Tuesday, July 28, 2015

More on voice... and being brave

I keep rolling the concept of 'voice' over in my mind. Trying to find a way of simplifying it's definition, and come up with techniques you can use to find your own and apply it successfully to your writing. Writer pal, Sue Copsey, and I chatted at length about the importance and qualities of voice yesterday, trying to nut out what it is and how to produce it.

The short answer is, there is no short answer. The long answer is, I know it when I see it, and I can tell when it's missing. You can have technically great writing but the story won't work without voice. I guess then my definition is, voice is the beating heart that brings a story to life. And in different stories it manifests in different ways.

Sometimes voice is provided predominantly by the first person narrative of the central protagonist - such as Georgia Nicolson in Louise Rennison's Confession series that began with Angus, Thongs and Full Frontal Snogging.

Sometimes it's structure, setting, or the domination of dialogue or dialect. Sometimes the genre of the material drives the voice, at other times it's the central underlying theme. If you think of the Harry Potter series, the voice is clearly more than just the character of Harry. The magic of the fantasy setting,  the myriad of imaginative invented elements, the colour and energy and complexity of the plot are all involved too. Some critics would probably argue it's the frequency of adverbs. In The Hunger Games, the character of Katniss provides a significant proportion of the novel's voice but the atmosphere of the physical setting, the dramatic and urgent sequence of events and the complex political themes also contribute. With some writers it's the ability to surprise, whether with the plot, or the word play, or both. Sometimes it's the poetic nature of their writing style. Or its elegance or spareness.

And how do you put voice in to your writing? Specific methods are elusive but here are some things worth contemplating as you search for your own writing voice.

An author's style choices, their tics when they write, their own linguistic preferences, all shape their voice. And most of all their own personality influences the way they write, the topics they choose to explore, the presence or absence of humour, the weight of the themes, or it just permeates the writing in a more general sense. Engaging 'voice' in your writing demands that you put something of yourself in to your writing. It requires authorial bravery - they don't talk about baring your soul for nothing. Fear of exposure results in a weak or absent voice. You have to put yourself out there.

And for all that I understand about how to compose sentences, and what I know about the fundamentals of plot and how to structure one, the search for voice requires that I push myself beyond these basics of writing. It demands that I 'let go', that I experiment and play with ideas, with metaphor and simile, with characterisation and tone, motif's and imagery, with dialogue and action. And I'm willing to do it, willing to try new and different things and share pieces of myself in my writing, because it's worth it if I find my 'voice'.

Wednesday, July 8, 2015

Writing voice...

I have been working on a commissioned project. The lazy part of me will tell you that commissioned projects are jolly hard because someone else comes up with the rules and the inspiration and you must then work within these constraints to find and create the story. While this does not sound that difficult, I come from the school of organic inspiration. You know: the one where you start with all sorts of seeds, and you have sunshine, and rain, and warm soil, and some good fertilizer, and time, and eventually something grows. I have no clues which way the wind will blow, but it does, and this helps decide which seed germinates. In fact my whole writing career owes a lot to the whole 'organic' concept. Not just in terms of finding and turning ideas into stories, but also growing my profile and promoting my books. It all sounds rather 'soft' and undirected and haphazard, but there is an underlying drive and philosophy that keeps me true to my purpose, and mostly focused on the writing and the stories which in the end are what it is all about for me. Anyways, I digress. Commissioned project. A bit like a university assignment. Totally impossible to do and why did I ever enroll and I will tear my hair out before I ever get this finished, until you have actually done it and then you can look back and say that was a jolly good challenge and I'm so glad I took it on.

However, when I was in the midst of all my angsting about finding a commissioned project difficult, the voice of a character popped into my mind. And before I knew it, my mind grew the story and I'd written it down. And it underlined something important in my writing. I write best when I have found the voice.

Voice is a somewhat elusive concept. It isn't just the way your central protagonist talks and behaves and carries themselves. It's the words you choose to tell your story with, and the style of your writing. It is also the personality of the story as a whole. Is it jaunty, hilarious, sombre, confused, desperate? Or a combination of some, or all of these things, or a collection of other qualities entirely? Having these qualities signals what kind of story it is to the reader, and gives them a sense of whether it is their kind of thing. It is a means of connection, and provides the reader with a sense of the personal. This isn't generic or formulaic.  Reading a good story with a strong voice becomes a conversation with a friend, a journey the reader and the story take together. I try to make 'voice' the heart of my writing and I am lost without it, but by the same token it is not the 'whole' story either. You still need plot and character and setting etc... Identifying 'voice' during a university assignment for a creative writing paper many years ago was my aha moment. That's what I was missing in my own writing until that point. Suddenly I was 'seeing' it when I read and knew what I needed to do. It began to creep out of my mind and in to my writing.

We don't all want to see the same 'voice' when we read. Different readers are attracted by different things. I don't think you want to aim to create a one voice fits all - it dilutes the magic. But working on developing voice may be one of the most important things you do. If you are not sure how to do this, a way in is to look at what sets the writing of your favourite authors apart from that of other writers. What underpins their style and what qualities permeate their stories. How does their 'voice' make the story more than just the sum of its parts. There is a reason we often like everything a particular author has written.

I think voice is evident in the opening paragraph of my story Crocodile Dreaming:

The teacher took Joseph Miller to the zoo. In fact she took the whole class, including Joe, who was the second smallest student. It would have been better to be the smallest, but that position was filled by Martha Eggleton, who was not only short, but also blond and dimpled. Everyone felt protective towards Martha. Joe had red hair, and more freckles than ‘you could shake a stick at’ as Granny Miller liked to say. Joe didn’t get how a shaking stick was a way to measure anything but Granny used it quite a lot. He also had teeth that refused to sit neatly in a straight row, and wore glasses because otherwise the words on the board looked like wet weetbix. His classmates found all these things impossible to ignore. Maybe if Joe played sports, things would be different. But he didn’t, and they weren’t. He wasn’t really the right shape for sports.

And you can also see it in this paragraph I think:

Albert Bertal hated the museum. “I don’t want to go, Mum,” he said. He rolled his eyes to show her how much he didn’t want to go. “Museums’ are boring. Tell them I’ve got a pain. Tell them it might be suspected appendicitis. Tell them I might need surgery. And I’ll be back at school tomorrow.”

There are similarities in the voices of these two excerpts but they are not identical. Joseph and Albert are very different people and this becomes clear as the two stories progress. But the stories themselves are also already showing their own natures. Part of this is creating questions in the readers mind that invites them to read on for the answers, and the shape of these questions is already taking on its own personality...  

And this one from further along in The Half Life of Ryan Davis (pp. 83-84):

We came to a stop outside Kim's. I patted the pocket of my shirt to check the tickets were there. I put my hand on the door handle again but Dad put his hand on my shoulder.
"I've got a girlfriend too, mate," he said.
I didn't know what to say. My stomach kind of flopped over. I figured he and Mum were never getting back together but this news punched that message home - right in the guts. I didn't want another mum. Girlfriends were what people my age have. Not old dudes like Dad. He had a bald patch on the back of his head and his stomach hung over his trousers.
I turned back in my seat. Took my hand off the door handle. "How old is she?"
"She's younger than me," Dad said. "Not by a lot though. She works at my office. Her name's Annabel. She's really nice, you'll like her."
I don't even want to meet her, I thought.
"She's got two kids too, although they're younger than you and Gemma. This is her car."
A surge of anger drove through my body. I wished I had that coin in my hand to run along the paintwork. Two kids? He already had two kids. His own kids. My eyes stung with tears. I didn't want to be hearing about this now.
"Does Mum know? Or Gemma?" I forced the words out. He shook his head in reply, this gumpy expression on his face.
"So why tell me?"
He shrugged and shook his head again. "I don't know. You were going to have to find out sometime."
"Not if it doesn't last."
"Ryan!"
"Don't ask me to babysit," I shot at him as I yanked open the door as roughly as I could and got out, slamming it behind me.


Point of view changes voice. As do our choices over dialogue and action, pacing and description. Like other aspects of my writing, creating 'voice' is organic. And if it doesn't come, the story is a struggle to write, and doesn't feel right. Sometimes I feel like I am casting around, fishing inside my mind for the right tone, the right feel, a voice that tells the story the way it should be told. And when it steps up and moves in to the story, the writing transforms. And flows. It's what makes readers, and publishers sit up and keep reading. As agent Janet Reid said 'Voice is one of those ephemeral "musts" that drive querying authors mad because there is no objective answer.  Unlike spelling, format and word count, there's no way to measure voice...but I know it when I see it.'


Wednesday, July 1, 2015

Kids, exercise your rights!!

Peoples, it is very exciting times in this year's New Zealand Book Awards for Children and Young Adults!! Children get to say which books published over the last year they like the most. 20 Finalists across four categories have already been chosen by young readers from all around the country, and now it is up to you to have your say and cast your vote. Which books are your favourites? We want to know what you think. The power rests with you...

Here is the list to check out again before you get voting:-

Children's Choice - Picture Books
  • I am not a Worm by Scott Tulloch - Scholastic NZ
  • Little Red Riding Hood ….Not Quite  by Yvonne Morrison & Donovan Bixley - Scholastic NZ
  • The Anzac Puppy by Peter Millett & Trish Bowles - Scholastic NZ
  • Doggy Ditties from A to Z by Jo van Dam & Myles Lawford - Scholastic NZ
  • Marmaduke Duck on the Wide Blue Seas by Juliette MacIver & Sarah Davis - Scholastic NZ
Children's Choice - Junior Fiction
  • Dragon Knight: Fire! by Kyle Mewburn & Donovan Bixley - Scholastic NZ
  • The Island of Lost Horses by Stacy Gregg - HarperCollins
  • How I Alienated My Grandma by Suzanne Main - Scholastic NZ
  • 1914 - Riding into War by Susan Brocker - Scholastic NZ
  • My New Zealand Story: Canterbury Quake by Desna Wallace - Scholastic NZ
Children's Choice - Non-fiction
  • New Zealand Sports Hall of Fame: 25 Kiwi Champions by Maria Gill & Marco Ivancic - New Holland Publishers
  • Maori Art for Kids by Julie Noanoa & Norm Heke - Craig Potton Publishing
  • The Letterbox Cat & other poems by Paula Green & Myles Lawford - Scholastic NZ
  • A New Zealand Nature Journal by Sandra Morris - Walker Books Australia
  • Waitangi Day: The New Zealand Story by Philippa Werry - New Holland Publishers
Children's Choice - Young Adult Fiction
  • I Am Rebecca by Fleur Beale - Penguin Random House NZ
  • Night Vision by Ella West - Allen & Unwin
  • Spark by Rachael Craw - Walker Books Australia
  • Awakening by Natalie King - Penguin Random House
  • The Red Suitcase by Jill Harris - Makaro Press

Every kid who votes (you need to be 18 years old or under) will be in the draw to win some books for themselves and for their school (this is a truly awesome prize for people who love books like we do). On the second page you will be asked some questions to help the organisers contact you through your school if you win. If you are unsure about anything ask mum or dad or your teacher to help you.


Voting closes at 12 noon on Friday, July 31st. So VOTE now, and tell your friends to vote too. Just click here to vote.


Thursday, June 25, 2015

If a tree falls in a forest...

Feeling all existential this week. So, you know the argument. If a tree falls in a forest and no one is there to hear it, does it make a sound? My SO and I have batted this one back and forth from time to time, neither one of us budging from our preferred stand on the debate. Does sound rely on a receiver to exist? What do you think? And why am I asking? Well, it occurs to me that being a writer is a bit like this. If you produce work that no one reads are you still a writer?

Bear with me.

There is a saying - Publishing is a business, writing an art. The two will never completely see eye-to-eye. Sure some writers work on commercial principles, writing, as much as it is possible to do so, for the market. They focus on commercial titles which have a greater chance of selling in volume. Of course there are no guarantees. All writers take a risk that their fall in the forest will be unheard. Some of us write stories that try to answer some other need. At first publication is the yardstick of our success. And if we are published, then sales, further publication and perhaps even short-listings and awards become the new yardsticks. All of us want to be heard. We crave a receiver for our sound. The more receivers the better. It's our greatest fear. That we aren't real if no one hears our voice.

But hang on ... just backing the truck up here. That tree created sound. Celebrate the act of creation folks. Cos humanity sometimes gets a little caught up with the measures of things rather than the creation itself. What is the object of our pursuit? The commerce? Or the creation? Personally I think it's cool to seek both. On the whole, we are social creatures who like to share what we do. I need a way to show others (publication) and understandably I hope they enjoy it (sales, short-listings). And if I'm honest I personally find the measures highly desirable. My ego likes a good stroking as much as the next person does. So what happens when the gap between strokes widens? Truth is, the only thing you can control is what you produce. You can't control the publishers, the market place, the readers, so focus on the product. In some ways I can't even control that. If there is a switch inside my brain that would allow me to stop the urge to write I am yet to find it. So I am bound to keep creating. If no one is listening I intend to focus my attention on making the sounds regardless. Gotta make the best tree-falling noises I can. And just gotta be a tree that can keep getting back up again ;-)


Wednesday, June 10, 2015

Finalists Announced

The finalists for the 2015 New Zealand Book Awards for Children and Young Adults have been announced. Check out this awesome bunch of books!

Picture Books
  • Construction, Sally Sutton and Brian Lovelock, Walker Books Australia
  • I Am Not a Worm, Scott Tulloch, Scholastic New Zealand
  • Jim’s Letters, Glyn Harper and Jenny Cooper, Penguin Random House
  • Keys, Sasha Cotter and Joshua Morgan, Huia Publishers
  • Little Red Riding Hood . . . Not Quite, Yvonne Morrison and Donovan Bixley, Scholastic New Zealand
Non-Fiction
  • Ghoulish Get-Ups: How to Create Your Own Freaky Costumes, Fifi Colston, Scholastic New Zealand
  • Māori Art for Kids, Julie Noanoa and Norm Heke, Craig Potton Publishing
  • Mōtītī Blue and the Oil Spill, Debbie McCauley and Sarah Elworthy, Mauao Publishing
  • The Book of Hat, Harriet Rowland, Makaro Press/Submarine
  • Under the Ocean: explore & discover New Zealand’s sea life, Gillian Candler and Ned Barraud, Craig Potton Publishing
Junior Fiction
  • Conrad Cooper’s Last Stand, Leonie Agnew, Penguin Random House/Puffin
  • Dragon Knight: Fire!, Kyle Mewburn and Donovan Bixley, Scholastic New Zealand
  • Monkey Boy, Donovan Bixley, Scholastic New Zealand
  • The Island of Lost Horses, Stacy Gregg, HarperCollins
  • The Pirates and the Nightmaker, James Norcliffe, Penguin Random House/Longacre Child
Young Adults
  • I Am Rebecca, Fleur Beale, Penguin Random House
  • Night Vision, Ella West, Allen & Unwin
  • Recon Team Angel: Vengeance, Brian Falkner, Walker Books Australia
  • Singing Home the Whale, Mandy Hager, Penguin Random House
  • While We Run, Karen Healey, Allen & Unwin
Māori Language Award
  • Hoiho Paku, Stephanie Thatcher and Ngaere Roberts, Scholastic New Zealand
  • Nga Ki, Sasha Cotter and Joshua Morgan, Huia Publishers (translation ofKeys, a finalist in the Picture Book category)

This year we also have finalists for Children's Choice as selected by young readers themselves - a wonderful new development in these book awards.

Voting for the Children’s Choice opens on Tuesday, 9 June and closes on Friday, 31 July. This year there will be a winner in each category. Anyone 18 and under can go and vote here.
Children's Choice - Picture Books
  • I am not a Worm by Scott Tulloch - Scholastic NZ
  • Little Red Riding Hood ….Not Quite  by Yvonne Morrison & Donovan Bixley - Scholastic NZ
  • The Anzac Puppy by Peter Millett & Trish Bowles - Scholastic NZ
  • Doggy Ditties from A to Z by Jo van Dam & Myles Lawford - Scholastic NZ
  • Marmaduke Duck on the Wide Blue Seas by Juliette MacIver & Sarah Davis - Scholastic NZ
Children's Choice - Junior Fiction
  • Dragon Knight: Fire! by Kyle Mewburn & Donovan Bixley - Scholastic NZ
  • The Island of Lost Horses by Stacy Gregg - HarperCollins
  • How I Alienated My Grandma by Suzanne Main - Scholastic NZ
  • 1914 - Riding into War by Susan Brocker - Scholastic NZ
  • My New Zealand Story: Canterbury Quake by Desna Wallace - Scholastic NZ
Children's Choice - Non-fiction
  • New Zealand Sports Hall of Fame: 25 Kiwi Champions by Maria Gill & Marco Ivancic - New Holland Publishers
  • Maori Art for Kids by Julie Noanoa & Norm Heke - Craig Potton Publishing
  • The Letterbox Cat & other poems by Paula Green & Myles Lawford - Scholastic NZ
  • A New Zealand Nature Journal by Sandra Morris - Walker Books Australia
  • Waitangi Day: The New Zealand Story by Philippa Werry - New Holland Publishers
Children's Choice - Young Adult Fiction
  • I Am Rebecca by Fleur Beale - Penguin Random House NZ
  • Night Vision by Ella West - Allen & Unwin
  • Spark by Rachael Craw - Walker Books Australia
  • Awakening by Natalie King - Penguin Random House
  • The Red Suitcase by Jill Harris - Makaro Press
Winners will be revealed on August 13th at an Award Ceremony in Wellington.

Thursday, June 4, 2015

Crocodile Dreaming Parts 1 + 2

And here is my completed story wot I have now finished


Crocodile Dreaming


The teacher took Joseph Miller to the zoo. In fact she took the whole class, including Joe, who was the second smallest student. It would have been better to be the smallest, but that position was filled by Martha Eggleton, who was not only short, but also blond and dimpled. Everyone felt protective towards Martha. Joe had red hair, and more freckles than ‘you could shake a stick at’ as Granny Miller liked to say. Joe didn’t get how a shaking stick was a way to measure anything but Granny used it quite a lot. He also had teeth that refused to sit neatly in a straight row, and wore glasses because otherwise the words on the board looked like wet weetbix. His classmates found all these things impossible to ignore. Maybe if Joe played sports, things would be different. But he didn’t, and they weren’t. He wasn’t really the right shape for sports.

Joe liked the idea of going to the zoo. Animals seemed much less complicated than people. His Mum and Dad took him once but they were busy people and hadn’t managed to fit in another visit yet. He tried to hide his excitement in the week leading up to the visit. The other boys in his class found other people’s excitement annoying. At least that’s how they found Joe’s excitement.
It was cloudy the day of the trip. Ms Terry said this was perfect zoo visiting weather. Sunshine made animals sleepy and want to hide away in their dens in the shade. Joe stayed on the bus till all the other students were off as he often tripped over other peoples legs. But when he finally emerged he sniffed the earthy combination of animal fragrances and smiled.
“Hurry up Joseph,” Ms Terry called. “Stop dawdling.”
The animals didn’t disappoint.
“Miss, aren’t flamingos meant to be pink?” Harry Tanner asked as he hung over the railing at their enclosure.
“They’re grey because of the food they eat,” Joe said. “When they’ve eaten enough shrimps and stuff they’ll change colour and be pink.”
“Quite so, Joseph,” Ms Terry said tartly.
“Yes Joseph, quite so,” Harry parroted.

It was a small mistake, laughing at Harry when the llama spit at him. Everyone laughed at Joe when Harry spat at him at school, and frankly Joe didn’t see the difference. But apparently there was one because Harry let him have it while no one was looking during morning tea break beside the band rotunda. Harry’s friends egged him on.
Joe tried not to cry, but his nose hurt.
“What’s all this?” asked Ms Terry when she finally noticed.
“They’re crocodile tears Miss. They’re not real. I didn’t do anything,” Harry said in his own defence, out of habit, even though Joe had said nothing.
Joe didn’t bother mentioning that crocodiles did actually cry real tears. And that it had nothing to do with pretending they felt sad when they didn’t.

The crack in the left hand lens of his glasses made the animals look mysterious; especially the crocodile, already a little sinister, eyeing Joe from under half closed lids, through the vapour of the climate-controlled Reptile House. Half submerged in murky water, the animal floated perfectly still. Its knobbly, patterned hide made Joe think of dragons, and the knights who fought them. Magnificent teeth, curving and pointed and long, sat outside the crocodile’s lips in a predatory grin. Who could really tell what simmered below the calm and silent surface? Only a low railing separated the pond and its grassy surrounds from the visitors.
“This is boring,” Harry declared. “Crocodiles never do anything. And they’re ugly.” He smiled at Martha who flashed a dimple back. “Let’s go see the lions.” Everyone was slowly filing out, students pushing and shoving in their impatience. It might have been an accident. Who could tell in the end? But Harry’s elbow caught Joe in the back as he leaned over the fence. Joe found himself falling forward, watched closely by those crocodile eyes.  He landed on the edge of the pond, his hands in the water. What was that beneath his hand? He grasped at it.
Laughter erupted behind him. Joe wasn’t quite sure how being in danger was funny.
As quickly as he’d fallen in, the crocodile keeper yanked him out, pulling him up by the back of his shirt. The crocodile had not moved. Even though that’s what they usually did when food fell down right in front of them. How odd.
“You should never climb into an enclosure,” the keeper warned. “Crocodiles are killers.”
There seemed little point in Joe saying he’d been pushed.
“Yes,” he said instead. And, “Thank you.” But already the keeper was moving off to attend to his next task. The room had emptied. Joe opened his palm out and looked down at the crocodile tooth, large and hard and yellowed. He popped it in his pocket and glanced at the crocodile.
“Thanks for not eating me,” he said.
The crocodile blinked, a slow single tear sliding down its cheek. Joe said, “Bye,” and hurried off to find Ms Terry and the others.

His parents told Joe to be more careful when he showed them his broken glasses after school that day. They fished his spare pair out of the hall cupboard and handed them to him. It felt so much better not to have a fault line running through his eyesight. Joe didn’t tell them about the tooth. Instead he put it under his pillow as he got into bed that night.

He dreamed…

His nose filled with the scent of animals rising up from the ground beneath him. Zebras, antelope, giraffes, and lions. And darker things. Hyenas, man.  He moved forward slowly across the grass, with a scything motion, twitching from side to side, his tail sweeping the ground behind him. His claws dug into the earth. He blinked, a lazy movement, felt his teeth slide over his lips as his mouth clamped shut.
Joe felt powerful, hungry, and confident. He reached the edge and slid into the water, surging forward as the fluid took his weight. His view blurred a little as his third eyelids moved across his eyes, but they kept the water out. He watched bubbles rise up from his nostrils to break the surface of the water above. Submerged reeds swayed, silt from the riverbed swirling with his movement and the currents. Thin sharp shapes darted: fish too small for his appetite. This was his domain. Here the rules were simple. Here he felt at home.

“Good sleep?” Joe’s mum asked as she poured cereal into his bowl the next morning.
“Mmmm,” Joe replied. Telling his mum ‘maybe’ or ‘no’ would only lead to a difficult chat between them. He felt the tip of the crocodile tooth in his shorts pocket. Joe smiled at his mum and pushed his glasses up.

He felt different when he walked through the school gate. He was still a boy, but he felt his tail sweeping the ground behind him, his eyelids closed and opened in a slow, lazy blink, and his teeth … his teeth felt sharp.
Harry was waiting for Joe, as he often did. Half way along the corridor leading to their classroom. Just in front of the hook where Joe would have to stop and hang his schoolbag.
“Have a nice swim in the crocodile pond yesterday?” Harry asked, looking smug.
“Yes I did thanks. I felt right at home,” Joe replied. His tail twitched, his jaws closed and Joe rolled with his prey.
SNAP!
“They’re just crocodile tears,” Joe said to the gathering crowd as he hung his bag up and headed to his classroom.

He felt sure, as he took his seat at his desk, that at the zoo the crocodile was grinning. 

Wednesday, June 3, 2015

The Mockingjay

Do you ever feel like you are in a novel? More and more, people talk of the publishing world as if it was some kind of dystopia...

Sometimes I feel as if I am in the Hunger Games - thrown in to a vast wilderness with booby traps, and hidden dangers, fighting for survival. Skills will help you battle through but who knows what will be thrown at you next. The ground and goal posts keep shifting. Sometimes concealing yourself with camouflage and just waiting it out might be the best strategy. There are judgements and assessments, and ratings are applied. The audience watches on, drink in hand. They want to be entertained.

I'm waiting for my little parachute-topped tiffin pan with burn ointment from my sponsors.

Will there be a rebellion?