Mick, Mark and the horror of the elegant variation

There were no sessions during the Easter fortnight. Personally, I was going to write at least ten thousand words - I've got a hungry and violent mob bearing down on my would-be Utopian community as they board the ship which will be their own autonomous state, and I need to know what happens. 

It didn't happen, for the reasons that it always doesn't happen. The time is coming when I will have to stamp my pretty little feet and scream and scream until I'm sick, because reasoned and rational discussion gets us everywhere in theory and nowhere in practice. But that's a whole other blog...

Wednesday evening brought us Jacqui Lofthouse, former UEA student, published novelist, huge in Holland. And Saturday brought us Mick Jackson, Booker prize nominee, and Mark Billingham, crime writer extraordinaire. Now, I may not have written much over Easter, but I read. I read every single novel that's been recommended during the course, and novels by all the guest speakers. And picking the brains of a writer whose work you're familiar with is a very exciting way to spend time. All these writers have been published, so their advice and working methods are to be taken seriously.

Louise doesn't write chronologically. She writes the scene she wants to write at the time and leaves notes in the text saying 'Big Argument Here' and comes back to them. Mick Jackson writes his first chapter first and his last chapter last and 'wouldn't do it any other way.' Mick Jackson says 'Leave room for the voodoo.' Mark Billingham states firmly that 'Books don't descend from the ether on fairy dust.' I was just thinking that, if the novel-writing ever failed him, he'd have a great second career as a stand up comic, when he said that his background is in stand up comedy - which goes to show my great insight into human nature and proves that I'll make some publisher a wonderful author someday.

The point is that there is no magic bullet. One writer's failsafe is another writer's pet hate. Mick Jackson got lucky with his first novel. Katharine McMahon wrote five before she was published. Mick Jackson writes first drafts with HB pencil; Mark Billingham buys a specific brand of Rymans notebook for each new project and starts by labelling it carefully. Good for them. but what for me?

Tomorrow, E. Annie Proulx and Maggie O'Farrell are coming for a morning of work and discussion. This has got to be the term when I get it together writing-wise, and that's only going to happen when I am under a pressure to write that exceeds the pressure to put a meal on the table, to arrange play dates for my children (3, 2 and 10 months), to support their activities, to keep up with friends, to support my husband, to be a nice person. And I hope that E. Annie and Maggie and I will create that pressure for each other. Although I do want to provide a nice lunch...

At the Historical Novel Society conference in 2005, Hilary Johnson said of writing, 'There are easier ways of banging your head against a brick wall.'

Utterly writerly

Louise wears great frocks. Tonight, even the marker pen she was using toned in with her outfit. As she says of writing, it's all in the detail. One day, I'd like to stand in front of a class in imperial purple reverse leg of mutton sleeves, and a skirt patterned in swishing monochrome with violet accents, and make notes for an eager class in purple marker pen. She walked straight out of a fashion page to exhort us to kill people when our plots begin to dull.

I love the glimpses Louise gives us into her writerly life - yesterday she was planting trees with Michael Portillo to offset the carbon footprint of the Booker prize. And not many people can say that.

It was the last class before the Easter break. Next term, there'll be more lectures, more visits, more writing exercises, more input from industry professionals. And fewer peer assessments. 

I'm hoping to get some real writing done during the Easter break. I might pretend that the course is running over Easter and go and hide somewhere with the laptop while everyone at home thinks I'm in London. 

And I still haven't written about Helen Dunmore.