How to Write More

People ask me all the time, “How can you write so much?” I don’t really feel as if I write all that much, but I suppose that at this point my long bibliography suggests that I have. Let’s ignore the fact that it took years to build up that list of publications and look at the most recent and I find that yes, I am writing faster and more than I used to do. You can too.

[I feel like I should be talking like Ron Popeil here.]

My basic writing advice has always been what I tell myself: shut up and write. Amazingly good advice that has served me well. If you’re whinging about writing or tweeting or facebooking, you’re not doing the work of writing. Only writing is writing.

What’s that you say? “You seem to be on social media 24/7, Kate. What’s up with that?”

Yes, it seems that way sometimes, but the truth is I spend less time on social media than the average person spends watching television. I don’t really watch television. The key is timing — and choices. And the other groovy thing? I try out writing ideas on social media and cannibalise what I’ve used.

[Except for the super long fainting goats discussion: haven’t found a way to use that yet, but I will.]

So what’s the real key? Write and don’t stop.

Do you realise how much time people lose faffing about second-guessing their writing efforts? Doubting, revising, deleting, rethinking. Don’t. Write it, finish it, let it set for a while. Then go back and give it a critical eye. Look at what works and doesn’t. Set aside your ego if you think everything you write is gold — set aside your self doubt if you think everything you write is dreck: you’re both wrong. It’s just a story you’re making up. It’s not a matter of life and death; if you’re writing, that’s a good thing because creation is a great joy. There’s another pay off.

The more you write, the better you get.

Agonising over every word is not what makes you a better writer. It’s practice, practice, practice. The more you give free rein to the creative part of the brain, the better and faster and more consistently it will run. Be playful, be fearless — write crap! We’ve all got loads of it in us. But write, then revise, and then send it off. Because someone out there is waiting for your words. You just have to find them. But in the mean time, love writing. It’s a great way to live.


What Does it Take to be a Writer?


What does it take to be a writer? You can have talent, skill, connections, training and still it comes to nought. So what keeps you going?

I seem to have two speeds: obsessed and don’t care. The greater part of the world falls into “don’t care”: politics, fashion, television, sports — I just don’t care. For that matter, add cooking and cleaning and talking to people who don’t amuse me. Obsessions: writing, Peter Cook, The Fall, writing, myth, magic, folklore, writing, travel, theatre, film, writing and classic British comedy. And writing. I completely understand P. G. Wodehouse’s comment, “I never want to see anyone, and I never want to go anywhere or do anything. I just want to write.”

My ex once accused me of having hypergraphia. It’s a clinical disease where people obsessively write anywhere, anytime, on anything they’ve got in front of them. Most people who suffer from the little-studied disease write nonsense: it’s the action of writing that comforts their manic sprees, not content. I have a head bursting with stories that want to be written and I spend a lot of time in front of my black Mac going tappity-tappity. I also go out to the pub with friends and go see plays and walk along Galway Bay and think nothing at all but what a wonderful world this is. But writing is what I do. Writing is how I see the world. When something terrible happens to me, I struggle through it by finding the right words to describe it in my head.

The world does not care: most writers spend an awful lot of their time racking up rejections, facing indifference and incomprehension. Even when we do get published, we’re generally very poorly remunerated for the long hours spent polishing the words. It is a kind of madness.

Writing has to be an obsession. People tell me all the time, “I think I’d like to be a writer.” If I’m feeling polite, I make encouraging remarks about how to get started. But inside my head echo the words, “If you really did, you’d be writing already.” It’s a simple thing: sit down at your pad of paper or your keyboard and vomit forth entire galaxies from your brain. Scrape the insides of your skull until magic happens on the page. And then write the next word. Open a vein and dip that pen. Stare at the blank page and will characters to appear. Give them problems, give them friends, give them homes and then take away their hope, their loves and sometimes their lives. Then smile and do it all again.

My character Riley in my forthcoming story “Mandrake and Magpies” has an obsession: he’s heard whispers of a new drug, one that puts all the other intoxicants in the shade. Magic. However, having an obsession makes you vulnerable. Prices suddenly go up. Riley knows Una might be the best way to get some of this new stuff, but as soon as she knows how much he’s jonesing for it, the cost will rise. How much will he pay? How deep into the darkness will the poor lad go?

I’ve got a magpie feather quill tattooed on my left arm. It looks like a drop of blood dripping from its tip, but it’s really ink. If you cut me, I bleed ink. I’d use it that way anyway. Obsessed? Damn right I am.