 reader of a 1983 book I do notice the lack of reference to mobile phones and the author’s computer references (which at the time of writing were barely in use). But this doesn’t feel wrong – because Gilead has gone ‘backwards’.

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