I CAN'T EVEN SPEEL!

Writing is hard.

No, really. Ritin iz harrd. The nuts and bolts of actually writing a full novel is very tricky. I mean, I could probably throw out a thousand words in ten minutes if I wanted to discuss why I dislike Nickleback or how important it is to eat fajitas once a week. Writing stuff which is funny and stupid and honest is a breeze. Think about your current partner. Think about people at work. Think about that time in Amsterdam you got really messed up. You could probably write quite a lot about them easily and enjoy doing it.

Writing a long piece of work, especially fiction, is difficult. Not only does it have to remain interesting but it has to make sense. Well, technically it doesn't but that probably won't result in anything great. I've read plenty of books where stuff just happened with no real rhyme or reason. "I'm a reserved, insecure young woman but I just had to sleep with that guy to express my sense of freedom!"

Really? Or did you sleep with that guy because he happened to be an undercover agent, and if you hadn't there wouldn't be a book?

(That isn't aimed at anything specific, by the way. I'm hardly one to start criticising other works before I've had a single word printed.)

But yeah. Writing Queen of the World was hard. It's a matter of motivation and self-doubt. Does this character work? Why am I writing this scene? Is anyone going to be interested in this plot? Why did that character do that? What could I be doing instead? Isn't YouTube more fun that this?

When I hit a scene in my work that I really enjoy, or have been looking forward to reaching - it's usually one where action happens, or where some plots merge and things start to make sense - then it's good fun. I can plough through that like a tractor tearing up a plot of particularly soft mushrooms. But when it's something else, and where I need to do some research or work out character motivation, then it can be a drag. I can write the same paragraph for hours and still end up chucking it. It's the problem of being someone who believes in character progression over plot dictation. Sometimes my characters simply wouldn't do something I need them to do, so I need to work out a way around it. An intelligent and skilled man trying to avoid detection by his enemies isn't going to suddenly decide that a two-week shopping holiday in New York is a good idea, even if I really need to get that character to a New York shopping mall.

The self doubt in me sometimes exploits this and just yells at me. My inner critic sounds like Alan Rickman. His heavy, drawling tones will whisper in my ear "This is futile. It's too slow, the writing is boring and the characters aren't likeable. What's the point? You might as well go back to playing World of Warcraft and stop trying to make a career of this."

Usually a can of Red Bull and a cigarette shuts him up. Usually.

It's kind of stressful at the moment because not only am I trying to write a follow-up to Queen of the World but I'm also trying to learn Norwegian and earn money. Writing another hundred thousand words just seems like trying to cut down a redwood with a piece of cheese. But I'll get there. I love writing even when it's hard, and I love the characters and the world I have so far.

Wouldn't it be great is all jobs were like that?

Other updates - no reponse from the publisher I did a full submission to(yet), so at least I haven't been turned down (yet). I've joined Twitter - find me @HennessyWrites . It's pretty addicitve. Also, I've got a craving for hamburgers which I'm judiciously encouraging. There's worse things to be addicted to.

If you're considering being a writer then read this. Read it if you like reading things which make you laugh, as well. Then buy his book.

Camera on Four. Rolling...

So this is going to be a fairly long post. I’m going to cheat quite a lot and post something from my book.

Basically the last couple of weeks have been busy. I’ve finally finished the book – now to be known as Queen of the World – and it has been edited, redrafted and tweaked about as much as I can do without seeking professional assistance. It’s about as good as it is going to get. I’ve sent off a few agents in the States because I haven’t yet gotten around to finding a printer. Most UK agencies was a regular mail submission. I trawled a few agencies which accept email submissions and tried my hand. So far, no joy.

I did get one request for a full manuscript submission though. I’m not going to name anything yet in case it all falls through. Hopefully I’m going to get more than one request for a manuscript in my career so naming each one as it goes seems a bit silly. If it gets accepted then, of course, I’ll plug the bejeezus out of it. We’ll see.

Oh, and some guy offered to give me a thousand euros if he can invest in the manuscript. Bit of an ego boost, to be honest. We’re talking a salad-tossing confidence boost here. Reckon it’s going to be turned down though. As someone said on my Facebook - If it’s good enough to be invested in then it’s good enough to retain 100% ownership of it. But anyway, felt a bit splendid when the offer came in.

In the next couple of days some proper work will begin on the sequel. It is currently in progress in the sense that I have about four scenes and two new characters in my head. I also have the first few chapters primed and ready to go. I know how the book will open and how all the robot ninja sharks will be seamlessly integrated into my world of magical realism.

(Part of the above paragraph may be a lie.)

Now to the long bit. This is the prologue to Queen of the World. I hope you enjoy it and get a better sense of what this blog has been banging on about for the last two months.

Most people say that magic doesn’t exist. They’re correct, to an extent. Magic is a product of the imagination. People would like to be able to fly; to conjure fire from their fingertips. Those early days of childhood, where anything seems possible, stay with us. They help form our future and they linger long after we have matured. A boy may eventually stop pretending to be a famous hero, but the dream of fame itself does not completely fade. Neither does the ambition of being the greatest swordsman or the finest archer in all the land. The world admires those skilled in the martial arts.
The world wants heroes.
Unfortunately life doesn’t work that way and so admiration comes in other forms. A man who can provide for his family is respected. A loving parent is, in turn, loved by her children. The king of a nation who rules with a fair and steady hand is given the loyalty of his people. This is how it should be, and this is how many believe it to be these days. For most, life is relatively peaceful.
It was not always so.
The world was once savage and cruel. Respect and admiration was demanded by the strongest and the most barbaric. Loyalty was given to those who were feared the most. Nations were forged by warlords, by chieftains, by people who were larger than life. They ruled with an iron fist, caring little for the common wants and needs of their subjects. They made vicious examples of any who stood up to them. Those who would not fight worked the fields and were at the mercy of the very soldiers who claimed to protect them. War was common, as opposing factions fought for land, resources and power. Lives were short and brutal.
Then came the Four.
Nobody knows where they came from or why they came. The Four walked separate from one another, each journeying one corner of the land. Slowly, patiently, they came to every one of the warlords and the chieftains in turn. They were viewed with suspicion, with intrigue, with derision and scorn. The Four would ask for an audience. This was sometimes granted, but often denied.
The Four could be persuasive.
It is said that they could do anything. Anything. The legends tell of mountains being cracked open with the wave of a hand. Whole cities brought tumbling down. Rivers made to boil and the sky turned to flame. Men were shaped to appear as beasts and women to birds. They could kill with a look and torture with a word.
The warlords and chieftains listened.
The Four came with a simple message. Those in power would use their position to help their people. They would make peace with one another and focus on advancing culture, education and science. They would protect those who lived under their rule and no longer terrorise them. They would ease the burden of taxes and let the people support themselves as well as each other. They would promote trade. They would provide sanitation and medicines.
They would do all this, or they would be removed from their rule forcibly.
One does not argue with a God.
Some did, of course. Some tried to silence these arrogant men who made demands of them. They did not live long to regret that choice. The more intelligent of the warlords, the smartest of the chieftains, these were the ones who survived. They did as they were asked, and they pledged to lead their people into a new age of prosperity and peace.
The Four, once satisfied, left. They did so with a warning.
Let things return to how they were, and we will return.
Since that time, over five hundred years previous, no nation has dared test this promise.