Siobhan Curham
Welcome
Hello there! Welcome to my website. Please make yourself at home. Kick off your shoes, loosen that tie / belt / strait jacket and have a good old browse. Click on the book covers on the left for the behind the story, story, visit the 'My Background' link for details of my other writing or have a read of the blog below for all of my latest news. Whether you're visiting because you've read one of my books or because you'd like to come to one of my workshops, please use the email link on the left to get in touch. Thank you so much to everyone who has already sent me such lovely feedback. Thank you for stopping by and I hope you enjoy your visit ...
Blog
Tuesday, May 06, 2008
NETWORKING LUNCH
Greetings dear blogee! I have just returned from a very nice networking lunch for 'Enterprising Women' run by my local London Authority. A great idea in principle, it brings together women who want to start up their own businesses with women who already do (I fell into the latter category due to my coaching practise Finding the Plot - http://findingtheplot.co.uk/ ). However in my experience, networking and food do not make for the best bed fellows. Many years ago, in my former life as an account manager for the telecoms company Mercury Communications, I was invited to a networking lunch where I was strategically seated next to the managing director of a manufacturing firm whose telecoms bill was worth somewhere in the region of £1 million per annum. My brief was to schmooze him over the five course meal and get him to switch telecoms provider by the time the coffee and mints had arrived. Hmm. It's one thing giving a sales pitch in a board room where you can knock 'em dead with a flip chart or even a power point presentation, but to attempt to sell something whilst also negotiating a prawn cocktail takes skill indeed. Not to mention decorum. Sadly to say, I failed on both counts. Half way through my chicken kiev and three quarters of the way through my sales pitch I came a cropper. The managing director had just asked me for some pricing information and rather than finish chewing and swallow my mouthful of chicken I decided to plunge on with the pitch. 'Well,' I began. But I got no further, for out of my mouth came flying a lump of chewed up chicken. As if this wasn't bad enough we both watched in horror as the chicken made a perfect arc - straight into the horrified mouth of the MD. It was mortifying. And presented the MD with the timeless conundrum - whether to spit or swallow? He spat and needless to say I failed to clinch the deal. Thankfully today I managed to avoid the embarassment of regurgitating food into the mouths of my fellow enterprising women. I came away bloody starving though!
Greetings dear blogee! I have just returned from a very nice networking lunch for 'Enterprising Women' run by my local London Authority. A great idea in principle, it brings together women who want to start up their own businesses with women who already do (I fell into the latter category due to my coaching practise Finding the Plot - http://findingtheplot.co.uk/ ). However in my experience, networking and food do not make for the best bed fellows. Many years ago, in my former life as an account manager for the telecoms company Mercury Communications, I was invited to a networking lunch where I was strategically seated next to the managing director of a manufacturing firm whose telecoms bill was worth somewhere in the region of £1 million per annum. My brief was to schmooze him over the five course meal and get him to switch telecoms provider by the time the coffee and mints had arrived. Hmm. It's one thing giving a sales pitch in a board room where you can knock 'em dead with a flip chart or even a power point presentation, but to attempt to sell something whilst also negotiating a prawn cocktail takes skill indeed. Not to mention decorum. Sadly to say, I failed on both counts. Half way through my chicken kiev and three quarters of the way through my sales pitch I came a cropper. The managing director had just asked me for some pricing information and rather than finish chewing and swallow my mouthful of chicken I decided to plunge on with the pitch. 'Well,' I began. But I got no further, for out of my mouth came flying a lump of chewed up chicken. As if this wasn't bad enough we both watched in horror as the chicken made a perfect arc - straight into the horrified mouth of the MD. It was mortifying. And presented the MD with the timeless conundrum - whether to spit or swallow? He spat and needless to say I failed to clinch the deal. Thankfully today I managed to avoid the embarassment of regurgitating food into the mouths of my fellow enterprising women. I came away bloody starving though!
Friday, April 25, 2008
OH DEAR.......
Once again I have been a little slack with my blogging, but this time I really do have a genuine excuse. I've done something to my arm that has resulted in a trapped nerve and the subsequent pain (think childbirth / dental abcess rolled into one) has meant that I have had to ration my writing. But thankfully the doc has prescribed me some lovely pain killers plus an anti-depressant! I know, but apparently it is to 'help me sleep and counter any feelings of depression I might incur through being in constant pain!' So I'm sitting at my PC feeling, as Pink Floyd might say, 'comfortably numb' and have decided to venture back into the blogosphere. So what's new in my world? I've just taken on my very first international client for my coaching service, Finding the Plot, a writer living in Russia, which is very exciting indeed. I've just written a feature for Writers Forum Magazine about some proposed changes to Amazon that could have a catastrophic effect on small and self publishers. I had a birthday - and even though it was on a work night and I had to go to the dentist's to have a broken tooth fixed and my arm was in agony, I had a really lovely time. Oh yes, I also completed my first book for teenagers. This is somewhat of a departure for me, but I loved every second of writing it and have decided to spend the next couple of years focusing on books for younger readers. Reading has never meant as much to me as it did when I was a kid. Back then every Saturday was library and sweets day and I would be in heaven. I would spend hours lying on my bed, sucking my way through sticky paper bags of lemon sherberts or cola cubes and losing myself in the fictional worlds of anyone from Enid Blyton to CS Lewis. And then, when I was a bit older I progressed to bars of Cadburys and the likes of Lynn Reid Banks and Judy Blume. The thought that I could now create magical worlds for other young readers to escape to is incredible. It feels as if this is what I was meant to do, if that makes any sense. Writing Dear Dylan was like an awakening. After all of the frustrations of trying to keep up with the latest trends of the adult fiction market, writing for young readers is like being set free. And the funny thing is, that despite the fact that I don't yet have a book deal I'm not being beset by the usual panicked feelings of, is it good enough or will anyone want it? I just know that things will work out okay. If it's meant to be it will be. Last night I went to see my favourite band of the moment, Ben's Brother: http://www.myspace.com/bensbrothermusic
Apparently the lead singer was having to busk for a living just a couple of years ago but now he has been nominated for an Ivor Novello award and his band are set to hit the big time. Seeing them play to a rapturous audience last night and seeing the huge grins on their faces was inspiring. There is no better way to spend your life than in the pursuit of your dream - even if your arm aches and you have to take anti-depressants!
Once again I have been a little slack with my blogging, but this time I really do have a genuine excuse. I've done something to my arm that has resulted in a trapped nerve and the subsequent pain (think childbirth / dental abcess rolled into one) has meant that I have had to ration my writing. But thankfully the doc has prescribed me some lovely pain killers plus an anti-depressant! I know, but apparently it is to 'help me sleep and counter any feelings of depression I might incur through being in constant pain!' So I'm sitting at my PC feeling, as Pink Floyd might say, 'comfortably numb' and have decided to venture back into the blogosphere. So what's new in my world? I've just taken on my very first international client for my coaching service, Finding the Plot, a writer living in Russia, which is very exciting indeed. I've just written a feature for Writers Forum Magazine about some proposed changes to Amazon that could have a catastrophic effect on small and self publishers. I had a birthday - and even though it was on a work night and I had to go to the dentist's to have a broken tooth fixed and my arm was in agony, I had a really lovely time. Oh yes, I also completed my first book for teenagers. This is somewhat of a departure for me, but I loved every second of writing it and have decided to spend the next couple of years focusing on books for younger readers. Reading has never meant as much to me as it did when I was a kid. Back then every Saturday was library and sweets day and I would be in heaven. I would spend hours lying on my bed, sucking my way through sticky paper bags of lemon sherberts or cola cubes and losing myself in the fictional worlds of anyone from Enid Blyton to CS Lewis. And then, when I was a bit older I progressed to bars of Cadburys and the likes of Lynn Reid Banks and Judy Blume. The thought that I could now create magical worlds for other young readers to escape to is incredible. It feels as if this is what I was meant to do, if that makes any sense. Writing Dear Dylan was like an awakening. After all of the frustrations of trying to keep up with the latest trends of the adult fiction market, writing for young readers is like being set free. And the funny thing is, that despite the fact that I don't yet have a book deal I'm not being beset by the usual panicked feelings of, is it good enough or will anyone want it? I just know that things will work out okay. If it's meant to be it will be. Last night I went to see my favourite band of the moment, Ben's Brother: http://www.myspace.com/bensbrothermusic
Apparently the lead singer was having to busk for a living just a couple of years ago but now he has been nominated for an Ivor Novello award and his band are set to hit the big time. Seeing them play to a rapturous audience last night and seeing the huge grins on their faces was inspiring. There is no better way to spend your life than in the pursuit of your dream - even if your arm aches and you have to take anti-depressants!
Wednesday, April 09, 2008
EXTREME EDITING!
It's the (belated) Easter holidays and my eleven year old son is home from school. For some time now I have been promising to write a book especially for him so the Easter break seemed like the perfect time to start. 'That way I can be your editor,' he declared. And I agreed whole-heartedly. What better way for a mother and son to bond than via the joy of artistic creation? Unfortunately I wasn't aware then that I had spawned the Alan Sugar of the editing world.
Day one, and I am delighted when my son shuns the TV, play station and computer to plead with me to get started on the book. 'Yes of course,' I say, 'Let's get working on some character backgrounds.' He looks at me as if I've just said, 'lets go play Barbies.' 'Can't we just start writing it?' he asks. I give him a quick lecture on the importance of fully formed characters, he starts looking longingly at the play station. 'Okay,' I concede, 'We'll just start writing.'
I turn on the PC and he shifts his chair so close to mine he's practically sitting in my lap. 'Go on then, 'he says. Hmm, I think, this editor obviously favours a very hands on approach. We had been talking about what I should write for some time now (a book about a kids' football team) but even so I am used to doing copious amounts of plotting and character work before I begin the actual process of writing.
'What are you waiting for?' my editor-in-chief demands. I realise there is precious little point in telling him I'm waiting to capture the muse or any such other artistic baloney, so I begin to type.
"It was a hot summer's day on the Elmgrove Estate," Out of the corner of my eye I see my son shaking his head. 'It wouldn't be summer,' he says, 'the football season would be over.'
I hit delete and start again. "It was a cold winters day -' 'Nah, I think it would be more like Autumn.' One hour and one fitful page later, mother and son relations are at an all time low. It was as if the negative voice in my head that often accompanies my writing had taken on human form and sat right down beside me: 'You can't say that/ it wouldn't happen that way / he wouldn't talk like that,' etc etc. It's bad enough when an editor takes a hatchet to your work after it is written but while you're in mid-flow is tantamount to torture. In my mind the delightful tale of an eleven year old footballing hero begins to morph into something way more sinister. And then I utter the words I always vow I'll never say, 'Why don't you go and play on your play station?' To my delight and surprise my son agrees. 'But I'll come and check on how you're going every few minutes,' he adds as a parting shot / threat. I feel a shudder course through my body to the very core of my being. How long till school goes back?
It's the (belated) Easter holidays and my eleven year old son is home from school. For some time now I have been promising to write a book especially for him so the Easter break seemed like the perfect time to start. 'That way I can be your editor,' he declared. And I agreed whole-heartedly. What better way for a mother and son to bond than via the joy of artistic creation? Unfortunately I wasn't aware then that I had spawned the Alan Sugar of the editing world.
Day one, and I am delighted when my son shuns the TV, play station and computer to plead with me to get started on the book. 'Yes of course,' I say, 'Let's get working on some character backgrounds.' He looks at me as if I've just said, 'lets go play Barbies.' 'Can't we just start writing it?' he asks. I give him a quick lecture on the importance of fully formed characters, he starts looking longingly at the play station. 'Okay,' I concede, 'We'll just start writing.'
I turn on the PC and he shifts his chair so close to mine he's practically sitting in my lap. 'Go on then, 'he says. Hmm, I think, this editor obviously favours a very hands on approach. We had been talking about what I should write for some time now (a book about a kids' football team) but even so I am used to doing copious amounts of plotting and character work before I begin the actual process of writing.
'What are you waiting for?' my editor-in-chief demands. I realise there is precious little point in telling him I'm waiting to capture the muse or any such other artistic baloney, so I begin to type.
"It was a hot summer's day on the Elmgrove Estate," Out of the corner of my eye I see my son shaking his head. 'It wouldn't be summer,' he says, 'the football season would be over.'
I hit delete and start again. "It was a cold winters day -' 'Nah, I think it would be more like Autumn.' One hour and one fitful page later, mother and son relations are at an all time low. It was as if the negative voice in my head that often accompanies my writing had taken on human form and sat right down beside me: 'You can't say that/ it wouldn't happen that way / he wouldn't talk like that,' etc etc. It's bad enough when an editor takes a hatchet to your work after it is written but while you're in mid-flow is tantamount to torture. In my mind the delightful tale of an eleven year old footballing hero begins to morph into something way more sinister. And then I utter the words I always vow I'll never say, 'Why don't you go and play on your play station?' To my delight and surprise my son agrees. 'But I'll come and check on how you're going every few minutes,' he adds as a parting shot / threat. I feel a shudder course through my body to the very core of my being. How long till school goes back?
Friday, April 04, 2008
TO CUT A LONG STORY SHORT...
The UK can be quite a frustrating place for short story writers. Practically the only market is the women's weekly mags but their coffee break fiction slots have very strict guidelines and this can prove extremely restricting. When I was starting out as a writer I tried really hard to crack this market, churning out tales with a twist with gay abandon only to be told my efforts were 'too dark,' 'not quite suitable' or even 'too incestuous' for their readers (I thought that a woman accidentally ending up on a Lonely Hearts date with her son made for a cracking twist, but there you go!)
Once I had my first novel published I turned my back on the short story market completely - what was the point of writing them if there was nowhere to send them - but then, a couple of months ago, an idea for a short story came to me in a flash and I felt compelled to write it. I sat down at my laptop and tapped away like a woman possessed and by the end of the afternoon the story was complete. But my feelings of artistic fulfillment were soon replaced by ones of frustration. I had a short story I was really proud of but I knew it wasn't suitable for the delicate sensibilities of the likes of The People's Friend. So, I reluctantly filed the story away and returned to my current novel. But then, completely out of the blue, the editor of website www.authortrek.com got in touch. He was setting up a site for people to download short stories and wondered if I had a story 'knocking around' to help him with the launch. I was over-joyed. Could downloads be about to do for short stories what they have done for the music industry? Could there finally be a way for writers who don't want to produce short stories about cats/ village fetes/ a prize winning marrow to get their work out there? All I knew was I wanted to be a part of it. My short story 'Terrible Beauty' is now available for download at the following link: http://www.lulu.com/content/2299374 Please check it out and if you like it pass the link on to your friends. Sites like this will only grow through your support and there are so many other writers of short stories out there who need these kind of opportunities. My heartfelt thanks in advance...
The UK can be quite a frustrating place for short story writers. Practically the only market is the women's weekly mags but their coffee break fiction slots have very strict guidelines and this can prove extremely restricting. When I was starting out as a writer I tried really hard to crack this market, churning out tales with a twist with gay abandon only to be told my efforts were 'too dark,' 'not quite suitable' or even 'too incestuous' for their readers (I thought that a woman accidentally ending up on a Lonely Hearts date with her son made for a cracking twist, but there you go!)
Once I had my first novel published I turned my back on the short story market completely - what was the point of writing them if there was nowhere to send them - but then, a couple of months ago, an idea for a short story came to me in a flash and I felt compelled to write it. I sat down at my laptop and tapped away like a woman possessed and by the end of the afternoon the story was complete. But my feelings of artistic fulfillment were soon replaced by ones of frustration. I had a short story I was really proud of but I knew it wasn't suitable for the delicate sensibilities of the likes of The People's Friend. So, I reluctantly filed the story away and returned to my current novel. But then, completely out of the blue, the editor of website www.authortrek.com got in touch. He was setting up a site for people to download short stories and wondered if I had a story 'knocking around' to help him with the launch. I was over-joyed. Could downloads be about to do for short stories what they have done for the music industry? Could there finally be a way for writers who don't want to produce short stories about cats/ village fetes/ a prize winning marrow to get their work out there? All I knew was I wanted to be a part of it. My short story 'Terrible Beauty' is now available for download at the following link: http://www.lulu.com/content/2299374 Please check it out and if you like it pass the link on to your friends. Sites like this will only grow through your support and there are so many other writers of short stories out there who need these kind of opportunities. My heartfelt thanks in advance...
Tuesday, April 01, 2008
DAVID BADDIEL'S BOOKMARK
Another week, another talk. this time for the Jewish women's charity, Wizo. As usual I talked about the theme behind my new novel - the secret to true happiness and my reasons for self-publishing after four books with major publishers. It went really well. The women were lovely AND there was a table laden with delicious cakes for us to feast on after. At the end of the evening I was signing some books when a woman approached me. 'Can I take one of your bookmarks for my son?' she asked. I nodded and smiled, and then, just as I turned to continue signing she uttered the immortal words, 'DAVID BADDIEL.'
Now if it had been a film there would have been a loud clap of thunder and a few discordant clangs on a piano at that moment. David Baddiel - cause of what had seemed like a life-time of marital misery for me. Not that I was ever married to him you understand. For those of you not in the know, David Baddiel is a comedian / TV host / novelist / actor who also had a smash hit record back in the 90s with his comedy partner Frank Skinner. Called 'Three Lions,' it was all about the England football team and their one major success, winning the World Cup back in 1966. It became my then husband's fave tune and he played it ad nauseum for years. One day, when the record had first come out and I had yet to grow to hate it, I had been singing along merrily; 'three lions on our shirt, jewels remain still gleaming,' when I was stopped in my tracks by a hoot of laughter from the husband. 'What did you just say?' he snorted. 'Three lions on our shirt,' I replied. 'No, no, the next bit,' he gasped, still bent over in hilarity. 'Jewels remain still gleaming,' I said, perplexed.
'Jewels remain!' he shrieked, slapping his thigh. 'What's wrong with that?' I scowled. He shook his head in disbelief. 'It's Jules Rimet, stupid - as in the Jules Rimet trophy - the World Cup!'
Well how was I supposed to know? It had been thirty years since we'd won the damned thing. Over the months and years that followed, every time we heard that wretched song (ie; every weekend before a match / every car journey / every pub juke box etc) my husband would treat me to a 'Jewels remain!' with a derisive snort.
Reader, I divorced him and I took great pleasure in including a ceremonial burning of the offending song in my first novel, 'Sweet FA.' So David, if you did get the bookmark and you're checking out this site, I most humbly apologise.
Another week, another talk. this time for the Jewish women's charity, Wizo. As usual I talked about the theme behind my new novel - the secret to true happiness and my reasons for self-publishing after four books with major publishers. It went really well. The women were lovely AND there was a table laden with delicious cakes for us to feast on after. At the end of the evening I was signing some books when a woman approached me. 'Can I take one of your bookmarks for my son?' she asked. I nodded and smiled, and then, just as I turned to continue signing she uttered the immortal words, 'DAVID BADDIEL.'
Now if it had been a film there would have been a loud clap of thunder and a few discordant clangs on a piano at that moment. David Baddiel - cause of what had seemed like a life-time of marital misery for me. Not that I was ever married to him you understand. For those of you not in the know, David Baddiel is a comedian / TV host / novelist / actor who also had a smash hit record back in the 90s with his comedy partner Frank Skinner. Called 'Three Lions,' it was all about the England football team and their one major success, winning the World Cup back in 1966. It became my then husband's fave tune and he played it ad nauseum for years. One day, when the record had first come out and I had yet to grow to hate it, I had been singing along merrily; 'three lions on our shirt, jewels remain still gleaming,' when I was stopped in my tracks by a hoot of laughter from the husband. 'What did you just say?' he snorted. 'Three lions on our shirt,' I replied. 'No, no, the next bit,' he gasped, still bent over in hilarity. 'Jewels remain still gleaming,' I said, perplexed.
'Jewels remain!' he shrieked, slapping his thigh. 'What's wrong with that?' I scowled. He shook his head in disbelief. 'It's Jules Rimet, stupid - as in the Jules Rimet trophy - the World Cup!'
Well how was I supposed to know? It had been thirty years since we'd won the damned thing. Over the months and years that followed, every time we heard that wretched song (ie; every weekend before a match / every car journey / every pub juke box etc) my husband would treat me to a 'Jewels remain!' with a derisive snort.
Reader, I divorced him and I took great pleasure in including a ceremonial burning of the offending song in my first novel, 'Sweet FA.' So David, if you did get the bookmark and you're checking out this site, I most humbly apologise.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
LOVE IS IN THE AIR - OR PERHAPS NOT....
This morning I went shopping in my local Waitrose. There I was, manouver - manoover - man - pushing my trolley along the aisles, admiring the St Valentines Day displays of chocolates, flowers and cuddly toys and having a chuckle at the obscene joke I'd written in my boyfriend's card when I heard a woman shouting at the top of her voice, 'NO I DON'T!!!' I turned round but there was no-one there. 'NO I DON'T!!' she shouted again and this time I realised she was in the aisle next to mine. Just as I was attempting to peer through the olives and sun-dried tomatoes at her (well it was Waitrose) a woman of about eighty came careering round the corner nearly crashing her trolley into mine. Following hotly on her heels came a gentleman of the about the same age. OF COURSE YOU WANT TOFFEES!' he bellowed after her, 'WHAT ELSE ARE YOU GOING TO EAT TONIGHT?!' The woman turned and gave him a long, evil stare, 'I DON'T EVEN LIKE TOFFEES!' she yelled back. 'YOU DON'T LIKE TOFFEES!' her husband screamed at her, as if she had just admitted a hatred for fluffy kittens or babies or the like, 'WELL FOR GOD'S SAKE!' And with that he huffed back past me. What happened next was sheer genius and completely restored my faith in the elderly. The woman looked after her rapidly departing husband, looked down at her trolley and then, with one swift move shoved the trolley full pelt in his direction. BANG - it slammed into the backs of his legs and FLOUNCE - the woman strode off in the direction of the exit. Honestly, old people these days, what are they like? Happy Valentines Day everyone - hope nobody got you toffees....
This morning I went shopping in my local Waitrose. There I was, manouver - manoover - man - pushing my trolley along the aisles, admiring the St Valentines Day displays of chocolates, flowers and cuddly toys and having a chuckle at the obscene joke I'd written in my boyfriend's card when I heard a woman shouting at the top of her voice, 'NO I DON'T!!!' I turned round but there was no-one there. 'NO I DON'T!!' she shouted again and this time I realised she was in the aisle next to mine. Just as I was attempting to peer through the olives and sun-dried tomatoes at her (well it was Waitrose) a woman of about eighty came careering round the corner nearly crashing her trolley into mine. Following hotly on her heels came a gentleman of the about the same age. OF COURSE YOU WANT TOFFEES!' he bellowed after her, 'WHAT ELSE ARE YOU GOING TO EAT TONIGHT?!' The woman turned and gave him a long, evil stare, 'I DON'T EVEN LIKE TOFFEES!' she yelled back. 'YOU DON'T LIKE TOFFEES!' her husband screamed at her, as if she had just admitted a hatred for fluffy kittens or babies or the like, 'WELL FOR GOD'S SAKE!' And with that he huffed back past me. What happened next was sheer genius and completely restored my faith in the elderly. The woman looked after her rapidly departing husband, looked down at her trolley and then, with one swift move shoved the trolley full pelt in his direction. BANG - it slammed into the backs of his legs and FLOUNCE - the woman strode off in the direction of the exit. Honestly, old people these days, what are they like? Happy Valentines Day everyone - hope nobody got you toffees....
Wednesday, February 06, 2008
WRITER'S GUILT
As well as being a writer I also help many other writers through my coaching practise, Finding the Plot.' When I started out as a writing coach I assumed that most of my time would be spent editing manuscripts but it turns out that often it is the writers themselves who need working on. And why? The dreaded affliction I have decided to call 'Writer's Guilt.' Guilt that we are not good enough, guilt that writing isn't a 'proper' job, guilt that we ought to be spending more time with our loved ones rather than holed up in our garrets. Writer's Guilt can come in many different forms but the result is always the same - we become blocked and our writing inevitably suffers. I have heard stories of men who scribble into notepads on the train journey to the office because they don't want to upset their wives by writing at home. And women who have actually hidden their writing under beds and floorboards because they don't want to incur the ridicule of a jealous or insecure spouse. I have coached writers who are still haunted by the barbed remarks of parents or teachers, telling them they will 'never amount to much' and writers who are riddled with guilt because they feel they should be doing something more financially lucrative with their time. In every case I have to work at excavating the writer's self confidence, reminding them exactly what they are capable of and getting them to see that we all owe it to ourselves to follow our passions. As Robert Louis Stevenson put it, 'To know what you prefer instead of humbly saying Amen to what the world tells you you ought to prefer, is to have kept your soul alive.'
For more details of my writing coaching and editing service please visit my website:
http://findingtheplot.co.uk/
As well as being a writer I also help many other writers through my coaching practise, Finding the Plot.' When I started out as a writing coach I assumed that most of my time would be spent editing manuscripts but it turns out that often it is the writers themselves who need working on. And why? The dreaded affliction I have decided to call 'Writer's Guilt.' Guilt that we are not good enough, guilt that writing isn't a 'proper' job, guilt that we ought to be spending more time with our loved ones rather than holed up in our garrets. Writer's Guilt can come in many different forms but the result is always the same - we become blocked and our writing inevitably suffers. I have heard stories of men who scribble into notepads on the train journey to the office because they don't want to upset their wives by writing at home. And women who have actually hidden their writing under beds and floorboards because they don't want to incur the ridicule of a jealous or insecure spouse. I have coached writers who are still haunted by the barbed remarks of parents or teachers, telling them they will 'never amount to much' and writers who are riddled with guilt because they feel they should be doing something more financially lucrative with their time. In every case I have to work at excavating the writer's self confidence, reminding them exactly what they are capable of and getting them to see that we all owe it to ourselves to follow our passions. As Robert Louis Stevenson put it, 'To know what you prefer instead of humbly saying Amen to what the world tells you you ought to prefer, is to have kept your soul alive.'
For more details of my writing coaching and editing service please visit my website:
http://findingtheplot.co.uk/
Weblog courtesy of blogger.
