The kids are reading my children’s novel. Picture the scene. Side-by-side at a lap-top, wide-eyed, staring. An hour later, they are still there! That’s when I work out that we might be onto something. And, sure enough, that something is You-Tube.
Now there is feedback in its own right, but you sometimes need something more helpful. Luckily, I stumbled upon the Sheffield Novelists, who used to meet in an ‘Old Man’s Pub.’ You know: bar-stools, beer-mats, dart-board, that sort of thing. Landlord who said ‘it’s nice to see you’ and invited last orders before shouting ‘Time!’ We swapped 3000-word submissions before the session and gave each other the sort of feedback we’d hopefully have liked to receive, which was nice.
Unfortuantely, there were two blows: losing our venue was less devastating than you’d think, because the awesome Anne, a Sheffield writer, moved the whole endeavor online. My second blow was when my memory failed. There are precious few advantages. One is that I can read someone’s second draft of a scene, as if I’m reading it for the first time. But then they say, ‘did you like that ending better than last month?’ – and you’ve no idea. Or worse, you agree to host an in-the-flesh meeting and then you completely forget that they’re coming…… and the toilet needs cleaning….. =
For quite a long time, I couldn’t remember what I’d read before meetings, let alone the names of other authors, characters, or the back-stories of the novels. I regularly forgot to submit things, or to read one or other of the pieces. Worse than that, one Guy – let’s call him guy – who rarely goes to meetings and has mostly an internet presence – has the same colour hair and the same first name as another guy we’ll call Guy, who does go to meetings but has no internet presence at all. I know one the second guy very well – and so do my kids – where as I have a vague idea that I offended the other guy once rather badly, when my memory was newly atrocious. You remember the feelings, but not the facts. Anyway, my stupid brain keeps refusing to split them into two separate people.
The Facebook Guy is publishing a book. I send encouraging messages and accept a ticket to the launch. I share a social-media post encouraging others to go along too. You might have seen this coming, but I did not: my social-media post liberally praised the previous writings of the other Guy. I got a very polite email putting me right, my heart dropped through my feet and I will be going to his launch with a bag on my head. I would try to tell the funny story to strangers I meet at the launch, but for some reason squirmy stories about your own memory difficulties are never a very good ice-breaker, and I think Guy might have been quite offended.
Anyway, last night was the Sheffield Novel-Slam. It’s a massive event, like Strictly Come Dancing for writers. You have to give your novel a name and a first line. Then you have to read a one-minute long pitch. After that, there’s a vote and the best few get to read a few pages. The judges give their feedback and then crown the winner.
But what’s notable about Strictly is that the contestants are already entertainers and public speakers, where as writers are generally people who can happily spend days alone with their laptop. So I arrived at the novel-slam and there was a small group of people who knew each other at every table. I took a deep breath, picked one with a few empty seats, went over and muttered something like ‘Hi – can I come and be friendly?’ – and the nearest woman said something all in a rush, along the lines of yes, you can sit here, but – erm politely and all that – I’m not all that friendly. Actually I’m really nervous so I’m sorry if I don’t talk to you.’
And some people might be offended by this, but I genuinely wasn’t. In fact, the first thing I thought was – thank f***.
My Body, My Own 