The Fictionary

I was reading an old short story of mine – a warm, family tale in which a man watches horror-struck from a hospital window as a patient is eaten by foxes in the car park. You know how it is. There was lots wrong with it, but what struck me most was my choice of ‘my breath caught in my throat’ at one point. The cliche police will be making an easy arrest after that one – I may as well hand myself in. But what if we could build a manual to help writers evade capture – to stay away from the long, long arm of the cliché law?

Let’s imagine for a moment, a reference manual that listed words and phrases like this one – the type used solely in genre fiction. I use the word ‘solely’ not in its journalistic sense, but in the strictest sense of ‘never elsewhere’. In a wittily composed introduction, the lexicographer would outline the breadth and importance of their task – to collect and categorise all those tics that specifically characterise commercial narratives; turns of phrase which thrive in the pages of airport novels but are long-since extinct in the mouths of ordinary humans. Commercial fiction needs momentum, energy, suspense and tension before anything else, the intro would argue, so this language of repeated, familiar cliché is of critical importance.

Maybe there’d be categories other than the letters of the alphabet, such as, say ‘dressing’:

Don (verb) to put on, usually a hat or scarf. If a hat, must be over a ‘shock’ of hair, often ‘fair’.

Slip (verb) to put on, usually by a female character, with reference to either a swimsuit or underwear. Characters who ‘slip’ into clothing must then be described in terms of their ‘shapely’ appearance.

Or ‘sitting down in a pub’:

Commandeer (verb) to select a table in a bar, usually for a tense meeting that will include some amazing revelation. Mysteriously, only male characters of a certain class or background may ‘commandeer’ tables.

Ensconced (adjective) to be sitting snugly at a table in a bar, usually in preparation for a tense meeting that will include an amazing revelation. Can only be used if the character in question has been first to arrive. They may or may not have ‘commandeered’ the table in question. Characters ‘ensconced’ at tables must have chosen a table near the fire. The fire must ‘blaze’.

‘Epiphany’ would be a section, I think:

Click (verb) to ‘suddenly’ realise ‘something’ in one’s ‘brain’. Any combination of these words will work, commonly ‘something suddenly clicked in my brain’. The epiphany must follow a period in which the character ‘thought hard.’

Certainly there’d be a long section on action/dialogue:

Grin broadened (verb phrase) to smile during the delivery of a veiled threat, usually during the conclusion of a tense meeting – commonly in a bar – that has included an amazing revelation. Must come between repeated dialogue phrases, as in “We wouldn’t want that, Mr Gosport” said Argyle. His grin broadened. “We wouldn’t want that at all. Would we?” Best reserved for closing a chapter or scene. Utterly ruined by the addition of “No, we wouldn’t!” laughed Mr Gosport in cheerful agreement, or “OK. Bye!” said Mr Gosport with a carefree wave.

As and while (adverbial conjunctions) connectives used to attach dialogue to a usually meaningless action, often for no reason other than to break the monotony of he-said-she-said exchanges. Thus “I can’t stand this” said Steve becomes, “I can’t stand this” said Steve, as he ran his fingers through his shock of fair hair. (nb. any character called Steve must be described as ‘ruggedly handsome’.)

And of course, there’d be: breath caught in throat (verb phrase) to express fearful revulsion whilst witnessing a fox attack in a hospital car-park.

So there's a start. What's stopping us? Lexicographers of the world unite!

A Five-Idea Fire Sale

There comes a time, my friends, when we have to acknowledge that some hopes and dreams will never be fulfilled. But that doesn’t mean they are forever idle or wasted. In this ecologically aware age, unfulfilled dreams needn’t clutter our desks or fill our bins. Let’s recycle.

By choosing to adopt one of these ideas, you’ll not only be saving the heat, light and fuel needed to generate them for yourself, but you’ll also feel that warm glow of satisfaction, knowing you’ve given a home to a project which is currently feeling lonely, useless and abandoned.

Needless to say, me being me, there are some crackers here. At the end of the post, feel free to attach, via the comments box, any other ideas you’d like to get rid of. Given that the market for creative property has increased rapidly over the last decade or so, think of this page as a kind of nascent e-bay for ideas. Where everything’s free.

Without further ado; the first five items are as follows:

1.  ‘The Million-Pound Kit Kat’ and ‘Second Cheapest on the Menu’.

Two vibrant, tongue-in-cheek additions to the food writing genre, these little beauties come as a pair. Both have but one previous owner. Both are a little scuffed around the edges through over-use. Plenty of life left in them, though. This is how they work. In ‘The Million-Pound Kit Kat’, the writer must undertake a social experiment with commercially produced fast food, and spend a million quid in the process. The protagonist – it could be you! – must buy a Kit Kat from any shop. They must then smuggle the same Kit Kat into a second shop, pretend it was the stock of the shop, and pay for it again. Repeat the process until the Kit Kat has cost a million quid. Write witty, insightful stories about shopping and chocolate whilst describing the process. Then eat the Kit Kat, and reflect on its qualities. Personally, I’ve always imagined the close of the book – the eating of the million quid Kit Kat – to be akin to Molly Bloom’s speech in Ulysses; a rhythmic, sensual stream of consciousness. (‘Hmmm yes.’) In ‘Second Cheapest on the Menu’, the writer must describe a year of eating out during which they are only allowed to order the second cheapest thing on the menu, regardless of what it is. There was a compelling reason for this rationale, but I’ve forgotten it.

2.  ‘The Danny Loss Payday Party Manifesto’, aka ‘Secret Six’.

Sold as seen, a pair of gaming-related blokey twenty-something narratives looking for a good home. In ‘Secret Six’, our protagonist is visited, in a comical vision, by a god of gambling. Think Aladdin’s genie. He gives our hero six numbers and wishes him well. Secret Six throws a Saturday night party in expectation of lottery success. Makes a big speech in the moments leading up to the draw. Burns some bridges, quits his job. The numbers don’t come up. Secret Six spends the rest of the novel trying to work out what the numbers mean. He knows he has the right numbers, but he doesn’t know what game they relate to. Cue comic visits to greyhound races, casinos, etc. A rom-com about faith, love and mindless consumerism. Charming. ‘The Danny Loss Payday Party Manifesto’ is essentially the same, except as a partially completed screenplay. Rather than a visit by a god, the numbers are communicated by a series of strange lights flashing nocturnally in the windows of an abandoned mill. A code-breaking rom-com. There’s a whole genre in that; I’ll throw it in for free.

3.  ‘Delusions of Goodyear’

You wouldn’t believe me if I said I dreamt this story in its entirety but I did, I swear – even the title, which appeared just before I woke up. ‘Delusions of Goodyear’ is a psychological thriller which bravely probes ideas of perception, reality, morality, duality and many other ‘alities’ besides. Sold as a complete and finished idea, with some sketches of how the cover should be and a specially recorded soundtrack composed by a pal who, for the purposes of this post, we shall call Argyle. For full details of the plot – which follows the unlucky experiences of a pair of drug-crazed brothers on a seaside holiday – DM me.

4.  ‘Perry Wacker’s Lost Property’

In 2001, Dutch lorry-driver Perry Wacker was convicted of smuggling immigrants into the UK. This gritty, magic-realist gangster thriller (a whole new genre! I’ll throw it in for free...) re-imagines the grisly events of that year as an alternate history. In ‘Perry Wacker’s Lost Property’, the antagonist’s lorry becomes a magical portal to another world. Bear with me – I need to work on my elevator pitch for this one. So: the special truck folds the fabric of space and time, and inside it, magically, is every piece of lost property in the world. From the sock that falls unnoticed from the toddler’s foot, through a sea of tapes and CDs, to the memory sticks left on park benches by careless civil servants. Perry Wacker must decide what to do. Will he use these items for personal gain – or is this a chance to redeem himself? Edgy, controversial, and pretty crap, this idea is easily the worst of the four. Special discounted price.

Three Bad Habits

Stephen King, eh? Sometimes he’s dispensing words so heavy with wisdom and insight that he has you reappraising everything you’ve written – and other times he’s as useful as that bloke down the pub with his theory of everything.

Case in point:

Kingy tells me to put my draft in a draw and leave it for sixth months. Time, he says, gives perspective and clarity. Six months, I think. Jeez. That’s like – virtually a year, right? But dammit, he was bang on the money. I unwrap the draft. I crank up the laptop. I read. Perspective! Clarity!

Then I start my re-draft. Kingy’s steer on this is clear. “Second draft” he says – I’m paraphrasing, you understand; On Writing’s upstairs and I’m down here on the sofa with a premier cru cider – “equals first draft minus 10%.” Minus 10%, I think. So I’m aiming to lose 7k. I’m just chopping out words. Adverbs, mostly. So off I go, and what do I find?

The man’s advice is bobbins, people. Bobbins.

Re-drafting for King might be like pruning an already handsome-looking shrub, but for me it’s like arriving in the garden with a pair of secateurs, only to find you need a chainsaw, safety goggles and an extensive pergola just to keep the damn bush upright. My book looks like the bongleweed.

But I confess I’ve had a jolly time poking fun at my six-month-younger-self. Boy, there were some clangers in there. Here’s my top three bad writing habits. I’m hoping against hope here that a few of you guys might provide me with some comfort by confessing to similar failings.

1.  Doubling-up verbs

It seems when I can’t choose between two verbs – to hell with it, I pick them both. This is particularly the case when they’re onomatopoeiac - so horses pulling carts “clatter and rattle” down the cobbled streets – but is also a fave of mine when someone’s in the grip of some strong emotion. Hearts “swell and bob” in anticipation. Stomachs “flip and shudder”. Deary, deary me.

2.  The eyes have it

When I need a character to materialise quickly in the mind of the reader, I have an irritating tendency to fiddle with their eyes. Forget voices, quirks, personalities – just give ‘em some crowsfeet and be done, that’s me. The fortune teller? “her creased eyes painted...” The masseur at the steamhalls? “wide wet eyes” (wet?!) Fat Oscar? “eyes glassy like marbles” and “there’s something in his eyes as they flicker upwards”. Boredom at being so tediously described, I should imagine.

3.  Me and my two adjectives

Madness when your two adjectives are zingy, vibrant and interesting words. Total bloody lunacy when the two in question are “thin” and “tight”. Every street, passageway, alley, corridor, walkway and tunnel are one or both of these things at some point. Such is my desperation to create a sense of claustrophobia, I’m slapping the reader in the face with it every other sentence.

And I’ve deliberately not mentioned the horrific continuity errors – there’s a whole post’s worth of fun in those. As for the kissing scene – Lord above, I write like I’m seventeen.

Faced with these problems, I reckon even Kingy would agree to adjust his simple re-drafting equation. “Second draft”, he’d be forced to concede, “equals first draft minus plot holes, purple prose, personality quirks, bad habits – and 10%”