We can all learn from Wigan.

A journalist walks into a bar. Eyes fixed on the floor, he shuffles over to the pumps and points to the cider. Three or four times he does this, shuffling back and forth from the corner, saying not a word to the barman. Sensing something the matter, the barman sidles over to the fella. "You okay mate," he asks. 
"Rock bottom," the man says, "I'm losing the house, my wife's left me and now I've lost my job"
"Right" says the barman, not really knowing where to start. 
"That's my bloody problem," he snaps, "I've forgotten how to do it!"

Do you remember your first time kicking a ball? The first time you ever got on a bike?  Do you remember first picking a pen up? I ask because all three of these things are learnt by repetition, mistakes and plenty of practice. I doubt very much that Sir Bradley Wiggins jumped in the saddle aged four, took three days with stabilisers and set off to conquer the alps is what I'm saying. In fact, I'll bet he had more grazed knees than I've had jumpers- it is par for the course and sadly, such is the game with writing. 

After my first failed stint at Uni, I took a job in a call centre. It was soul destroying stuff but we were fed these seemingly ridiculous videos of inspirational techniques. 'Be brilliant at the basics' was the strapline, relying on the idea that you spend 90% of the time doing the same things and so it pays to be as good as you can at those simple things. Listing ten key areas of your life and improving each by just 10% was the other memorable bit of advice. These techniques can be applied to writing- you can learn new words every week, read new authors to see what styles they use and you can set tasks to improve things like rhyme and form- all the while improving just a little bit. Remember, ten 10% improvements is almost 100% if you do some Conservative Party mathematics- and you're sure to feel all the better for it.  

The second piece of advice I have is that you have to believe in yourself. There is absolutely no point if you don't think you will ever be good enough. That great gaping hole inside that screams at the mirror needs plastering over with practice, until eventually, you'll be well aware that you can rattle something off and tweak it later. Stopping only breeds this doubt. 

The third and final piece of advice I can offer is to write what you know. I happen to be a lover of football. I find it to be a game that rewards perseverance, guts and talent in the end. The seemingly sudden news this week of Sir Alex Ferguson's retirement may cast a long shadow, but there is already a Scot cut from the same cloth to take his place- the common ground being patience and hard work. On the pitch, Fergie may have been a linesman's nightmare but to win that many titles and trophies takes some doing. Just like a writer, he eventually found his niche. A well crafted and well oiled machine was created, and for the majority of my lifetime it has reigned dominant- a Stephen King type standing, seemingly unshiftable, doing exactly what he knows how to do over and over again.  

Tell that to Wigan Athletic and their chairman Dave Whelan though. After having his career cut short by a horror injury in an FA Cup final, he took his compensation and opened a market stall in Blackburn. He went on to open JJB Sports, dominating the high streets of England, and with the wealth he bought his local football team. I remember Wigan being absolutely pants. This weekend, they've worked their socks off, played staggering football against last season's champions and bagged themselves an historic cup win. The man of the match award went to Callum McManaman, the young lad I met when he was a Blackpool loanee. If you'd asked me before today if he'd follow great wingers before him and dazzle on the hallowed turf- with a passing style of play more commonly found at Barcelona- I'd have laughed you out of the ground. It nearly brought me to tears seeing Whelan's face and as writers, and as people, there is a great lesson to learn. 

Thanks for reading, enjoy the poem. 
S.

On Wembley Way

On Wembley Way the colours merge together to form one
A tapestry of pride and passion, draped on football fans
The lads from the Nags, the wavers of flags, they gather here today
This is the FA Cup, the dream, and this is Wembley Way.

Call out in song, utter your prayers and place your final bets
Inside awaits your greatest fate, no place to leave regrets.
When Abide With Me bellows from your lungs, then nobody can say
You didn't give your very best on the Cup Final day.

For Dave Whelan's Wigan heroes, Fergie's Class of '99,
Mortensen's black and white hat-trick, all the goals in stoppage time
These are moments made for heroes, for your never say die kings
This is Wembley for the FA Cup and the magic that it brings.

They'll talk of this in sixty years, play recordings from TV
This is what you're in it for, this for every Saturday
So drink up all the atmosphere, you may never be here again
The dream awaits those bold enough, with nerve right to the end.

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Writing and Money

 

 By Ashley Lister

 "If you have any young friends who aspire to become writers, the second greatest favour you can do them is to present them with copies of The Elements of Style. The first greatest, of course, is to shoot them now, while they’re happy.”

Dorothy Parker (attrib)

I echo the sentiments that have been shared this week. It’s Saturday and each day so far this week on the Dead Good Blog there’s been sage and erudite advice from the team of regular writers here: all sharing their insights into the mechanics of our vocation. Now it’s my turn and, as the sub-topic doesn’t seem to have been covered so far, I may as well touch on the subject of writing and money.

I could repeat Moliere’s thoughts here: “Writing is like prostitution. First you do it for love, and then for a few close friends, and then for money.” Or I could reiterate Johnson: “No man but a blockhead ever wrote, except for money.” I could even cite Twain who advised: “Write without pay until somebody offers to pay you. If nobody offers within three years, sawing wood is what you were intended for.”

But these are cynical mindsets, driven by a capitalist ideal where financial success equates to achievement and accomplishment. And, as a writer, I’m aware there is little money fairly distributed to writers in the publishing world.

As an example, consider the fact that Edgar Allan Poe received the grand total of $24 in his lifetime for ‘The Raven’, and this was after selling it twice. Compare this paltry amount with the Fifty Shades trilogy, which was making its author $1,000,000 dollars a week at one point after its release. If we compare these two financially, E L James’s fiction is vastly superior to ‘The Raven’.

However, I don’t think there would be many critics who would agree that judgement reflects on the comparative quality of the two works.

If the measure of success in writing was solely determined by financial reward, this would mean the ‘best’ writers of our generation are Stephanie Meyer, Jeffrey Archer and Dan Brown.

That’s a heady concept to digest. If, for one instant, I thought that was true, I’d cite it as compelling evidence that capitalism is a flawed system and should be abandoned immediately ad I'd advocate rioting the in the streets and unstoppable anarchy.

But what would I know? I’m a writer so I know nothing about the subject of money. A writer talking about money is like the pope talking about contraception. An outsider can look at either of them and ask: What the f**k would he know about that subject?

So, to develop Twain’s maxim, I’d say: “Write without pay until somebody offers to pay you. If nobody offers within three years, carry on for as long as the vocation still entertains you.”  Or, at least, until one of Dorothy’ Parker’s well-meaning friends puts you out of your misery and shoots you whilst you’re happy.  

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