September 20, 2014 in Dag

One in, all in

I’ve talked before on this site about the question of whether the ability to write is inherent or something that can be learnt.

The conclusion I’ve always come to is that it’s somewhere in between. I think there are some people who are natural writers, but you can always learn to be a better writer. To me, the best way of learning has always been to read lots, and especially read lots of really good writing. But I’ve always been prepared to investigate more direct methods as well.

I’ve taken more than my fair share of writing classes. Some have been useful. Others less so. I’ve had some really fantastic teachers who have really inspired me in my writing, and others who were clearly there just to take the paycheck.

But no matter how good the teaching was, there has been one thing above all that has really put me off ever wanting to do any more writing classes: the dreaded all-in workshop.

You may know what I’m talking about. Every week, one or two people are nominated to read their work out to the class. And then it begins. Open slather. One in, all in. It’s really not a pretty sight.

It seems that everyone has an opinion. No matter how little sense they have of what your story is actually about, they’ll have something to tell you about what’s wrong with it. Your head gets pulled this way and that way, until you know longer have any idea of which advice is actually useful (and yes, you can get the occasional pearl of wisdom) and which ones are completely nonsensical, particularly as the most nonsensical suggestions often come from the loudest and most persistent members of the class.

Don’t get me wrong. I really value feedback, and wouldn’t dream of putting anything out without seeking the considered advice from people whose opinions I value. But random suggestions, thrown at me from all directions from people whose expertise range from zero to nil – I really don’t find that useful at all.

Will I ever do more writing classes? Never say never is what I say. If the right class and the right teacher shows up, I’d be mad not to consider it. But as soon as there’s any suggestion of an all-in class workshop, then I’m out of there.
September 13, 2014 in Dag

A story’s not a story without a swordfight

I used to be a theatre buff.

Well, that might be exaggerating just a little. I used to go to the theatre quite a lot, but I’m not sure if I could really call myself a buff.

My parents are definitely theatre buffs. They go to the theatre all the time. For a while, back in my long distance past, I used to come along with them. Not sure why. I guess it seemed like a good thing to do. Maybe it was the pizza restaurant we always used to visit beforehand that had quite a bit to do with it.

It didn’t take long for me to realise I wasn’t that excited by theatre, although I did stick with it for a while. It took me a little longer to realise what the problem was, and why I wasn’t so enthralled by the drama on the stage.

Unfortunately, in the end, I just couldn’t get over the staginess of it all. And that no matter what ideas or themes underlined the play, and how potentially worthwhile or dramatic they might be, in the end it was just a bunch of people talking to each other.

Maybe it’s just me, but I need more than that. I need more than just seeing people on stage talking to each other to really get engaged. I need excitement. I need action. I need swordfights.

That was the moment when I realised what the problem was. There just weren’t enough swordfights in these plays. I want to hear the clang of metal on metal. I want to hear cries of “en-guarde!” I want to be as enthralled as I am in that amazing scene in the Princess Bride where Westley fights Inigo (“I have a secret to tell you – I’m not left-handed” – I love that).

Of course, when I settled down to write my own stories, I had to be as good as my word. I couldn’t very well complain about boring plays without swordfights if I ended up writing boring stories without swordfights. That’s why I was really pleased when I was able to insert swordfights into not just one but two of my novels. And even as I scan ideas for new novels, I’m constantly thinking, “How can I insert a swordfight in here?”

And before I finish, I just have to throw in one more thing that I think is kind of cool. I actually have first-hand expertise when it comes to swordfighting, because I used to work with a former Australian fencing champion. I even got a chance to put on fencing gear and have a bit of a spar with them. It was kind of frightening actually. I kept on asking if I could run away a bit more. Luckily, she wasn’t too rough with me.

Have a great week, full of excitement and derring-do. 

September 6, 2014 in Dag

End of Summer 2014 – New Visions

Today I interrupt my regular stream of conscious nonsense for a really important (and kind of cool) announcement.

Just over a year ago, I first entered into a contractual arrangement with Evolved Publishing. No, that’s not the announcement, that’s old news. Since then, it’s been really exciting to see what a great job they’ve done with my first children’s picture book, Thomas and the Tiger-Turtle, and to get to know this fantastic team of writers, editors and artists. No, that’s not the news either.

The really cool news is that Evolved is currently running a fundraising campaign through Indiegogo. The title of this campaign is End of Summer 2014 – New Visions and there are some fantastic packages on offer.

The options range from $2.00 all the way up to $500. At the lower end, there are some really great ebooks available. At the higher end, there are some amazing packages featuring a range of hardcopy children’s and adult books (including Thomas and the Tiger-Turtle of course).  And at the absolute top of the line, there is the opportunity to receive a copy of every ebook produced by Evolved Publishing. That’s right, every single one. And these are not just any books. These are the cream of the crop when it comes to independent publishing. Every single one is carefully vetted and then edited with love and care. I can speak to my own personal experience on that.

So hopefully lots of you out there will be happy to support a fantastic organisation giving lots of great writers an opportunity they might not otherwise have had, and in the process releasing lots of wonderful stories for the world to read. If that’s not a big enough reward, the terrific book packages available should be.

Make sure to check out the End of Summer 2014 – New Visions page for more information.

August 30, 2014 in Dag

Sit right down and I’ll tell you a story.

This is a bit of a follow up to the post I wrote a few weeks ago – the one where I talked about how two of the most important rules I follow when I write are making it flow and keeping it colourful.

I’ve been thinking a bit more about my style of writing (partly because that’s what I tend to think about when I’ve got nothing else to do, but also because there’s so much information being put out about how we writers should be writing). I think that what I’m going to say here doesn’t necessary go against what I said in that previous post – it’s just adding an additional dimension to it.

When it comes down to it, I see myself as a storyteller. And the main function of storytellers is to (cue drumroll) tell stories.

I see myself as part of a proud tradition. I’m the guy sitting by the fire, keeping all the cave-people thrilled with tales of frightening sabre-tooth tigers. I’m the fellow in the barn, entertaining the farmers after a busy day in the field. In many ways, I’m a really important part of the glue that hold a community together.

When I think about my approach to storytelling, I place myself in the position of the person sitting in front of an audience, trying to keep them enthralled merely by the power of my words. As I reach out in my head for the right words to use, the question I’m always asking myself is, “How would I say it?”

That’s kind of as simple as it is. I don’t need to craft sparkling prose. I don’t need to keep university academics busy analysing everything I say. I just want to find the best way to word my story, as if I was the one telling it. That’s the tone and the voice that I’m always after.

Of course, it really isn’t that simple. That’s where the supporting rules, like keeping the flow and making it colourful, come in. That’s where I really get to think about how I, as a storyteller, keep those listeners on the edge of their seats, ears peeled for every next word, and also how I make sure that each of them is immersed, as if they’re actually living the story.

Storytelling is fun. Even though I’m not the guy sitting in front of a live audience, that’s still the way I feel when I write. I try to wring every bit of energy and excitement I can out of a story, for my audience’s benefit. Wherever they might be, I hope I can provide them with an unforgettable experience.

August 23, 2014 in Dag

Please take me seriously, I’m funny

We funny people definitely have an image problem.

We’re so whacky and zany and madcap. We celebrate the lighter side of life. Sure, there’s a place for that, but in the grand scheme of things, it really doesn’t compare with the graver, more serious types of creative endeavour. After all, it’s just a laugh, isn’t it? It’s not anything to take seriously.

I’m sorry, but I beg to differ. I’m quite fed up with being treated as a lightweight while other, more serious and supposedly deeper artists get taken so much more seriously.

I was reading in the paper last week about (another) profile of Nick Cave. He’s such a great artist. He’s so deep and intense. With apologies to any fans of Nick Cave (and I try not to be snobbish about this – people can like whoever they like) I find his brand of paint-by-numbers gothic to be quite irritating. To me there’s nothing so deep about it. He just seems like a kind of cartoon character.

People seem to have these stereotypical ideas that dark is somehow deeper and more meaningful than light. And sometimes that’s true. I won’t dispute that there are some forms of humour that are as lightweight as a feather. But there are also forms of humour that can explore into all sorts of complicated aspects of the human experience. Forms of humour that can help to illuminate dark corners and allow you to see the world in all sorts of ways you didn’t expect.

I’m not saying that my writing always achieves that, but I like to think that I’m on some sort of quest. I try to set myself the goal of uncovering some sort of truth about some aspect of the world, while at the same time trying to bring in the lightness of entertainment and humour. It’s not that easy. I may hazard to say it’s actually more difficult than just focusing on the darkness. But I’m sure many would find that contentious, so maybe I better not.

Certainly, at this time when one of the greatest “funny men” of recent times has left us in a way that revealed the shades of darkness behind the laughs, I think it’s an important that people understand this.

As the title of this post sums up – I’m a funny person, please take me seriously.