QUESTIONS

It came naturally, and little else did. I started when I was tiny, writing stories in notepads or with my dad’s old typewriter; then on a PC, or under the table during Double Science. I had a lot of ambition but none of it very specific beyond knowing I wanted to write, and appearing in youth essay and poetry anthologies with my very nineties teenage thoughts on boys, soap stars and the state of the planet. At 15 I decided I wanted to go into journalism because I thought that was how a writer could earn a living. Teenage innocence is a wonderful thing…

It depends what kind of writing you want to do and why, but basically, by doing it, and doing it as much as possible. If you’re in your early twenties and your boss has never begged you to resign and go and be the next J.K Rowling; or your Maths teacher never asked you: “Did you forget to write your name on this, or prefer to remain anonymous?” there’s probably a better career for you in something else. But if nothing else you’ve ever done has made you (or anyone else) happier, it’s probably what you’re best at. Many writers and women in publishing cut their teeth writing fan fiction on the internet as teenagers and beyond, which I slightly regret not doing because it’s a great way of finding your tribe when you’re young, and teaches you a lot about writing (and, um, other activities. Apparently…). Plenty more writers start later in life because the opportunities weren’t there when they were younger. It also helps if you have a good ear for detail, a long-term memory that scares people, and a tendency towards obsessions (ideally ones you can monetise well, but don’t ask me what those are…).

The novel brings together elements I’ve written about, or wanted to, for a long time. As well as exploring life and loss from women’s perspectives, I wanted to show something of how society and tech have evolved over the last twenty years. I also wanted to write characters who were raised with English middle-class expectations but have a Central-Eastern European heritage, with associated baggage. My own European heritage is unusual; both in terms of where my mum’s family is from, and in being completely secular. People in the UK with Central-Eastern European roots tend to have Catholic or Jewish backgrounds, whether practising or not. So, I felt my characters should have some religion in their families, in different, peripheral ways. Finally, I wanted there to be a hint that a character has some kind of neurodiversity, without naming it, or making the story all about a condition.

Stories are different from each other because of how and why they’re told, not just when and where they’re set. I’m interested in how people fit into that world or don’t, and the cost of fitting in or not. There are many more people who could and should write a better first novel set somewhere else than I could. 

I call myself one because it’s the only thing I do well enough to be paid. When you choose to is up to you.

Most fiction writers draw heavily from the world around them and heavily make things up at the same time, so the two become inseparable and this question is difficult to answer. Writing about something that’s affected you doesn’t necessarily mean you’ve written about it directly in the way it happened to you. Sometimes too, a writer researches and writes about something as an outsider, which then becomes inseparable from their own life.

To write fiction or poetry, I don’t think someone needs to have experienced something directly or in the same way. I do think if you’re writing about top-draw feelings you probably need to have experienced some kind of top-draw feeling yourself, or at least informally know someone who has. Similarly, if you’re writing about someone from a minority group (e.g, in terms of race, heritage, religion, sexuality or disability) it helps if you can relate to being in a minority, without necessarily belonging to that particular group. It also depends how important the experience or identity is to the story. I’ve heard people advise against writing about love or grief unless you’ve experienced either, which feels sensible. For journalism or academic writing, I believe the right to speak to vulnerable people or handle certain topics should be earned through maturity and experience; lived or professional.

I don’t, and they don’t. To crowdfund or self-publish well, you need marketing experience, confidence and contacts. Self-publishing and crowdfunding are great for types of writing which are easier to sell directly to an audience than through a traditional publisher; like poetry, family history, essay collections, specialist non-fiction, and some genres of fiction which not many agents handle. They appeal to people who want more control over their work, including aspects of marketing which are usually decided by a publisher, like where it’s sold and what goes on the cover. They aren’t so great if you want to write more than one book; or for novels, unless you’ve got a large audience as an expert in something and your novel will appeal to that audience.

I’m afraid I don’t know anything about self-publishing; The Writers And Artists Yearbook has a guide to the process, and lots of people I know have crowdfunded books through Unbound. When I can, I support crowdfunded work that fits in with my interests; especially involving people who are underrepresented, under-confident or under-connected.

According to someone better-placed to answer this than me (and I can vouch for it), you know whether or not you’ve finished when you know whether the structure is really right for the story you want to tell.

I like stories involving plucky outsiders, difficult conversations, and women doing things in general. I like writers to remind me what I know, tell me what I don’t, or both.  Two books I wish I’d written are Allan Hollinghurst’s THE LINE OF BEAUTY and Zoe Heller’s NOTES ON A SCANDAL. Vonny was named after Veronica Mars – in my opinion, one of this century’s best female TV characters, along with Nadia Vulvukov. The first stories I enjoyed when I was growing up were on television; I will drain my drink and walk away from anyone who thinks popular dramas and soaps are beneath them. I’m not into heavy romance or violence, in fiction or in life.

The best thing about writing is the freedom to build a world you’re in control of, and almost everything to do with actually doing it. The worst thing about all creative industries is some people’s eagerness to put other people and their work into boxes, and an unwillingness to accept someone’s background can be layered or complicated. 

Not much, although my post-30 revelation that it might be emotionally healthy to try something else led to a love of running and horses. Like Vonny in my WIP, I built small websites and kept blogs throughout my late teens and twenties, although, unlike her, mine were generally more devoted to quoting song lyrics than looking for gainful employment. I’m a decent singer but I don’t take drugs and I like getting paid to work, which doesn’t get you far in the music industry. Or in music journalism for that matter, although I got far enough there to make the shortlist for Chief Sub at Record Collector magazine at 24; and for The Quietus to let me commemorate 20 years since one of my all-time favourite singers released her debut album. If I wasn’t a writer with opinions and a Twitter account, I’d probably be a police detective or work for MI5.

“Other work includes”: Being a learning support assistant to children with speech and language needs. Cleaning floors and bathrooms on location for a TV production company. Stuffing envelopes at a tobacco requisites firm. Volunteering in charity shops. Data entry. Babysitting and cat-sitting. Inept youthful stints in retail and call centres. Basically all the usual jobs made up of part-time bloggers, arsey weekend DJs, skint MA students, aspiring stand-ups and homebodies. Including my first job out of university, which was awful but inadvertently led me to some of the most interesting and wonderful people I’ve ever known.

Yes. I also wrote this page of common questions about Dyspraxia, which answers pretty much everything I’m asked about it as well as I’m able to. If you’re interested in journalism, Jessica Reed, one of the Guardian’s desk editors when I wrote that piece, who now works for Guardian US, has written a helpful guide to pitching for freelance writers. Many big publications have similar guides, like this one at BuzzFeed; some run graduate schemes. There are also books and short courses on freelance journalism for beginners. For anything to do with the Guardian or the Dyspraxia Foundation, please contact them directly.

Email is usually best by far, and if you try and reach me another way I’ll probably tell you to email me anyway. I can’t always promise to reply but I read and appreciate everything. You’re welcome to follow me on Twitter; I’m there a lot, and happy to hear from nice people. Facebook is for friends, in the traditional sense. If you use the internet for work more than swearing at the news and watching cat videos, you can find me on LinkedIn or The Dots.

I’m happy to speak at conferences and panel events related to my work and/or to dyspraxia. My dyspraxia FAQ has some suggestions for running a dyspraxia-friendly (and all-person friendly) event. Where I can, I’m also happy to attend events, help with research, or be in documentaries, but I get more of these invitations than I’m able to fulfil. The more local you are, or the more you can afford towards travel costs, the more likely I’ll be able to attend or take part.

Really though, no one person or place can tell you that. Writing is a path laid by you, not for you. It’s not like going to medical school or law school where you learn this about arteries or that about probates and then you’re a doctor or lawyer. It’s not like most businesses, where you should chase the market trends or market leaders. People write for different reasons. Most people who write full-time do various different kinds of writing, and tutor or mentor other writers. The Literary Consultancy, and Nicola Morgan (the writer, not the politician…) give great advice. You can learn a lot by taking notice of people, their accomplishments and their mistakes. But what’s true or right for one person may not be for another. Get to know people, but never expect someone to have all the answers, and leg it if they claim to –  especially anyone guaranteeing you’ll earn a living or get published by doing their thing. Think about why you want to write, and ask career questions out of genuine warmth towards whoever you’re asking. As writer Daisy Buchanan puts it brilliantly, people who collect career advice are sometimes more envious of other people’s assumed lives than interested in their work. My best relationships with writers and performers are open, mutually-appreciative and grew out of shared experiences. My worst have been where I felt more drawn to someone by their confidence than by the value of what they were doing.

Many writers get questions about writing from people who want to write. Then there are those who have to write, and it’s heartbreaking because I’m one of those people too and I want to offer quick and easy solutions, but I can’t. Without being Royal, taking your clothes off or breaking the law, there are basically four ways to manage while you’re building up experience, depending on your age and situation: 1) Support from the Arts Council, often through regional arts organisations which run schemes for emerging writers, 2) Support from businesses or private donors who fund the arts, 3) The support of family (emotional, as much if not more than, financial…) and 4) A partner’s salary. I’ve variously had all of these, except the last one, which has never sat right with me but I judge no-one else if it works for them. As a long shot, many writing contests offer cash or free mentoring as prizes.