Alex Bell – fantasy author

I’ve recently been reading Jessica Morrell’s Bullies, Bastards and Bitches, which is, ostensibly, about writing villains, but also discusses heroes, unsympathetic protagonists, dark heroes and bad boys. It’s a fantastic book, nicely set out, with some very interesting observations about characterisation, and I would highly recommend it to any aspiring (or, indeed, professional) writer. At one point it talks about alpha males and beta males and uses Mr Darcy as an example of the former, and Mr Bingley as an example of the latter. Morrell suggests that women want to marry a Mr Bingley but want to read, and fantasise about, Mr Darcy. It’s an interesting and, I think, accurate suggestion.

Mr Darcy – and most of the romantic male leads in the Madeleine Brent books – are, in some ways, anachronistic. Women do not depend on men in the same sort of way in the modern world, and marriage is not a woman’s sole preoccupation. When I studied A Level Sociology, we looked at articles from the 1950’s giving advice to wives and I remember being particularly horrified by a passage suggesting women take a nap shortly before their husbands were due to arrive home so that they would be suitably refreshed to receive him. They were then to change their dress, put a new ribbon in her hair, and greet the husband at the door with his slippers. In addition, they should not be the ones to instigate conversation because the husband has had a long day and might be tired etc. That being the case, the last thing he wants is a chattering wife bleating dull, domestic trivialities in his ear. Garghh! It’s just too awful! And only fifty years ago!

So, this is a problem with some male romantic leads like Mr Darcy. It might have been fine back then, but modern women do not want such over-bearing coddling. The feminist in me revolts against this character type.

And yet . . .

Who can deny that there is an appeal in spite of all this? I have recently watched the excellent Lost in Austen and am now re-watching the definitive Pride and Prejudice (of Mr Colin Firth renown), and I will admit that I am as much enamoured with Mr Darcy as the rest of the female audience/readership. I will also admit that I am an avid reader of the Madeleine Brent books, even though I feel they are something of a guilty pleasure. I feel I ought not to like them – being modern and all – but I am hooked regardless.

But much as I enjoy Darcy’s character in the book and TV adaptations, a real life version is really the very last thing I would want. And that is because, for me, a Darcy ceases to be interesting as soon as he professes his love. As soon as he does that, he is no longer cold and immovable but just another silly sap mooning after a woman. The book has to end with the marriage because nothing would be interesting after that. You want the characters to get to that point but have no interest in reading beyond it. Nobody likes gooey love, after all.

This is why I think that Jessica Morrell’s suggestion above is an accurate one. Marriage to Darcy may sound great on the face of it, but in reality? Surely one of the most important aspects of a relationship is that you are able to have fun with your partner. For example, I’m not sure that I could have a long-lasting relationship with a guy who refused to wear a silly hat at a Christmas party. There is always one whose vanity forbids it. And there is always one who collects the spare hats, and ends up wearing two, or even three silly hats all at the same time. The cold aloof Darcy routine is fine for creating mystique etc, but it might start to wear a little thin once you were actually married.

So although at first it seems quite odd to suggest that women might prefer one kind of man in dreams, and another in real life, I think there is definitely some truth to this. I don’t know if the same thing applies to male readers having an ideal female character in film/literature but quite a different ideal woman in real life. Presumably the same principle might apply, although I haven’t seen as much evidence of it.

I suppose the point is that characters like Mr Darcy drive the story more, so they are far more exciting and entertaining to read about. Characters like Mr Bingley (or, say, John-Boy Walton, or George Bailey), whilst being ideal husband material, are not exciting, so they do not get to take on the smouldering romantic roles in a book (or film). Perhaps the difference is that real life cannot be exciting all the time – and who would want it to be? As Morrell points out, alpha males are not going to be the types to stumble out of bed to see to the baby in the middle of the night, or clean out the cat tray – or, indeed, take great delight in wearing lots of silly hats at a party. And, much as I love Mr Darcy in the context of his own little fantasy world, in real life I would always rather be with the guy wearing three hats rather than the guy who is too far above himself to even pull a cracker with someone, let alone wear the paper hat inside it.

This is something I’ve come across in several different places, both online and in real life: when is it okay to call yourself a writer? It’s one of those weird labels that people seem strangely reluctant to claim, and I am no exception. When I was writing my first novel I hesitated to call myself a writer because I had not achieved any measure of success yet. I therefore felt that I did not deserve the title somehow. It seemed akin to announcing myself as a king simply because there was a Burger King crown on my head.

The problem is that with most professions you either are something, or you are not. There is no inbetween, no fuzzy grey area of uncertainty. Writing is different because it very often starts out as a private hobby, and there is certainly no qualification you are obliged to take before officially achieving the status of ‘Writer’. And therein lies the problem. You can call yourself a writer even if you’re a really bad writer, and you can call yourself a writer even if you’ve never written a single story. I don’t believe you have to be spectacularly talented to call yourself a writer but you probably should be writing something even if it is awful.

Before I got my first book published I more or less stopped telling people that I wanted to be an author because I got tired of the pitying, condescending looks I received in response.

‘It’s very difficult to get published,’ people who were in no way experts on the publishing industry would helpfully say to me. ‘Very difficult.’

‘Really?’ I replied. ‘I had no idea! Thank you for pointing that out to me . . . Seriously, though, how much of a naïve fool do you believe me to be?’ 

Or, at least, I would think that silently in my head, and out loud I would say, deadpan: ‘Yes. I have heard that.’

I thought that once I got my first book deal it would be easier to say: ‘I am a writer’ without turning red. But it wasn’t really. People still looked at me with pity or, worse, disbelief. It doesn’t help when a lot of people say they are writers when what they really mean is that they like the idea of being a writer and may give it a go if they ever have the time, but probably lack the discipline to even successfully complete a novella, never mind a novel.

I saw quite a lot of this at the writing group I joined at university. One guy in particular seemed excessively and never-endingly impressed with himself because he had been writing a ‘novel’ for the last three years, and had reached 10,000 words during that time. He had never written an actual full-length book, and yet he spent every one of our weekly meetings dishing out advice about how such a book should be written. He even attempted to advise me on more than one occasion despite the fact that I had a book deal by then. I felt like laughing, but everyone else looked so grave and impressed that I thought it best not to. Another bloke I knew insisted on referring to himself as a ‘poet’ even though he had written only one very short, and not very impressive, poem the whole time he was in the group. This is the literary equivalent of someone who calls themselves a vegetarian but, in fact, eats all meat as long as it’s not chicken. These people are the reason that when I refer to myself as a writer, most people take that as a euphemism for ‘unemployed layabout with high and mighty ideas of themselves’. The mind forms this image of someone trying to be all creative and arty and passionate and intense when, actually, they’re just a bit of a tit suffering from visions of grandeur. 

I briefly tried ‘author’ and ‘novelist’ instead of ‘writer’ but those just sounded even more pretentious. Basically, I think if you are writing something then you are perfectly entitled to refer to yourself as a writer if you want to. Publication is not conclusive proof of worth (it just indicates that someone in the publishing industry liked your book, and thought it would sell), and non-publication does not mean that your work is shite. Literature is a subjective thing. That is why it is impossible to qualify. The Discword books would still be works of genius even if they had been rejected by every publishing house in existence. Even eventual popularity and sky-high sales figures are not concrete evidence of worth.

But, personally, I still hesitate to call myself a writer because people who’ve not seen/read my books still tend to react with either disbelief or condescension. I thought it would come easier once my first book was actually out on the shelves, but it didn’t. Indeed, although I have two published books out now, and two more that will be published in the next two years, I still feel uncomfortable referring to myself as a writer. I suppose it’s because I just tend to assume that I will not be believed. So many people claim to be writers (including those that do not write and probably never will) that it makes the title almost meaningless. The fact of wanting to be a writer does not turn you into one unless you actually do something about that desire. Just because you wish you were Captain Kirk, doesn’t mean you are Captain Kirk etc.

So although I certainly do consider myself to be a writer, I tend to skate over that when talking to new people, and only say vaguely that I am self-employed. That way I do not get pity or disbelief, and once they have gone I can still quietly whisper defiantly to myself: ‘I am King!’ or ‘I am Captain Kirk!’ Or something. But who knows, perhaps when I have written one hundred books, then I will finally feel justified in calling myself a Writer with a capital ‘W’.

Thanks to the insatiable appetite my parents have always had for travelling, I have been well-travelled since about the age of six. By that time I had been trudging fairly extensively around the Far East as well as the usual places like Europe and America. And I have been thinking recently about how travelling has helped me as a writer. It might sound clichéd, but travelling really does broaden your horizons, and if you can do it from a young age, I think it’s even more useful.

I was a little kid when I went to Hong Kong, Thailand, Singapore and Malaysia, and so it didn’t occur to me to think: these people look different, this food tastes different, the air smells different, am I happy about this? In many of the photos from these holidays I’m either sat on a filthy pavement cuddling a stray cat or sat on a filthy pavement reading a book. But I put the cats and books down for the sightseeing, obviously, even if I sometimes had to be forced to do so. I have seen the Great Wall of China, and the hieroglyphics in the tombs at the Valley of the Kings, and climbed the ruins in Chichen Itza. I’ve ridden on elephants and camels (although not at the same time, obviously); sat in a sled pulled by huskies (and even runaway huskies on one memorable occasion), and swam with dolphins. I’ve held giant snakes, fed giant tortoises, and had my sandwiches snatched away by monkeys (all right, so maybe I gave the monkey my sandwich because it tasted horrible and I didn’t wish to eat it). In the Far East I’ve been caught in a sudden downpouring of rain so heavy that you’re soaked within seconds, and I’ve walked out of air conditioning into heat so intense it feels like you’ve been smacked over the head with it. We have been swindled, robbed and tricked during our travels – which perhaps is no great surprise given the kinds of back street places we have been known to wander into. My parents are such seasoned travellers that they can now spot a scam a mile off. Not me, though. I’ll fall for any con going. In addition to this, I’ve seen the most beautiful crystal waters on beaches in the Caribbean, and soon got used to the jellyfish bobbing around in the sea on beaches in the United Arab Emirates.

From a very young age, my brother and I did everything on holiday that my parents did. There was none of this going to bed early crap; there was certainly none of this being carried or pushed in pushchairs nonsense (we knew we would have been laughed at if we had even suggested such a thing); and there were absolutely no Kidz Clubz (shudder), which I absolutely loathed, possibly because they did not allow me to sit quietly in a corner and read my book, but instead insisted that I participate in group games with the other children (although I do still have the cap I won in the coca cola drinking contest). I ended up in such a club just once in Jamaica only because my brother was so keen to go. There was a bit of an incident when I ran away at the first opportunity and, I’m happy to say, I’ve never seen the inside of one of these clubs since.

I have used locations from my holidays in both my Gollancz books, and I have drawn on my experiences from them for the Lex Trent books, even if only indirectly (although the midnight markets are created straight out of the night markets I visited in Hong Kong and China). I don’t ever remember a time when I was not well travelled, and I am extremely grateful to my parents for taking us to those places and giving us those experiences rather than molly-coddling us in some English-only hotel year after year. You don’t get a feel for the country if you never leave the private beach, after all. Better to intrepidly venture forth in search of adventure and new experiences and glory! Even if this does mean that somewhere along the line you may get scammed, or robbed; or find yourself horribly lost; or stranded in the middle of nowhere with a flat tyre; or bitten by a really huge bug; or, as in my brother’s case, have copious amounts of blood gushing out of your head on at least two occasions that I can think of. But that, perhaps, makes my parents sound a little more happy-go-lucky than they actually are. They did mop up the blood, after all, and they were only accidents. But, yeah, travelling is great, and all writers or aspiring writers should do it. Just try to avoid the blunt trauma to the head thing – especially when out on safari in the African wilderness surrounded by wild lions, because blood is much more difficult to clean up under those circumstances. And the lions dislike the screaming.

This is a post I have been meaning to do for a while, but never quite got round to. However I have been inspired recently by a brilliant post on a similar subject by novelist Faye L. Booth: http://fayelbooth.blogspot.com/2009/01/when-emperors-are-in-buff.html. Faye’s post is much more comprehensive than mine, but I feel the pressing need to add my twopence to this discussion.

Writing a book is a labour of love. If it wasn’t then you would never get past the first chapter before you sickened of it and threw it in the bin. When you’re first starting out, you need a tremendous amount of faith in your own novel if you’re ever going to succeed in getting it published. I firmly believe that there must be unpublished novels out there that are phenomenally good but will never be published for the simple reason that their authors just aren’t determined/bloody-minded/stubborn/arrogant enough to withstand the ego-battering onslaught of rejection letters, and to send the book out again and again until it lands on the right desk of the right editor of the right publisher at the right time.

The ‘correct’ philosophy here is to say that everyone has their own opinions yadda, yadda, yadda, and not to be too disheartened because even if some people don’t like your book, others will. I accept this, in principle. But I also believe that not only must you have faith in your own work in order to succeed, but that you must love it practically to the point of being quite arrogant about it. There is no room for modesty here, my friends. If you don’t think your book is the best thing since sliced bread then how can you expect a publisher to? If you can’t be defiantly proud of your book even when it’s being rejected left, right and centre then you’ll be in danger of giving up at the first hurdle. There are countless examples of famous books (now considered masterpieces) being sent out time and time again before someone, somewhere recognised them for what they were. 

Here I would like to direct anyone who hasn’t already seen it to go and watch Randy Pausch’s ‘Last Lecture’: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ji5_MqicxSo This lecture on achieving your childhood dreams is probably one of the most inspirational things I have ever seen in my life. One issue Dr Pausch talks about, which has stuck with me ever since I first watched the lecture, is that of brick walls. These are the hurdles and problems that anyone will face when trying to achieve their dream (whatever it may be). I think any writer can sympathise with the disappointment of a generic, single sentence rejection letter, or a witheringly negative review. But as Dr Pausch points out, the brick walls are there to give you the chance to prove how much you want something. They are there to keep the other people out, not you. They are there to stop those who only half-heartedly work towards their goals, rather than those who are utterly determined to get there even if they half kill themselves in the process. You can’t half-heartedly want to be published – you must be prepared to fight to the death for it.

I think this especially applies to writing – and trying to get published – because writing is its own reward even without publication. You can therefore, if you are so inclined, decide to write for yourself alone. You can view writing as a pleasant hobby and nothing more. You’re certainly not (with a few obvious exceptions) going to get rich and famous pursuing a writing career. So the only reason I can see for embarking on the rocky, perilous road to publication, is because you love your novel so much that having it all to yourself is simply not enough – you want other people to read it and enjoy it too. That is why hearing someone praise your book is one of the very best feelings in the world. But it is also why negative reviews are so abhorrent to a writer. If your final goal is not publication itself, but for people to enjoy your work, then getting a bad review is like falling at the last hurdle. I have now acquired a much thicker skin with regards to bad reviews, but at the beginning, when The Ninth Circle had just come out, I will admit that I found poisonous critiques of my work almost physically painful to read. And it was one of those unfortunate facts that a good review would make me feel good for about ten minutes, whereas a bad review could ruin my entire day.

Really, this is a case of: ‘If you can’t stand the heat, get out of the kitchen’ coupled with ‘if you stay out of the kitchen you won’t get burned, but you will go hungry.’ If you can’t take criticism of your books, then you’re probably better off writing for yourself alone. But if you are going to attempt publication then, in my opinion, you really do have to be an arrogant little so-and-so. You have to be able to look at rejection letters you receive from publishers – actual professionals in the industry – and think ‘you are wrong, and I am right.’ That is harder said than done. But, assuming you do not get picked up by the first publisher/agent you approach, it is necessary. You must love your book so much, that anyone who doesn’t like it must a) have bad taste, or b), be an idiot. Of course, logically you can acknowledge that this isn’t really the case because people have different literary tastes etc etc, but this is the illogical feeling you must feel with conviction when you first open that rejection letter. That way you can stick your tongue out at it, rip it up into little pieces, throw them in the fire and firmly tell yourself that clearly this commissioning editor is an utter fool who has just lost their publisher an awful lot of money by passing up on your masterpiece. Ahem.

But – and this is the tricky part – you somehow have to counter-balance that arrogance with some degree of humility, especially if you are fortunate enough to get any kind of professional feedback. I’ve been extremely lucky with my editors, both at Gollancz and at Headline, in that they have both vastly improved my books with their comments and advice. It’s no use clinging to the idea that your book is perfect and cannot be improved. That’s taking the whole arrogant thing just too far.

Ultimately, readers and reviewers are entitled to their own opinions, and I would never begrudge someone for disliking one of my books. No book, no matter how wonderful, is going to appeal to everyone. Even geniuses like Terry Pratchett and J K Rowling are not universally adored by every reader in the world. You cannot do more than love your own book absolutely, and trust to the fact that, eventually, it will find its way to the people who are meant to read it.

My point, then, is that I am extremely arrogant when it comes to my books, and I ain’t sorry for it because the fact is that I couldn’t have got here if I wasn’t. But, at the same time, I would hope that I’d always be humble enough to acknowledge that nothing I write will ever be perfect. I would always strive to make my new book just a little bit better than the last one. And for that reason, I am certainly going to listen very carefully to anything any editor, reviewer or reader says to me about my books – i.e. I will pull the little pieces out of the fire, paste them back together, and read the letter/review/rejection again later when I can be calm and professional about it. If I still don’t agree with what’s been said then I will throw the letter back into the fire, and leave the damn thing there for good.

Something I get asked about a lot is whether I write on paper or on the computer. The answer is that I write on the computer, partly because I’m lazy (and so have no wish to spend time typing up handwritten stuff later), and partly because that just works better for me. I wish that I could write on paper. Somehow it seems more writerly to be sat there with a pen and notebook. Very Austen-ish and Bronte-ish and Poe-ish. But, quite aside from the fact that my handwriting is almost illegible, even to me, and that I would almost certainly lose the notebook eventually, the main problem I have with writing on paper is that it’s too difficult to move paragraphs around or rephrase sentences. You end up with a lot of messy crossings out and scribblings. I can make notes on paper happily enough, but actually writing part of a novel directly onto paper is something I find quite trying.

Recently, though, I’ve been forcing myself to write on paper sometimes for the simple reason that I can then go out to the garden. This is nice because it means that Moose can run around and release some pent up energy. It’s also good because I can be working whilst at the same time eating ice cream and drinking beer. Or wine. But not too much beer or wine, obviously, because writing when you’re drunk doesn’t tend to yield particularly good results. Ahem.

Anyway, the point is that working in the garden with sun and ice cream and beer, at hours that suit me, is one of the great things about being an author. I cringed recently when I heard of a company that insists their employees raise their hands and ask permission to go to the toilet in order that the time they’re away from their desks can be timed. Eh? What? Seriously?

I still prefer writing on the computer because I hate having to waste time typing up stuff later. But I’ve found that I can write on paper if I have to, as long as I have a really pretty, girly notebook, and a funky pen. Thankfully, having been to America recently, I am well stocked up on funky pens, including some particularly cool ones from the Rainforest Cafe. 

On a related note, I can’t write if there’s music on, and I certainly couldn’t write in a coffee shop as I know some other writers do. I need quiet because I need to be able to think, and I generally can’t do that if there’s too much going on around me.

Lex Trent is the exception to the above. I’ve written scenes for Lex whilst on a packed train, on holiday, and various other noisy, public places. This is not something I would ever usually be able to do but Lex comes to me so easily that I believe I could write a Lex Trent book on the walls of a cave using nothing but a stick of charcoal. He takes over my head so completely that I’m simply not aware of anything else that may be going on around me. Lex aside, though, much as I have enjoyed being all Austen and stuff, writing in a notebook underneath the pear tree in the garden whilst the dogs enjoy a rare bit of sunshine, and the tortoises walk mashed up bits of food around their pen, I still would take the PC over the paper every time.