Characters

Some time ago I was sitting in a pub, waiting for friends to arrive, and scribbling notes in a Moleskine book. I often do this, it's surprising what you can work on in those little pieces of downtime.

"What are you writing?" asked the first friend to arrive. He loomed over the table, trying to see my notes but my handwriting is barely decipherable by myself.

"Some notes," I replied, and we entered into a tedious exchange wherein he slowly coaxed out of me that I was writing a novel. I'm always embarrassed by this. It feels confessional, as though I'm doing something really weird. Which is probably reasonable as writing a novel is a pretty weird thing to do. Most people don't do it, and of those of us who do, few get many people to actually read them.

My friend takes in this revelation easily. "So," he says, "you're busy making notes on all your friends and putting them in the book with different names, right?"

Wrong. There seems to be a popular misconception that all writers do this. This is probably because a lot of writers do in fact do it for their first novel, but by the time they get to their second they realise it's a bit hack, and besides, they've already done the best ones and nobody wants to read a novel about Dave.* 

The actual process of creating characters happens in a number of different ways:

• Main characters are usually devised along with the plot. They are who they are by necessity and it is the plot that provides their development. 
• Some characters exist to provide conflict with the main characters. These can start as faceless obstacles, but the more you play with their conversation the more individual they become. Sometimes it takes a few goes at them for them to shine.
• Sometimes I start with a name. I like inventing names and am particularly taken with the David Cronenberg school of naming. Videodrome has a character called Barry Convex. What a name! The name often suggests a personality to me, but again the development often takes place during the writing.

Whichever route was taken to arrive at the character, I like to work out little bios for them all. Basic stuff, like personal foibles, and key events in their life. Much of this detail isn't directly used in the writing, but it helps give me a firm grip on who they are and how they got to be where they are. Sometimes I take it a little further, like finding a photo I think looks like them, which makes for a good tether for descriptions for me.

It is even possible to go method with the characters. Why stop with a photo? Apply for a passport for the character and use it to go to where your novel is set. You may have to exercise your imagination more if the novel isn't contemporary, but the exercise is still good. Try not to let the part where your application is rejected put you off. Simply alter your own passport with Tippex and glue. This ruse is especially effective if your novel entails the character being arrested for fraud at Heathrow. The technique can be used for characters involved in other plots of course. Modifying your passport a second time can gain you direct experience of the legal system, and, if things really work out, the prison system. The advantage of the latter is that you will have lots of time to really get that first draft together.

I don't go that far myself, but you may like it as a more exciting alternative to mindlessly scrolling through lists of names.

* Not Dave's real name

How to Publish a Book - Introduction

My father used to run a photography shop. It was the family business and when the time came to close it down there were boxes full of ancient miscellany to sort through. At the time I had been unwilling to go through them and simply put them in storage. This move appealled to both my innate laziness and my tendency to hoard. Now however, faced with rising storage costs and lack of alternative space, I've started the slow process and in doing so discovered this tome. Apparently written by one Timothy L. Marx, it dates to the 1920s and is an attempt at a guide to entering the world of publishing. It is hard to say who the actual author was. Neither my father nor grandfather have ever mentioned it, and there is no Timothy L. Marx on my family tree. Regardless of its origins, I'll scan some of the more interesting parts as and when I have time. Here's the introduction to start with.

Late last year I was knocking back some twisty twos with my chums at the club when during a lull in the chit-chat old Cuthers announced that he had written a book. He did this with no signposting of his intent and just blurted it out, as though the silence was so unbearable he would say anything to fill it. Dangerous disposition that, the man must avoid libraries like I avoid my relatives. Naturally we all laughed at this news, not so much as it was ridiculous, but because of the manner in which it had been delivered. Although it was slightly ridiculous. We were all at Eton together, but some of us were more there than others and frankly I could never understand how his parents had afforded the fees.

Poor old Cuthers seemed rather put out by this hilarity, so since it was nearly Christmas I took pity on him and told him I could get it published. Should be a doddle, I said. My Uncle Piers works for Penguin and I was sure he would be happy to publish Cuthers' opus magnum. I did have an ulterior motive. With Christmas approaching, I would soon have to make the dreadful rounds of visiting relatives in the regions, and having to submit to their demands to know what I was doing with my life, besides frittering it away in some West End establishments. A venture into publishing should shut the old bores up. So, winners all round, lets's have a tall glass of Green Imp to celebrate!

The gesture was well received and with Cuthers' ego restored, we ordered some champers and tiny toots and were well and truly on our way to Christmas. I was uncategorically a genius of the first water. What could possibly go wrong?

Jeffrey Archer Biscuit Story

The other day I was catching the train to Leeds and managed to miss it. This I blame on delays on the Piccadilly Line, but truthfully I was already running late by the time I reached the underground. This was due to an inability to get ready until the absolute last minute. It's a form of micro-procrastination. Why get ready five minutes early when I could cycle through my social media a couple of times instead? Inevitably this takes longer than expected, and so I'm amazed to find myself leaving the flat ten minutes later than I'd intended, all impotent haste and ready to shift my guilt onto the blameless Piccadilly Line. The Piccadilly Line can't help being slow from time-to-time. Its trains are 50-years-old now. Imagine how tired they must be, trundling between Cockfosters and Heathrow, day-in, day-out. Some of them even have to go to Uxbridge.

With time to kill until the next train to Leeds, I bought a packet of chocolate digestives (plain) and a flat white. Since it was a nice day I sat outside the station, amongst the skateboarders, pigeons and resting tourists. I deliberately chose a spot on the end of a bench with an empty seat next to it, so that I could selfishly block it with my bag, preventing anyone else from sitting there. All good practice for the train, I considered, as I carefully opened the biscuits and pushed a few loose so they protruded from the packet, ready to eat. A nearby pigeon eyed this motion beadily, but pigeons are genetically disposed to beadiness and it's quite hard to tell what they're looking at from one moment to the next. I ate one of the digestives and watched the pigeon, daring it to approach.

The pigeon was of course oblivious to me. I ate another biscuit and thought a bit about a plot hole I was trying fill, but only crumbs and feathers loomed in my imagination. Neither were adequate plot fillers. I reached for a third biscuit and was surprised that there were no more protruding from the packet. I was sure I'd loosened three or four of them, but maybe I was mistaken. Clearly I was mistaken, how else could there only have been two of them? I looked around warily for a ninja pigeon making off with a digestive but saw none. There was however an elderly gentleman next to me eating a biscuit. I stared at him incredulously. It was indeed a chocolate digestive. He seemed no more aware of me than the pigeons were and looked remarkably like Jeffrey Archer. He finished the biscuit, and with barely a pause shook another one from the packet.

I was speechless. What kind of a man so brazenly eats another man's biscuits? Aggrieved but unwilling to confront, I made a great theatrical display of taking another biscuit from the packet. I then crammed the whole thing into my mouth and snorted involuntarily as I struggled to chew it. This caught his attention. He recoiled at my grotesque performance, snatched up the packet of biscuits and walked briskly towards the Euston Road tube entrance. I watched his retreating figure in disbelief. Even the pigeon appeared taken aback by this development, and tilted its head to one side momentarily before continuing to peck amongst the fag ends. 

I snapped to my senses and headed after the biscuit thief, who by now I was fairly certain was in fact Jeffrey Archer. I followed him down into the underground foyer, where  saw his back disappear down the escalator to the Victoria Line while I attempted to touch in at the gate line. The barrier flashed red at me. Panicking, I tried again but to no avail. I slipped across the next barrier, cutting up a young man who tutted loudly. The barrier flashed green and let me through. I raced down the escalator as fast as my knees allowed and ran towards the platforms. I saw him make a left onto the southbound platform. Immediately after that I heard the beeping of the closing doors. My heart sank as I reached the train, its doors closed and ready to depart. But then the doors sprang open again. Something must have jammed one of them. Seizing my chance, I leapt onboard before the doors closed again, which they did as soon as I was in. I grabbed a pole as the train lurched into motion and scanned the carriage for the man who was at that moment in time definitely Jeffrey Archer. He wasn't anywhere in sight. Could he have boarded a different carriage? I made my way to the door at the end and peered through his window. There he was, sitting in a priority seat and eating my biscuits. Incensed, I pulled the door open. At this point heads turned and faces frowned. Moving between carriages is the province of beggars, unruly youth and the just plain crazy. I could feel them judging me, no doubt as fitting the latter category. No matter, I was on a mission. A somewhat alarming mission, as now the door was open I realised opening the door on the other carriage involved a leap of faith. I flung it open and stumbled into a carriageful of more strangers who were making the same determination. Nothing good ever appears through the carriage doors.

I ignored their stares and made my way to the biscuit thief. He regarded me with idle curiosity while stuffing his face with another chocolate digestive.

"Those are my biscuits," I said, a little hysterically if I'm honest, but I was surging with adrenaline after the chase. "Give them back to me please."

The man looked at me curiously. "I sorry," he said in a thick Eastern European accent, "my English not too good."

At this point I had to concede he wasn't Jeffrey Archer, and thinking about it he looked like I remember Jeffrey Archer looking something like thirty years ago. Nonetheless, he still had my biscuits. Now fully vexed, I grabbed at the packet but the man who was definitely not Jeffrey Archer pulled it away and hissed at me.

"Look," I said as reasonably as I could muster in the circumstances, "just give me the biscuits and that'll be the end of the matter."

"Leave him alone," said a voice behind me. I turned and was met with a fierce stare from a heavily-built man in an Arsenal shirt.

Further along the carriage, I saw a suited young man take out his phone and start filming me. The train began its screeching deceleration into Euston and I considered my position. They were my biscuits, that fact is indisputable. However I didn't want to end up being the next TikTok sensation and branded the Victoria Line Biscuit Mugger or whatever the low courts of the internet decide on. The biscuits weren't expensive. I could just buy some more. Also, crucially, I had cast myself into the role of biscuit mugger the moment I entered the stage via the crazy door.

The train stopped at Euston. I waved goodbye to the camera and stepped off. As I departed, a pigeon swooped down and hopped into the carriage. How on earth had it made it all the way down there? Just before the doors closed it turned and looked at me, and for a moment I was convinced it was the same one that had stalked me at Kings Cross. Maybe I was going crazy after all.

As the train departed I realised that it would be the pigeon enjoying all that TikTok fame. I felt a pang of jealousy. Maybe being the Victoria Line Biscuit Mugger wouldn't be that bad if it sold a few books.

A Visit to the Zoo

Whenever I'm stuck with my writing, like many other writers I find doing something else for a while can really clear the creative juices. They'd certainly lift the fog enough to come up with a better turn of phrase than 'clear the creative juices', which aside from being lazy is also slightly revolting, as though creativity is a slaughtered animal being cooked to serve hungry readers. This does provide a handy segue to my recent trip to London Zoo though, where the animals are generally not dead, and any that do unfortunately hammer angrily on the reinforced glass for the last time are certainly not cooked and eaten. I'm not sure how they actually dispose of dead animals at London Zoo, but most zoos cremate the carcasses at a licensed facility and I imagine similar arrangements are in place there. Rumours that they dump them all in an undocumented shaft connected to the Northern Line are untrue, despite the persistent reports of ghostly animals at Chalk Farm following the Great Penguin Electrocution Disaster of 1927.

But I digress. On this occasion I was struggling with the resolution of a plot element. Nothing was satisfactory, or at least if a solution was satisfactory, it lacked any real spark. So while I waited for that spark to come, I took myself for a wander around London Zoo. There are of course ethical questions about the continued existence of zoos. On the one hand, they are holding animals in captivity and this can be seen as cruel. However on the other hand modern zoos do a lot of conservation work, and in some cases this is essential as the animals' natural habitat is destroyed. I tend towards the latter argument, partly because I can't handle the moral guilt of completely accepting the first argument, but mostly because look at their little faces!

While there I thought I would take notes in the hope that they may help other writers mired in their work. So without further preamble, here are a selection of the animals at London Zoo, rated for their inspiration.

• Giraffes. Their sheer height does force you to see things from a new perspective, which can be useful. They also gave me a crick in my neck, which distracted me from formulating anything of use. 5/10
• Lemurs. Here's a bit of trivia - renowned recording engineer and reformed edgelord Steve Albini was nutty about lemurs. If they were doing something for him then they must be doing something right because that man never stopped working. Unfortunately their eyes really creeped me out and I had to go for a mint Magnum. 2/10 unless you're Steve Albini, in which case 10/10
• Lions. A Swiss friend once remarked that it's funny that the UK passport has a lion and a unicorn on its cover, neither of those creatures being found within our borders. Well, we do have some lions here and if unicorns existed you bet we would have captured some and put them in a cage. It's the British way. Are lions inspirational though? That they have been used as a potent symbol of the empire for so long suggests so, and they are very striking as they prowl next the glass walls of their enclosure. However I do think they could have livened them up with a giant laser pointer or something. They are cats after all. 6/10
• Parrots. I don't know why I bothered with the parrots. You can see them almost anywhere. But I went to see them and one of them called me a c**t. It made me quite furious but no ideas were forthcoming. 2/10
• Penguins. Now happily relocated to an electricity-free environment, the penguins transition from hobbling little strivers to highly motivated torpedoes once they hop into the water. This is a terrific metaphor for the creative unblocking I'm seeking, and watching them streak through their tank is pretty mesmerising. If nothing else it's a very relaxing experience. 7/10
• Pigeons. Technically there aren't any pigeons at the zoo. They are like day visitors for the inmates, flying in and out whenever the mood takes them. I watched a flock of them converge on a small child who was leaking crisps from a poorly held packet. The child's mother was unconcerned although the pigeon numbers approached that which I imagine is enough to carry the kid away. How many pigeons would that take, I wonder? And where would they take the airlifted children? 9/10, but should have saved my money and gone to Trafalgar Square instead.