Mistakes Writers Make (And How to Put Them Right)

Mistake No. 65: Net losses

2012-01-24T20:47:00.002Z

I read a tweet last week, on the day of the Wikipedia blackout, by a writer pointing out that journalists might have to actually spend the day doing some proper in-depth research – for a change! – rather than click into the collaborative online people’s encyclopedia and trusting the information they found there.

It was partly tongue-in-cheek but there was a valid point underneath it all: it is very easy to become reliant on the net, or certain parts of it, for your work. As far as research goes, there are still alternative and effective means of conducting it, internet-free: calling organisations and professional bodies, speaking to experts, using the local library (and its librarians), for instance. And ditto getting ideas: yes, web chat rooms are terrific for generating them, but so too eavesdropping in a supermarket queue and reading old copies of magazines, for instance. It’s not all about the web.

I can’t help feeling that this must be impacting the content of what gets written, by established and new writers alike, even when that material is written for print, not web – perhaps not necessarily for the worse, but still. I often see decent enough articles by students which fall just slightly short of the mark, and which would possibly be saleable were they not so blatantly researched exclusively via the web. Sometimes, they’re just short of life.

Some of the poorer giveaway signs include a sudden throwaway internet reference – “if you don’t believe me, go Google it!” – or strings of lengthy URLs provided in the article’s body. I see this a lot. Why, when you are writing for a print reader, would you send him off to the internet before you’ve finished your article? Your goal is to inform the reader there and then, wherever he may be – quite possibly on an underground train with no web access. Don’t go sending them scurrying off to log on before you’ve finished your job. Maintain engagement. Add a website to your ‘info’ sidebar at the end, at best, once you’re done.

I don’t bother with magazines any longer, a student told me the other day: you get a greater diversity of news and views online. Maybe you do, but this still saddened me a bit. You already know that you need to read and research print publications if you want to write for them. But more than that, I still think you’re more likely to stumble across and read about a subject about which you don’t know much while turning the pages of a journal. When you’re browsing online, it’s so easy to click away into the hundreds of distracting and time-wasting options presented to you or just point your browser to the specific information you habitually seek out. Surely newspapers and magazines still broaden horizons?

I don’t want to give the impression I’m fixated on print and refuse to accept the march of the web and ebooks and the rest. Print may or may not survive in the decades to come, and I don’t expect to feel especially nostalgic if it dies by the time I retire. But the fact of the matter is it’s not gone yet. We still have it. If it goes, that’s one thing, but as it appears to be still kicking, let’s not turn our backs just yet.

So I guess this is a little plea to de-web and un-net yourself for a bit – if not necessarily physically, but mentally – attitudinally. Granted, this is a bit rich given I’m writing a blog and asking you to read it online – but consider spending some hours away from the www. Make as if it had stopped existing for a day. What would you do? How would you go forward? What would you read? It might reinvigorate a lost writerly dimension in you.

Mistake No. 64: Competition guidelines? Pah!

2012-01-03T19:26:00.002Z

I’ve just administered a modest little online competition on behalf of one of my clients. It was not a writing competition or related to the publishing business in any way; it was a simple prize giveaway for subscribers of a newsletter.

Three things were asked of entrants:

1. To answer a simple question.
2. To express a preferred choice of winning product.
3. To provide an address.

I was managing the entries, which trickled steadily in by email, and from which several winners would be drawn at random after a one-month period.

I should have just let the emails stack up of their own accord until the deadline, but curiosity got the better of me and I idly started to click into them. It soon became clear that over half of entrants were failing to supply all three things asked of them. The ratio improved over the coming weeks, as those who’d taken their time sent their entries through, but the ‘early birds’, who I suspect simply experienced a rush-to-the-head to get their entry in, ensured that I had to disqualify what turned out to be a sizeable number – perhaps a third. Some failed on one or two counts, but one entrant almost deserved her own special prize in managing the remarkable feat of failing on all three, supplying none of requested information at all. “I’d like to enter your competition!” was the hopeful entirety of her submission.

Although I’ve not had any involvement in them before, I’ve heard through blogs and writing magazines and chats with writers who’ve judged them that many entrants to writing competitions fail to take the time to read instructions properly, and make variously problematic submissions, leading to disqualification. I suppose there is much more scope for error in this case, especially as each competition will have its own particular requirements. Examples that might earn your work a red card include: going over word count, not submitting the requested amount of copies, failing to fill out entry forms, missing the deadline, not specifying the category entered, omitting the entry fee, submitting poetry to a short story competition and, yes, forgetting to include a name and address and (often) age.

Now, on one level, I do sympathise a little with writers faced with several pages of guidelines and terms and conditions. Not quite as much as I sympathise with the judges for all the reading they have to do (that said, competition organisers, I am available for bookings if you’re reading…) but I do sympathise a bit nonetheless. Of course they’re boring. I find my eyes skimming the terms too: after a while it’s a constant battle to force them to read every word.

But read them you must. Fight the urge to skim. Take your time. There’s no benefit in rushing. Whether you enter on the opening day of the competition or by the last day you’ll stand the same chance of winning. (Or do early birds get their entries read sooner? Do they therefore stay in the minds of judges for longer, increasing their chances? Hmm…)

There’s an obviously selfish reason you should understand the requirements too: it helps you to ensure you submit the most appropriate work, in the best form, and increase your chances of success. Entering a prize draw takes only minutes of your time, but a writing competition is hours or days – all that work is wasted if you make an error.

But there’s a less obvious and more altruistic reason too: it’s just the right, polite and respectful thing to do, with respect to organisers and other writers. Save the very largest, writing competitions are not money spinners. They take a lot of work, and a lot of people – organisers, judges – are giving up their time for, well, probably not much reward, in order to read and assess your work. You wouldn’t run on to a football pitch or take your seat at a card table without knowing the rules of the game: show the judges and your fellow entrants the same respect. Writing competitions are organised for us, writers, and we want them to continue. Play fair, play right – and they will.

And if this has inspired you to enter some in 2012, see my competitions page here for some upcoming non-fiction competitions. (Please let me know if you know of more and I’ll add them.)

Incidentally, one entrant to the competition I told you about above sent three entries, the second apologising for the omitted information in the first, and the third apologising for the omitted information in the second. “Please delete the previous two! Here is my proper entry, with all the information required!”

She won. Perhaps there’s a lesson right there.

Mistake No. 63: Writing-related Googling (Part I)

2011-12-12T20:35:00.003Z

Because if you indulge in it, and one of the results takes you to the writing blog of a tutor who favours reading his Google Analytics stats ahead of addressing his looming deadlines, you run the risk of your search term being appropriated, occasionally for lightly comic purposes, and presented to readers in Writing-related Googling (Part II) – which (I hope) will follow next December, and (I hope) becomes a regular feature of this blog…

But seriously, this isn’t as frivolous a post as you might be fearing. Yes, there’s a bit of fun, but there are useful points to be made – and issues to be raised – too. Indeed, the questions asked of the interweb by visitors to the Mistakes blog this year have made me think quite a bit about writing and literary concerns – and I think this tiny collection may provide a snapshot of what a few of those are.

I’ll never know whether answers to queries were found here, but in case not, and the visitors hung around for more, perhaps these will help them.

“Do good writers make mistakes?”
A serious and important one to kick us off. The answer to this question is yes.

Furthermore, good writers make more mistakes than poor writers, because making mistakes is an essential part of the writing and learning process. You get good by cocking up and by improving your drafts (ie your versions with mistakes in them). The more you get wrong, the more you eventually get right. Good writers get more right than bad writers get right too. Good writers just do more.

“Is it wrong to console yourself with the mistakes of others?”
I doubt this was a writing-related one – and I hope the soul who typed those words found their answer and, if needs were, their peace – but I’ll try to answer it as if on-topic.

My first thought when I saw this was that presuming that you need consolation for a mistake as well, then no, it’s not wrong – so long as your feelings towards the other parties aren’t malicious or too dominated by schadenfreude. You’re basically comforting yourself with the knowledge that we are all flawed, that none of us is perfect, and even those whose paths you aspire to follow can, and do, get things wrong. We’re all in it together.

But I wasn’t completely confident in my own view.

Attempting to convince myself of it, I realised that I might try to console a friend with my mistakes. “There, there, mate – I’ve cocked up too.” Or, in other words, to give an example in a writerly sense: “Never mind – I’ve sent a rubbish idea to an editor as well.”

So if you’re happy to invite someone to console themselves with your own inadequacies and cock-ups, should the answer to the question, on those grounds alone, be no?

Not quite 100% convinced, but getting there.

“How do authors do those hyphen things?”
Ah. Sweet. But hyphens aren’t special little marks only Proper Writers use. They have lots of purposes, like joining up words to form compound words, or clarifying, and here’s a silly old post of mine which will tell you more. (I shall try to do a Proper Post on Hyphens soon.)

“Can you get money for pointing out mistakes in books?”
Can you? I have no idea. I have subsequently found several trivial bloopers in my own books, which opens up the possibility of a new career writing books with deliberate mistakes in them and then being paid to point them out. I demand to know the truth at once…

“I’ll wait for inspiration to strike”
This is perhaps my favourite of the year: a defiant statement made to the Internet. “I am going to sit here and be patient for the flash of magic to descend from the skies. And while I’m hanging around for this motivational thunderbolt, I’m just going to quickly tell Google.” (Well, you never know, it might help hurry things along.)

Of course: you can’t wait for literary inspiration to strike. Well, you can, I guess, but it’ll not be advisable from a time management perspective. You all know that you’ve got to just get cracking. And if you’ve nothing to get cracking about – then go out and find something. Read stuff, observe things, talk to people. That’s when inspiration will strike – not when typing into a search engine.

“What’s wrong with second-hand books?”
I guess the quick answer would be nothing, but this is something that has been bothering me for some time.

On one hand, we want people to read, and second-hand books provide a more affordable alternative to new books. We can’t all keep every book we buy and giving them away, perhaps to charity, is obviously preferable to adding them to your recycling box.

But on the other, if Amazon and private traders and second-hand book dealers are making money from books – then authors surely deserve a cut.

Unless I’ve missed it, I don’t think this has been debated enough – so I don’t feel adequately equipped with the pros and cons to have come down confidently on one particular side.

My gut feeling as it stands is, that with some sort of exception applying to, say, charity shops, I really think it’s time that Amazon and the rest made some a payment to writers for trade in second-hand books. A contribution towards a collective pot to be distributed in PLR, perhaps?

“I have pinched an idea from another magazine”
Ah, the confessional. I wonder whether absolution was found? You know what – it’s not needed. It’s not a sin. You’re just pinching the germ of an idea, usually, and by the time you’ve added your own spin, you’ve tailored it for a new market, your editor has had their input… it’s a different thing altogether. I ‘pinch’ from Italian magazines regularly, and even if the ideas don’t come off, they may spark other ideas and set you off down a different road. This is why it’s so important to read magazines. That idea in the dog magazine might be reworkable for a horse magazine. The lads’ mag idea, inverted, may work for a young women’s magazine. And so on. Ideas from old magazines, as I said recently, can be brought up to date.

“Appostrophies – where to put them?”
Well, try here – although might I politely point out that there's a little spelling issue to tackle as well?

“Must you address an editor with dear?”
Well, yes – in the main I do think it’s preferable to ‘Yo!’

“How to write words on your nails.”
I definitely think you need a different blog…

And on that note, I’ll thank you for reading the Mistakes blog this year, and will wish you a happy Christmas, but not yet a New Year, as I may well be back for a final post of 2011.

Writing bloggers! Any intriguing search terms in your Analytics this year? Please add a comment if so!

Mistake No. 62: Republicanism, sportophobia

2011-11-26T22:50:00.002Z

Too many of us are going to be, at this time of year, distracted by Christmas – presents, parties – and then later by New Year – resolutions, more parties – but what you really need to be thinking about over the coming weeks is article ideas for 2012.

And what 2012 is going to be all about is the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee (June) and the Olympic Games (July/August).

These are huge dates – both in their own right, but also as far as magazine and newspaper publishing goes. There will be very few publications who will be totally ignoring them, and that means thousands of summer editions which will be at least partly devoted to the two events. A number will I’m sure carry jubilee or Olympic ‘specials’ or supplements.

You know where I’m going with this: supplements and special editions means lots and lots of articles, and that means lots and lots of writers will be needed to write those lots and lots of articles.

You could – and perhaps should – be among them.

Why ‘should’? Because writing about something major is satisfying. I wrote about Wimbledon once, and the launch of a new hi-tech medical machine, and I reviewed several key exhibitions: not so especially glamorous or notable in hindsight, but they felt so to me at the time, and when you’re covering something of importance it can give you more of a sense of achievement. Wherever you stand on the Royals or on sport – and I’m not keen on the former and only periodically so on the latter – you can’t argue that the events of next summer aren’t something important to many. Being a part of them by writing and publishing on them would be excellent for your writing CV.

You may be thinking it’s too soon, even for a monthly. Wrong. Monthlies tend to work around four months in advance of cover date, but for major dates (eg Christmas), it’s often a bit sooner. (Anyone who’s worked on women’s or lifestyle magazines, as I have, will know the curious feeling of writing about Christmas puddings in the height of summer.) Make no mistake: editors are thinking about their Jubilee and Olympic editions now.

The problem as far as you (the individual) is concerned, is that you others (every other writer reading) and those others over there (every other writer not reading) will also be thinking about sending such ideas out at this time, so there will be competition. A lot of it.

Do not let this put you off. But what it means is you must come up with strong, sophisticated and original ideas. A proposal offering an article looking back over the Queen’s 60-year reign is not going to sell. An article looking at the history of the Olympics will make an editor yawn.

An article contrasting and comparing the current jubilee plans with those put in place for Victoria’s in 1897 may be more like it. An article looking at how styles of medals have evolved since the Olympics were last in London? That might have something going for it.

The more niche, the more specific, the more tailored to your target publication – the better. I think the best way to turn on your idea-juice tap is to start with the magazine.

Any magazine will do. Get your WAYB or your WB and start at the beginning. What, you may wonder, would Accountancy Magazine want with an article on the Olympics? Well, you don’t know until you ask. You’ll not be surprised to learn that the best person to ask is an accountant. How will his or her life change because of the Olympics? Will he or she have more work? If business is going to boom in the London during Olympic month, might that be a challenge, in some other way? If you have such a discussion with an accountant, an idea could be thrown up. Another approach might be to ask whether the IOC is hiring accountants – and taking it from there.

Dogs Monthly? Maybe a piece on sniffer dogs and how they’ll be in huge demand next summer for security purposes? How are they all being trained? How were dogs used in previous jubilee celebrations and Olympics?

Look, you get the picture. You need to brainstorm. You need to ask questions. Construct an angle for every conceivable magazine and see whether there’s something in it.

There’s a huge opportunity looming, is the message I guess I’m trying to convey. If you want to be a part of it, get your thinking caps on, and start researching and writing. Good luck!

Mistake No. 61: New mags only

2011-11-07T12:15:00.003Z

A very quick post which I hope you’ll forgive – though it does at least suitably reflect the urgency of today’s advice: drop everything at once and go buy a copy of Woman’s Weekly’s special centenary collector’s edition – if you can still find one. Not because it’s a nice investment for your grandchildren, not because there’s a voucher for a free bag of toffee inside, but because the first, 1911 edition of the magazine is included inside as a bonus. If you can’t find one, go through next week’s neighbourhood recycling bins if you need to, as it is just priceless.

There are too many reasons – the fiction, the advertisements, the ‘HOW I ENLARGED MY BUST’ article – but I’ll let you discover those joys yourself. I’m interested in what you, the jobbing non-fiction writer, can get from it. The answer: ideas.

There are enough in here to keep you going for months.

Take an article on good health hints for babies. It discusses the relative virtues of types of milk, the importance of water for a baby, how to cope with convulsions. Extract: “The gums should be examined by a doctor, and if necessary they should be lanced.”

Ideas. One, “Have we forgotten the importance of water for babies?” Two, “How has infant medical care changed over the last century?” Three, “Will we ever find a way of making formula milk as good as human milk?” All for health, medical or parenting magazines.

Take an article ‘Dainty Dishes for the Invalid’. Dainty, in this context, includes ‘beef tea’ (devoid of tea leaves, but filled with beef), ‘savoury custard’ (cornflour with beef tea) and arrowroot pudding.

Ideas. One, “Ten great uses for arrowroot – a forgotten ingredient”. Two, “Food for the sick – how has it changed?” Three, “Old English recipes – due for a revival?” All for women’s, health or food magazines.

We’re in the business of words, so study words, language and phrases too. Certain things stuck out for me: use of the word ‘to-day’ (which I still see, charmingly, among older students), a careless tautology (“endless and countless”), full stops at the end of headlines, few bylines (I can’t even find the editor’s name – although she does bossily ask “that you will not only at once order No 2 ready next Wednesday…”), bold and boastfully worded advertisements (including for a cheese which will “eliminate the poisons that other foods create…”) – and much more.

Ideas. One, “Has the nation’s grammar and punctuation improved or worsened?” Two, “How have words changed their meaning?” Three, “How have advertising claims and laws changed over the years?” All for writing, language, education or marketing magazines.

The deeper you read, the more ideas you’ll get. It’s impossible to fail in this respect.

It’s rare that we get a chance to look at a one hundred year old magazine – but there’s no reason a publication has to be that ancient to inspire ideas. Thirty, twenty or even just ten years ago, magazines were very different – and yet, in so many ways, the same – and these are just as likely to provide food for thought for you to adapt to the modern day, or to inject a new twist into. Look in the loft. Go to a boot sale. I know you need to study recent copies of papers and magazines before submitting to them, but old copies can be priceless in other ways. Happy reading. And bust enlarging...

Mistake No. 60: Agreeing

2011-10-30T13:39:00.003Z

I’m suddenly feeling a bit ambivalent towards … agreement, I guess, is the only word for it, although it doesn’t feel quite right. Agreeness? Agreeance?

I see a lot of letters – ie letters to editors, for letters pages – which make a point of agreeing. “I agreed with your article on extreme knitting, and I agree you’re the best women’s monthly in the UK, just like you say on your cover!” Perhaps it’ll be a slow day for the letters’ editor and your agreeable letter will make it, but why not disagree with something instead? Hundreds of other writers are sending gushing ‘I love you, Horse and Hound’ letters, after all.

Try being a bit renegade. I suspect all my students are too nice, and I’m too much of a grump, but if you should be inclined to take a leaf out of The Mistakes Writers Make Book of Disagreeable Grumpery, you might want to challenge a popular view endorsed by an article in the magazine, or express a controversial alternative to a previously published letter. Don’t be nervous of doing this: a scan of many letters’ pages will show you these do get published (Guardian Weekend often has sarcastic and critical letters). Often, it gives the magazine the opportunity to respond (in an ed’s note under the letter) or express sympathy or understanding with the opposite point, and demonstrate that, yes, they do listen to readers and aren’t afraid of debate and discussion and diverse opinions. You shouldn’t be too. Don’t rant. Just make a point. Something original. And sign off.

Ditto articles. So many are inoffensively agreeable. Articles about why it’s important to get your five a day, for instance. Well yes – but a yawny yes. Why not speak to some scientists who challenge that? Who think it should be more? Or – surely not! – fewer? Or why not examine what overseas nations think? (In France it’s nine portions. In Japan it’s – brace yourselves fruit-and-vegephobes – thirteen.)

What’s the least interesting thing in the above paragraph? The won’t-toe-the-line scientists, the eye-popping Japanese recommendation (their defined portions are smaller, by the way…), or the five-a-day thing we’ve all heard before? Correct. So try adopting an alternative stance as your starting point (you don’t have to believe it – just fake it for the sake of it), and see where it takes you; find people or scenarios which conflict with the establishment or what we take for granted. It’s far more interesting, and it’ll send you off in assorted directions, where you’ll find many ideas: ideas which have come from disagreement, as so many do.

Disagree with one another too. On writing forums, Twitter and writing blog comments there’s a lot of agreement – yays and RTs and likes and the like. Occasionally, to me, it feels obsequious. I’m guilty too. Sometimes I wonder whether in our eagerness to support one another (because the writing fraternity is hugely supportive, I think), we just avoid saying anything that runs the risk of being perceived as the opposite of that. But in failing to take that risk it could be argued you’re being less supportive of a writer who may need to hear a difficult truth or bubble-bursting alternative, and who will be held back without it.

That’s an invitation to disagree here, too, and with me – much as I love the flattering comments you all leave, I’m sure the blog is littered with mistakes you’ve been too polite to point out. You can frame it impersonally if you want to be gentler. “Loving the blog, but others might argue you’re talking through your …” a bit less direct than “I think you’re talking through your …” but still vents a bit of stimulating disagreement. I’m kidding about the rudeness, of course: not suggesting we do that here, there or anywhere. But you can play devil’s advocate: I often do.

I guess I’m saying be more prepared to stick your neck out, essentially – you never know what you may find. You may be worried you’ll be heckled down by the masses, be forced into an embarrassing withdrawal and apology, be accused of hypocrisy or whatever – but as we’ve seen, there’ll always be someone out there who agrees with you, so you won’t be alone. We’ll all benefit from the healthy debate which ensues – and, who knows, you may get an article or letter out of it…

Mistake No. 59: Not reading (Part II)

2011-10-14T10:30:00.002+01:00

“No time to read, no tools to write” commented Lorraine Mace, 34 errors and almost 12 months ago, the last time I addressed this subject at Mistake No. 25. Succinct and accurate, I’d say. Perhaps I’m revisiting this too soon – particularly in light of my last post which also concerned reading, albeit how you read – but it’s pretty important so I can’t apologise for it.

Another commenter Glenda confessed to an ‘aversion’ to tabloids, and “The Daily Mail makes me vomit” has featured more than once in letters to me from new writers. (Don’t hold back, dear students.) I regularly receive comments concerning newspapers being too ‘depressing’, as well as swipes at women’s magazines (especially weeklies) being too obsessed with vacuous celebrities and skinny models and obsessive diets and banal stories of love triangles and so on.

The world which these publications represent may not be to your liking but everyone is a part of that world, and you can’t disconnect from it absolutely. As a writer, it is even more a part of your world, because these publications feature the works of fellow writers and reveal the interests of those who are keeping you in business – readers. These publications are read by millions, are discussed by millions, and are a big part of popular culture. I don’t think it’s wise as a writer to block it out entirely. And weekly women’s magazines can of course be good markets too, especially for fillers.

In my response to Glenda last time I wrote “If something makes you angry – it can be the inspiration for an article”. I don’t think anger is a unique emotion in this respect. Depression – by which I mean something like ‘despondency’ – would work. You’ve read about underprivileged teens, say. Yep, depressing. Well what about writing about a local initiative that’s being set up with the aim of helping them? Or about how these kids are helping themselves? Can you go talk to some young people and find out what’s going on their world – and seeing whether this inspires a story?

If you don’t read about this stuff, you can’t react to it or explore it or potentially influence it.

I won’t bang on about this – and if you really cannot stick popular and populist daily and weekly publications, and you insist on an avoidance policy, then that’s that and I still want to help you. But let’s make a deal here.

Please open your eyes.

Do so properly, at a major newsagent. You don’t necessarily have to shop there – I want you to support your small local independents too – but the exercise needs to be conducted at the biggest you can access.

Then I want you to do what I do not usually do.

What I usually do is let my legs lead me blindly to the men’s magazines, then check out the health magazines, scan the nationals, and perhaps a local, then embark on the expedition to discover this month’s nominated hiding place for the writing magazines – ah, behind the architecture titles! Who’d have thought! – and finally take whatever I have retained in my arms to the till. All a bit automatic.

Don’t do this. Instead, stand a bit back. Imagine you’ve been asked to take a photograph of the magazine section in its entirety – and look at it all, from a slight distance. Take in the body of magazines and papers as a whole. Vast, isn’t it. Start at one end, and move a bit closer. Look at the categories of titles: those you wouldn’t even normally notice if they on fire. Cycling magazines, combat magazines, knitting magazines, art magazines, train magazines. Really properly take them in. Count a category. Twenty-odd car magazines? Amazing, right? Move on through, slowly, taking them all in.

If you feel the usual pull towards The Lady, Reader’s Digest, People’s Friend or Psychologies, then resist. These, along with Saga, appear to be the most commonly targeted publications by new writers, if my workload is anything to go by. Yet even in these cases sometimes I wonder whether students actually bother to read them: Arlene Usden left the Lady a while ago, but I’m not convinced everybody has noticed Rachel Johnson’s modernising revamp, while Reader’s Digest is a far more sophisticated magazine than many people give it credit for, thanks to the brilliant editorship of Gill Hudson.

If you’re restricting yourself to a handful of magazines – and not even reading those properly – and you’re eliminating entire categories of other publications (those newspapers and women’s magazines I wrote of earlier), then you’re reducing your chances of selling work two-fold, three-fold, lots-fold.

Increase your chances by looking at less commonly targeted publications. Look beyond the obvious. Jets Monthly. Practical Pigs. Blonde Hair. Koi Carp. First Eleven. Music Teacher. I can’t remember ever having read a piece for these magazines from my students. Pick some of them up. Spend five minutes looking through them. Take one to the till.

Might it be one of the best pieces of advice for a new writer to make a point of buying a magazine you’ve never thought or heard of – let alone read – about a subject you assume you have no interest in, and read it cover to cover and back again?

Shall we do this? I will – it’s been a while – if you will. Let’s do it without putting pressure on ourselves to come up with ideas for the publication we end up with, but let’s see whether it changes our perspective on an unknown subject, on reading, and on writing for publication.

Mistake No. 58: One phenomena too many

2011-09-28T21:06:00.002+01:00

As regular followers will know, I’m all for branching out of your writing comfort zone and researching subjects you know little or nothing about. I probably best make this point in an early post – Mistake No. 12.

Years and years ago – late nineties, I think – I wrote an article about electronic voice phenomena, which I guess could be considered an example of branching out of my comfort zone. EVP are fragments of sound recordings claimed by some paranormal researchers to originate from the spirits of the deceased. The magazine I wrote the piece for is a long-forgotten, long-folded publication which was called, possibly, Beyond the Realm, and I think I was operating on a promise of about £40 per 1,000 words. To someone relatively new to the game, as I was then, this was fine. Besides, I quite enjoyed writing about the world of the weird, also contributing regularly to the still-going-strong Prediction Magazine for, I think, £50 per 1,000 words.

(I imagine rates have since increased for this kind of writing, but expect they remain at the lowish end of the scale. Even a highly regarded ‘alternative’ title such as Fortean Times magazine doesn’t pay a generous fee – often under £150 per 1,000 words, last I heard. The paranormal and the unexplained are niche areas, and I doubt you can get rich writing about them – but, on the plus side, the magazines devoted to them are often very fertile ground for new writers.)

There were two reasons I moved on. The first was financial. The second was a burgeoning scepticism – which probably coincided with my increased interest in matters medical (and, hence, Properly Scientific). I’d been too believing and unquestioning – perhaps due to the market demands (although the FT remains an exception in this regard). A childhood excited by the world which Arthur C Clarke opened up took a long time to grow out of, I guess, but eventually belief gave way to disbelief. Once I’d learned about the human brain’s glorious capacity to self-deceive – to sense the benefits of homeopathy which aren’t there, to see faces or find meaning in clouds, to read significance in a horoscope, and yes, to hear meaningful words in scratches of random noise or interference – there was no way back, and I’m glad of it. Truth is more fascinating than fiction.

This last week, I’ve been away in Wales. I’ve returned to a press invite for a new product launch, beautifully and professionally printed, which implores me to be “part of the phenomena”, and also to two papers (both excellent, I might add), from students who, in one of those curious examples of synchronicity that I may once have written about, both refer to “this phenomena” – the ‘phenomena’ in question being one and the same.

This all reminded me of my decade-old EVP article, and I stopped for a moment to wonder whether in writing and researching it, I learned of the plurality of the word ‘phenomena’. Perhaps I knew of it before, of course, but pondering on I further wondered how it might be possible to write about ‘alternative phenomena’ without appreciating the most fundamental thing about them – that there are more than one.

Treating ‘phenomena’ as a singular is a common mistake, and I see it regularly, among students of all levels, but I’ve never considered it worthy of a blog post before; surely no editor would ever punish it, after all. Although there was an element of light-hearted loss of patience in my decision to reverse that view with this post – blimey, guys, not another ‘phenomena’! – it then struck me as being perhaps indicative of a greater issue.

Something I hear a lot from new writers is that they love words and they love to read. Good. Both are important. But surely anyone who loves to read will come across the not uncommon words ‘phenomenon’ and ‘phenomena’ regularly enough to see the distinction, and indeed that the former exists? Won’t someone who loves words simply come to learn, at least by osmosis, that one phenomenon and two phenomena are both right, and that one phenomena or perhaps even two phenomenons are as wrong as one houses or two car? Or – and I write sincerely – am I missing something?

This is all nominally about spelling / vocabulary and grammar, but the more I think about it the more I think it’s actually about reading. I wrote about the importance of reading in Mistake No. 25 but that only touches upon the point I’m making here. It’s how you read, too, that matters.

Are you noticing the spelling of words? Are you asking enough questions of the words you read? I appreciate there’s a lot to think about when you read – absorbing the information, enjoying the experience, and so on – but individual words are important too. Stop when a word jars, or when it challenges your assumption. Look it up, and learn.

For if you write ‘one phenomena’ and yet read through ‘one phenomenon’ without blinking – as you surely must have if you read a lot – then a rethink about how you approach reading may really, really help your spelling, your vocabulary and elements of your grammar too.

Mistake No. 57: What gives you the right to write about that?

2011-09-12T22:54:00.002+01:00

I was asked this when my book on coeliac disease (or gluten intolerance) came out, by a potential reader who had the condition. She seemed offended, almost, that someone who wasn’t a coeliac sufferer, or a nutritionist, or a gastroenterologist, or a doctor or medic of any kind, and not even, say, a caterer with knowledge of special dietary requirements, but a mere plain old writer, could dare to assume enough expertise about such a niche subject to write a book on it.

I contested the following. As someone with no personal knowledge of the condition and not qualified in any aspect of it, in order to write about the subject I was compelled to research it in great depth, from scratch, leaving few stones unturned. I interviewed people with gluten sensitivity, and I interviewed dietitians and other experts. Lots of them. This enabled me to build up a clear and broad spectrum of knowledge and information, from which I could draw in a balanced manner to write the book – one suitable for all readers.

A coeliac sufferer writing the book? There would be a risk that he or she would assume their experience of the disease was complete and representative of all others’ – and perhaps skimp on research. A specialist writing the book? There would be the chance of it being perhaps too ‘medical’ – not lay enough.

A writer writing the book? I can’t see an obvious disadvantage – as arrogant as that may sound. Without question, sufferers and medical experts have written great books about a wide range of health conditions (I have read many), but a writer can be objective in a way sufferers can’t, and clear in a way some specialists may not be able to manage – essential when writing consumer health guidebooks.

I don’t think my doubter was convinced, which I took as a failure of my powers of explanation.

‘How on earth can you write about childcare issues when you don’t have any children?’ I was once asked by a childcare expert I was interviewing for an article for a parenting magazine.

My response was similar: I interview parents, I interview parenting experts… but she was unsure too.

You see, it happens quite a bit.

It should start happening to you at some point. And I really do mean ‘should’ not ‘might’ – because you should be writing about subjects which are perhaps outside your comfort zone. I see too many students stick safely to their pet subjects, and this is a bit like trying to learn to play tennis by only experimenting with and practising your serves. No, no, no – you need to tackle volleys, drop shots, lobs, forehands and backhands as well. And if you want to write, you need to write all sorts of stuff for all sorts of markets.

When writing for magazines and newspapers, you not only need to interview those experts I mentioned – but quote them too. Editors and readers expect this level of authority. They want to hear the words of specialists.

When writing books, I don’t think you do. At least, I didn’t – and I’ve written four books on food allergies and food intolerances in which I can’t recall quoting a soul. For some reason – perhaps one of you can tell me why – editors and readers seem quite happy for you to author as the expert, entirely in your voice. Perhaps because the reader assumes, what with you Being an Author and all, that you’re very, very trustworthy. Your name is on the cover. They believe you. You’re Important. Even if you’re not.

Anyway, my point, should it not be clear: my point is that you should never think you do not have the right to write about everything. You do. The beauty of concrete, the mating rituals of elk, the history of Corsican monks, the psychology of singing in the bathroom, the people who drill holes in their heads (raises hand), the haunted hotels of Luton, the Copenhagen interpretation of quantum mechanics. Anything.

Never forget it. Or doubt it. Never apologise for it. Know why you have the right. Explain it when questioned. Defend yourself when scoffed at. And never let it stop you.

(What’s the subject most alien to you which you have written about? Or would like to write about but don’t feel you can?)

Mistake No. 56: You’re reading the MWMB Blog

2011-08-30T11:51:00.002+01:00

“Get that up on that mistakes blog of yours this second!” retorted a friend when I used the expression ‘PIN number’ in an email in passing.

It took me a few moments to work it out.

A PIN is, of course, a Personal Identification Number, and so is a ‘number’ by definition. You don’t need the extra ‘number’.

Likewise, and of particular interest and relevance to writers, are ISSN and ISBN – don’t tag a ‘number’ to those either, as they are International Standard Serial Number and International Standard Book Number, respectively.

PDF format, ADSL line, DVD disc and ATM machine – also tautologies, one and all, and you’re bright enough to work out why.

Wonderfully, this mistake even has a name, which comes with its own built-in irony – RAS Syndrome. That’s Redundant Acronym Syndrome Syndrome.

RAS Syndrome is very common in speech, of course, and nothing much to worry about in writing (unless you have a pedantic pal): it won’t cost you anything, an editor may not even notice it, and a sub-editor will cut the superfluous word if you do insert it in finished copy. Still, always nice to get it right, though.

Who’s got some others?

Mistake No. 55: There’s a best way

2011-08-16T20:31:00.004+01:00

A freelance journalist colleague of mine, Janet Murray, is offering an apprenticeship to a young person with an interest in the business. She has today written about it in the Guardian, and you can find out more here.

Most of the comments and tweets I’ve seen about this initiative – the first of its kind, Jan thinks – have been positive. One blog post I read, the journalist and novelist Emma Lee Potter’s, was a little more circumspect. She made the point that an apprenticeship with a working freelance might not be the best way to train a new journalist and that it’s perhaps not the ideal direction journalism training in general should be taking. She adds:

“… it’s the buzz of working in a busy news room, seeing a variety of experienced reporters in action and crafting a great story from an initially unpromising interviewee that teaches you how to be a journalist.”

I commented, first because I don’t think it matters whether or not this is the best way to learn the trade – it’s an alternative way, which might suit a particular type of individual – and second, because there really are lots of ways into journalism (or into the writing business in a wider sense). Emma agreed with this second point in her response to my comment, but it struck me later that it was perhaps worth a post here too.

So: you can go to journalism college, you can do work experience, you can do a correspondence course (raises hand), you can just fall into it or get a bizarre lucky break of some kind, you can write and write and write and send it all in speculatively until someone notices, you can have an uncle who nepotistically puts in a good word for you. I’m not commenting on the rightness or wrongness or betterness or worseness of these, either practically or morally or anyhow else, just giving some of many examples.

I understand, though, those who champion the way that worked for them. It makes total sense. ‘It worked for me and it can work for you’. And the classic newsroom route which Emma clearly believes in is one which favours the cultivation of traditional journalistic skills and methods which many feel are being abandoned in this era of PR puffery. In many senses, I think it should be championed too – just not to the exclusion of others.

I came to the business relatively late (late twenties) and did it the way I thought best for me at the time. Nobody advised me and I knew nobody who was a writer. Was my way the best for me? I followed one route out of several possibles – so on the basis of statistical chance, probably not. But I can’t know because I can’t live my career again.

Publishing is constantly changing – and with it changes the advice, and the endless reams of do’s and don’ts. This blog is full of it. Hundreds of other blogs are full of it. People now have what I didn’t have back then, so, so much of it, and I wonder sometimes whether the sheer diversity of options and opinions ever causes confusion and paralysis among those on the early rungs of the ladder. Does it?

I hope not, and I guess my message here is that everyone’s route to success – however you define that – is unique. It’s very tough for someone to know which will be better for you, and which nuggets of wisdom you should accept from the increasing army of people kindly offering them, but be wary of any well-intentioned dogma on the issue that’s out there. Some roads will be rougher than others, and some you’ll discover to be dead ends, but there are many which eventually lead to Rome. Just don’t dither at the crossroads too long before trying one out.

Mistake No. 54: “Unsolicited articles not accepted”

2011-08-04T15:22:00.002+01:00

It’s a mistake to think this means “we don’t use freelance contributions”.

It means “we don’t read articles you send us that we’ve not asked you to send us”.

If they really want to try to put you off, they’ll say something like “Unsolicited articles are not read and cannot be returned” and perhaps add “no liability for materials submitted can be assumed”.

These are basically light deterrants to put less dogged or experienced writers off. Don’t be defeatist. 99% of publications accept freelance work.

How to overcome the obvious hurdle, then? Logically, if unsolicited articles are not accepted, one can confidently assume that solicited ones are.

Your task, then, is to get them to solicit an article.

How do you get them to do that? You propose one. You send them an outline – often called a pitch. 100 or 150 focused, compelling and confident words, outlining your idea and designed to be totally irresistable to an editor starved of scintillating material for his or her publication.

They may say, “No thanks”. That’s fine: re-angle and/or rework it and take it elsewhere.

They may ask you to submit the piece on a speculative basis. That’s a solicited article, so write it and send it off.

They may commission the piece. That’s most definitely a solicited article. Congratulations, you’ve just made a sale.

Mistake No. 53: Editors have the time, really

2011-07-25T21:48:00.002+01:00

It’s a favourite writers’ moan: editors not responding to articles or queries.

I tend to trot out the usual defences: they’re under no obligation to reply, they get inundated with emails, they’re really really busy and don’t have the time…

“Of course they have the time,” I hear too often, sometimes from established writers, and once or twice from other tutors. “Good old-fashioned manners never hurt anybody. It’s really rude.”

These grievances also form the basis of some of the most popular forms of letter printed in writing magazines, and comments on writing forums.

I disagree. Not responding to an approach that was unsolicited is not rude. Editors receive hundreds of these a day (from publicists as well as writers), and good manners, in this case, can indeed hurt somebody. They can hurt the editor, who, should he politely respond to all, will probably have to work an hour or more extra into the evening to remain on schedule to put his publication to bed. That’s an hour less to devote to his family, his friends and his general wellbeing, all of which are also potentially hurt. An editor’s tiredness and stress could impact on the quality of the publication – and then the reader is hurt too.

An editor’s top priorities are putting his publication to bed, keeping his bosses happy, meeting the needs of his readers, devoting time to his personal life, and enjoying a social life.

Your response to his non-response to your approach to him is not one of his top priorities.

If there are bad manners or rudeness in all this, it could be argued that it is in writers moaning about editors in print and in questioning the professionalism and personalities of individuals they almost certainly have not met.

Some editors may have the time – and will respond – but other editors do not have the time. Thinking editors have the time reveals your ignorance of the publishing business: moaning about the issue tells everyone reading or listening who knows about the publishing business, editors included, that you don’t know how much work is involved in pulling together a publication. It demonstrates that you’re possibly a newbie or an amateur. It shows that you’re unfamiliar with at least some aspects of the industry into which you’re trying to break.

Note: there is nothing, nothing, whatsoever wrong with being a newbie or an amateur or being ignorant of publishing goings-on – no shame in it at all – but the point is that it’s not the best description to attach to yourself when you are trying to step up the ladder and become a professional writer. You want to emphasise what you do know and can do, not what you don’t and can’t.

Most of us like a moan. I love one (I’m having one here, after all). But moaning about editors is unproductive, possibly counter-productive and often unfair. If an editor has not replied after a respectable period of time, pick up the phone. They will not be rude, because most editors are not rude. If they decline your idea or article, why not send them a better idea or article? If they decline again, move on, try elsewhere, and come back another day.

This is how it works. This is just how it is. In the nicest possible and totally unrude way: off you go.

Mistake No. 52: Selling the destination – not the story

2011-07-08T21:05:00.003+01:00

Disclaimers to start: I don’t much like to travel, I don’t much like to hear about people’s travels, I don’t write about travel (two published travel articles in a fifteen-year career, if you want the figures), and, although I do enjoy a beautifully crafted and fascinating travel article when I stumble across one, I’m fairly indifferent towards travel writing in general. Feel free to take what follows with the proverbial pinch, then, because it does take a fair bit to impress me on this subject. Travel writers, do not be afraid to correct me – or call me a heathen.

The thing is…. I see too many bad travel articles. Well, maybe not always bad. But just a bit… meh. A few bad articles, then, and quite a lot of meh articles. If your travel article is just ‘about’ a place and ‘about’ your visit to that place and ‘about’ how wonderful your visit to that place was then I’d wager a few quid on it being a meh article. Meh travel articles have meh templates. This is the standard:

1. Passport-related flap at Heathrow.
2. Landing safely – phew!
3. Our cab driver is such a colourful character!
4. We love our hotel!
5. Beautiful beaches / mountains / lakes / meandering alluvial rivers!
6. The local food is the best we’ve ever tasted!
7. There’s even a MacDonald’s!
8. There’s something for EVERYONE!
9. We can’t wait to go back.
10. You should go too, you won’t regret it.

Meh. Boring.

Here’s my colleague and friend Kelly Rose Bradford on travel writing:

“Most new writers try to pitch travel pieces on places they want to go to or places they have been on holiday. Travel needs a story and you have to sell that – unless it is a very straightforward travel guide or review (which are very hard to place for freelance writers), it’s about the story not the destination. The destination is almost secondary.”

An example, please? “Going to Bournemouth to learn to make chocolate in the country’s first chocolate-themed hotel.”

So, if your story idea is “Well, I just happened to go on holiday there so I’m writing about that” then you’ve a problem.

This doesn’t mean you can’t find a story while you’re on holiday or (better) start to think of a possible angle before you go. Your destination’s local paper can be useful in researching what may be going on, as can any ultra-local blog or website dedicated to the area. If you’re travelling abroad, and you want to do some detective work before you leave, use the country’s local Google. But you probably can’t beat simply chatting to the locals: ask them about anything interesting going on, perhaps that’s only known to them, and not to most visitors. Something off the beaten track. Something that’s a local secret.

And don’t forget to take your notebook and camera…

Mistake No. 51: “Dear Editorial Director…”

2011-06-20T10:16:00.001+01:00

Query from a student, who’d been looking at the flannel panel in a publication: “To whom should an idea be sent?”

Good question. I liked that the student asked it, that she didn’t just ignore the issue, that she didn’t think it unimportant, that she didn’t tell herself “Oh, it’s a dumb question”, that it didn’t just knock about in her head for a bit before being dispensed with (“Sod it, I’ll send it to whoever”).

Because it is important – indeed very important when there are a lot of staff at a publication. Check out that flannel panel – that’s industry slang for the box or list of names and job titles of the editorial team in the magazine – and, should you be holding a thick glossy, you may need to take the afternoon off to do so. Editorial director, editor-at-large, editor-in-chief, deputy editor, junior editor, senior editor, features editor, commissioning editor… and it goes on and on.

Where to start. Editor-at-large? Someone unlikely to spend much time in the office, but who perhaps acts as a kind of consultant, or with whom the publication maintains what is probably a mutually beneficial association of some kind. Editorial director? Someone who oversees the ‘vision’ of the publication, perhaps, or of the stable of magazines owned by the publisher, even. Don’t send your ideas to them. They’re not that interesting to – or interested in – you.

You need the person who makes decisions on buying articles.

There are no absolute rules, but generally if there’s a features editor or a commissioning editor among the team – that’s your man or woman. If there are only a handful of people on board – it’s probably the editor you want, but sometimes the deputy editor.

Don’t be afraid of these proper or wordy titles you might see, incidentally. They often sound more official than they are. That’s not to say the individuals concerned don’t fulfil important roles or don’t deserve their titles or your respect, just that they’re nothing to be intimidated by. They’re often mainly about establishing an in-house pecking order – who’s whose superior, and all that. I have one myself – ‘deputy editor’ – of a skin health website. My editor, wanting to delegate some of the responsibility to me, offered me a title of my choice, and that’s what I plumped for. It doesn’t mean I’m scary, or have an office with my title engraved into the door, or will bite your head off if you dare approach me by phone – it just means I’m basically a number two (quit sniggering at the back).

A big mistake is sending articles or ideas for newspapers to their editors. This seems very common, probably because there’s no flannel panel to offer clues, and rarely any simple means of finding out who staff members are. But papers are departmentalised, and you need to address the person looking after the section you’re targeting.

When in doubt – and this goes for magazine world too – you have to pick up the phone and call. I know this is intimidating – I still hate it, sometimes – but you’re only asking for a name not pitching an idea (which is a whole new tier of terror). If the receptionist can’t help (she often can), ask for an editorial assistant. “Hello, who commissions features / the sports section / the Friday supplement, please?” – or whatever, is all you need ask.

Don’t be intimidated by job titles. Do get the right name. Do not let phoning alarm you. The senior editorial director-in-chief-at-large of the Mistakes Writers Make blog is sure you’ll be just fine.

Mistake No. 50: Only talented writers sell

2011-06-08T17:55:00.002+01:00

There are a lot of perfectly competent but otherwise fairly unremarkable writers earning a decent living from words.

There are a few poor writers getting by as well.

If you’re scratching your head, unconvinced, thinking that you rarely see average or poor writing in print, I have to declare a possible unfair advantage over you – I’ve spent a number of years working as a sub-editor.

A sub-editor is an in-house corrector of grammar, errant spelling and punctuational bloopers: a fact-checker, a layout tidy-upper, an article beautifier, a feature polisher; someone who takes what the writer provides and checks and prepares it for printing.

During those years, I viewed a lot of what’s called ‘raw copy’ – the work the writers submit, all of it accepted for publication and usually commissioned. And while most of it ranged from okay to brilliant, some of it was poor, and occasionally awful. The standard of writing, I quickly learned, did not always tally with the standing or reputation of the writer. Some unknowns wrote beautifully. And some ultra-successful people wrote badly – including one very well-known journalist and broadcaster.

I also soon realised that it rarely mattered. Another key learning was that the business was a team sport, and that the best sub-editors (among whom I certainly did not count myself) were hugely talented professionals, who could fashion a diamond out of carbon (or worse): what you see in print is almost invariably an improvement on what writers submit. It rarely mattered because provided the required information was supplied, the sub-editor could usually sort out any other issues. And if the sub-editor could sort out any other issues, the editor would usually be happy.

As a non-fiction writer, you are primarily a provider of information. It’s great to present that information in a readable and logical and entertaining way, free of error and with a bit of panache thrown in – but it’s not usually a deal-breaker if you don’t succeed 100% in every respect.

If that sounds sacrilegious, then I’m not suggesting you abandon all rules of good English and article craftsmanship – the more work the sub-editor has to do, the more likely he or she will moan about you to the editor, who may then think twice about asking you to write for them again. And if you’re submitting speculatively, then sloppy and careless work will count very much against you and is far harder to get away with than if you’re submitting work you’ve been commissioned to do on the basis of an idea or outline.

But I want to move you away from any notions, if you harbour them, that it’s All About The Writing: all about committing your unique style or signature flourishes or favourite expressions onto the page, and all about editors being interested in buying those things. It’s only a tiny bit about that.

What else is it about, then? If you have absolutely stunning ideas which an editor can’t say no to – well, bingo, it’s about that. If you’ve got connections with celebrities or other notable people – bingo, it’s about that too. If you’ve an obsessive and nerdy interest in a subject – the more niche the better, quite often – then bingo again, because you can possibly provide material few others can supply. Ideas, research, facts, communication, information, originality, contacts, curiosity, shrewdness, persistence – these are all more important to you than fine writing.

Do I then think fine writing unimportant? Is this post advising you to stop trying to improve your writing? No and no. A lot of previous posts should demonstrate that, I hope. If you write with style and fluency as well as accuracy people will remember you and may be more likely to use you and read you next time. And there’s nothing like that proud glow you feel when you construct a truly beautiful sentence or piece of writing – every writer should savour this moment when it comes, as it’s one of the joys of doing what we do.

But the skill of fine writing develops slowly, and over time – a lot of time. It’s quite organic, partly sub-conscious. And it’s not something to agonise over or think about too much at the beginning. Your key concern when you’re starting out should be to work towards selling some pieces of non-fiction. And all I want to do with this post is to stop you thinking, should you think it, that you’re not yet a good enough writer to do that – a common notion among beginner writers.

Because, in fact, you almost certainly are.

Mistake No. 49: “Don’t be soft! I’ll send you a copy!”

2011-05-28T14:36:00.005+01:00

This may be the first time I’ve featured a mistake that I have not only made, but that I continue to make.

More interested followers will have noticed I’ve been quiet of late, and dedicated fans may even know that the reason is I’ve just published my fourth book. It’s called Coeliac Disease: What you need to know, it’s about the eponymous form of gluten intolerance, and it’s fair to say it’s a bit of a niche area – albeit a specialism of mine.

And some people want a free copy.

Part of me thinks that’s fine, because I like free things too.

But the part of me writing this doesn’t think it’s quite so fine.

I’ve already written on my (other) blog about my (mostly) enjoyable experience of signing and selling books at the Allergy and Gluten Free Show some weeks back, where some sticky-fingered old crow wanted a free copy so much she took it and walked off with it while I was distracted, I suspect dropping it casually into her bag or tucking it under her shoulder – although I like to fantasise that in an attempt to evade suspicion, a possible bag search or a light frisking from an eagle-eyed security guard, she was compelled to stuff it sharply into her drawers and was rewarded with a hyperlocal paper cut in the process.

Others hovered about my display of modest health books and ummd and ahhd and ohd and dithered and, you know, hoped. “Are you giving these away?” one or two ventured. No, sorry, I’m not. And off they went. Not one who asked for a freebie went on to buy one.

So I salute the fine people who did buy, many of whom thanked me for writing and researching the book they so obviously needed, and couldn’t wait to press their cash into my hand. They value books, value writers, and I hope some are reading so they can know how important they are to what we do. It is they who deserve to be given a complementary copy, if anyone, not those who rank books and authors so lowly they don’t expect to pay the seven or (later) six measly pounds I was charging – which is the equivalent of a drink for them and a drink for their partner, both of which spend an hour in their body before being lost to the sewers.

Since then, assorted types have chanced their luck too. Various levels of acquaintance – one of whom could not spell the name of the disease the book concerned – wanted a free copy. “I’d be delighted to be sent a book!” chirped one optimist. I’m left wondering whether “Can I have a copy?” is the most irritating question asked of authors – or is it the equally sigh-worthy “Where can I find a copy of your book?”?

Nobody’s been rude. They’ve just asked or hinted, quite politely. It’s not about one individual. It’s just the collective weight of it all that’s making my head hang low a bit.

By now you’ll possibly think me a bit moany and stingy, so I’ll stress that I have of course given copies away – to people who helped me, or who took particular interest, or who otherwise deserved one, or friends who supported me, or to whom I just wanted to give one. I don’t begrudge a single one.

And that is only right.

But I feel it is also right that the slightly cheeky strangers or virtual strangers or passing acquaintances who ask for one be politely declined. I don’t think it’s being mean. I think it’s being proud. It is valuing your work (five months’ worth, in this case). I have decided – but need to keep telling myself – that refusing to casually give away your book helps other writers sell their books. It engenders a belief in the value of knowledge – and that new knowledge should be paid for. And at the end of the clichéd day, I am trying to make a living.

Where I’ve gone wrong is when flattery has been involved.

Nice person them: “How marvellous! You’re so clever! I must buy your book!”

Silly person me: “Don’t be soft! I’ll send you a copy!”

It sort of slips out before I can stop myself.

I kind of feel the need to draw the line now or I’ll just get down about it.

So.

So now if people say they want a copy, I’m going to thank them and tell them where the best deal is.

And, obviously, as this is a blog of writerly advice, I’m going to advise you to do likewise – whether you’re an author present or you’re an author future – if only because it’ll make me look less scroogy…

Mistake No. 48: No-thank you

2011-05-11T12:34:00.005+01:00

Ingratitude is the theme of today’s post, and while I’ve deliberately waited until some months after my last professional experience of it in order to keep the emotion out of this, it’s possible some residual frustration will seep through. Excuse it, please.

I want to say upfront that most people in the business will thank you for a favour. I could fill up the rest of this post with nice things concerning nice people and their nice appreciation, but you’re busy and I want to dish the murky stuff.

I’ll keep it vague, but last year, I helped a colleague for the fourth time on a specific issue. The delivery of that help was – I admit – flavoured with impatience, due simply to the fact that the information I had three times taken the time to offer – without once receiving an acknowledgment, let alone thank you – had been apparently ignored and certainly not acted on. For my troubles, I was sworn at.

Most established writers occasionally receive unsolicited requests for help and advice, usually from new writers or students. One sticks in the mind from several years ago. I gave a considered, detailed response, which may or may not have been what the writer wanted to hear, but it was what I thought was right. No thank you came. ‘Did you get my email?’ I enquired. Yes, but the individual was ‘busy’, and would come back to me when they had time. That was the last I heard.

There are others, and all the writers and journalists I know have similar experiences - people not thanking them for contacts, for feedback. Some, so frustrated at what they perceive as the eye-burning ingratitude and breath-taking rudeness of the individuals concerned, instantly hit delete whenever a new hopeful arrives, and have a policy of no longer helping.

I think this is a shame, because the ‘good’ vastly outweighs the ‘bad’, in my experience, and also because there are wider benefits to helping and encouraging new talent. I was helped when I started out, so I help those who are in the position I was in years ago: this passes on knowledge and good practice, improves the business of publishing and our reputation within it, and seems to be the natural order of things – it’s just karmic fairness, to me.

But some disagree. Some are of the view that the very existence of blogs such as mine, which theoretically make it easier for people to get published, create competition which they could frankly do without. The hate mail hasn’t arrived here yet, but I have heard of mutterings and grumblings in the fiction community concerning online short story and novel advice which ‘gives too much away’, so perhaps it’s going on out of earshot…

Anyway, I don’t subscribe to this view, and will carry on. But I am interested in the reasons, besides sheer rudeness, why some people fail to remit you those two words.

They forget? Possible – but how can you? Is it not simply automatic? Even if you’ve been given something so big it’ll take a while to digest, how can one not quickly reply? “Just a quick thanks – will read and respond properly later.” That’d do me, even without a follow-up.

They feel it’s unnecessary because they feel entitled? I won’t forget a quip of wisdom I first heard from writer and blogger Linda Jones: “Journalism doesn’t owe you a living.” I’d extend that to ‘publishing’ in general. Nobody is owed in this business. You work, you earn, you progress. People will help but nobody likes a freeloader.

They feel it’s unnecessary because it’s free? Linda also once said that people don’t always value what they get for nothing. Also true.

They’re too wrapped up in themselves? Perhaps. Could some be so focused on number one and what they need from you that as soon as they have it, they drop you like a sweet wrapper? Is it a failure to click out of that selfish and tunnel-vision mindset and give you what you need – a tiny expression of appreciation?

‘Need’ is the right word here. I don’t need to be thanked for this blog – I volunteer it. And I don’t need to be thanked for my tutoring or the critiques I offer – I’m paid for it all. But a request for help from a stranger? I do need to be thanked, thanks – it stops me from being grumpy, from losing faith in fellow man, from losing self-confidence about the advice I offer.

Here’s the thing. You need information from a library – that library needs your custom and support. You need publication of your work to make a living – the reader of that work needs information and/or entertainment. You need help from a writer – that writer needs a word of thanks. Etc.

For one’s every need there is a reciprocal need on the other side – bearing that in mind will stand us all well.

Mistake No. 47: Forgetting your first time (and line)

2011-04-25T16:01:00.002+01:00

The Easter pause gave me cause for reflection, and I slipped into daydreaming about my career path – where I’d been, where I was, where I was going.

But mostly it was about where I’d started.

I’d started with a story for a free London magazine for office workers in the mid-nineties. At the time, I had vague notions of wanting to write professionally, so had taught myself to touch-type. With a naive idea in mind about writing an office-based comic novel, I took some casual work in the City, partly to research, partly to make ends meet, and partly as I knew not what else to do with my life. The article was a humorous piece about my experiences of working as a temp, at a time when it was a female-dominated domain.

As I thought back at it, I realised I’d forgotten most of what I’d written – including the opening line.

So I dug it out. And read it. And cringed a lot. Little beads of sweat prickled themselves into existence at my temples. There were feeble jokes. And these made me laugh more than the better jokes. There were strings of weak writing. There were words I wish I’d never used. There was a double entendre which I’ve convinced myself must have been inadvertent (my mind is so much filthier now than it was then). There were dozens of memories. I was surprised to be pleased with my opening paragraph.

With it was the acceptance letter from the editor. And suddenly I was channelling that feeling of fifteen years ago when I tore the envelope – “… we would be pleased to publish… hope the sum of £100 is acceptable…” – and felt unable-to-breathe happy.

It was the first thing I’d ever submitted. Had it been rejected, who knows, I may have just given up. I went on to receive more acceptances from the same editor, who then recommended me to her colleague when the latter was looking for a columnist, and later a sub-editor. I won’t bore you with more, but I can trace virtually everything I’ve done since to that one acceptance.

Furthermore, the editor and I later became friends, and we still see each other, maybe twice a year, with colleagues, for wine and nostalgia and industry gossip.

Revisiting that first published piece has put some fizz in my bloodstream. I guess I’m urging you to do the same – particularly if your memory of yours is hazy.

Doing so has reminded me of why I do what I do and why I want to keep doing it, and that it’s still possible to feel excited about the business we’re in.

It’s also been a salutary reminder of the march of time. I’ve improved and matured as a writer and achieved modest success, but I still want to improve and mature and I still want to succeed more. Years pass swiftly – fifteen have gone in a flash – and if I want to do these things I’ve just got to do them, and not drag my heels or think they’ll keep until tomorrow, or next week, or next month.

It has reminded me of the value of cultivating contacts and maintaining friendships.

It has reminded me of the value of holding on to your clippings (I barely bother these days).

If you’ve only recently published or are unpublished, perhaps go revisit an early draft of something you wrote, or the first article you submitted, or even your first poem or an old school essay. Anything that will make you pause and reflect. Anything that will make you look back – then think forward.

And if you have published, I want to know your first sentence in print – for no other reason than curiosity. Mine was: “My father wanted me to be a doctor.” I don’t think he thinks that any longer.

Mistake No. 46: The Digest has more than one Reader

2011-04-15T12:18:00.004+01:00

Obviously, as a tutor, part of my job is to correct spelling – and that’s okay. At first, I may point out that a student needs to work on his or her spelling, and if things don’t improve, I may issue a little reminder. There’s really not that much to say about it, I don’t think: it’s just something you have to work on. Spell check has its place, but a dictionary is what you need, and the more you read and see words written correctly, the more it will all sink in. But, ultimately, you have to find a way to just learn to correctly spell words.

Nobody is 100% perfect and nobody is 100% inept at spelling. Even a weak speller probably scores at least 90% – ie one spelling error in every ten words. But how much is ‘allowed’? How much error can you get away with before an editor starts to shake his head?

Five mistakes in a 1,000-word article, to me, is quite a lot. And yet that’s 99.5% accuracy. In any other area, an A-star score – but spelling is an exacting game. For some editors, 99.5% may not impress.

Will an editor reject on the basis of poor spelling? Probably not on a commissioned piece, if everything else is in order, but he may be so distracted by the spelling of a speculative submission that he gives up on it. When I’m reading a piece and I stop thinking about the article and start wondering when the next spelling blooper might come – that’s a problem. And that can happen after as few as three mistakes – or two if near the beginning.

That said, not all errors carry equal weight. Different errors send different messages. I’ve given this a little thought, but not enough, so would love your input.

* spelling easy words wrong – eg ‘teh’ and ‘chiar’ and ‘too’ for ‘to’. (To me, these suggest one or more of quick touch-typing, lack of proof-reading, general carelessness. Agree?)
* spelling moderately easy words wrong – eg ‘loosing’ for ‘losing’. (These to me suggest a person who is the ‘typical’ ‘bad’ speller. Agree?)
* spelling moderately easy but commonly misspelled words wrong – eg ‘seperate’ for ‘separate’. (The most forgivable, to me – though perhaps I’m biased as this very example is one of my own weaknesses. At worst, someone with a ‘mental block’ about certain words. Agree?)
* spelling tougher words wrong – eg onomatopoeia. (Someone too lazy or over-confident to use a dictionary. Agree?)

I think the second category probably has the most damaging effect on the editor’s view of the writer. I can’t help but feel a bit embarrassed for people who spell ‘losing’ as ‘loosing’ (and I’ve seen otherwise excellent spellers get this one wrong), and it’s this kind of mistake which always stays with me.

But – and I’m getting to my point at last – there is one category of error which I think tops the lot.

And that’s spelling your market wrongly in your approach.

It is Woman’s Own not Women’s Own or Womens Own. It is Woman’s Weekly not Women’s Weekly or Womens Weekly. It is Reader’s Digest not Readers’ Digest or Readers Digest.

But it is Gardeners’ World not Gardener’s World or Gardeners World. And it is Writers’ News not Writer’s News or Writers News (though it used to be the latter).

Spacing is another thing you can easily trip up on. It’s FourFourTwo not Four Four Two.

Ditto punctuation. It’s that’s life! – lower case, apostrophe and exclamation mark – not any other variation.

And so on.

I dithered a bit over this post, partly because my own spelling is far from perfect, but partly too because some of the above could be seen as patronising. In the end, I went for it because I see magazine titles misspelled so often. I can’t imagine how often editors see them too and dread to think of the awful impressions they must form of the writers making them. You want to write for a publication whose name you can’t spell? Beginners – it’s okay to not have perfect spelling, but do make sure you get this one absolutely right.

Mistake No. 45: Not buying books and magazines

2011-03-31T20:43:00.003+01:00

Writing Magazine is a bloody good read these days, and with the 2-in-1 merge with Writers’ News, editor Jonathan Telfer has done a terrific job in freshening up the formula. There are lots of new writers with new ideas and I really like it. I advise all my students to read it, as well as FMN, and to look at other writing magazines, such as Writer’s Forum and The New Writer.

The February issue featured an article called Credit crunch writing… by Diana Cambridge – a long-standing contributor whose advice is often solid, but with which I sometimes disagree. Practical ways for writers to save cash for the year ahead, was the theme of the piece. A perfectly decent idea for an article, and there were perfectly decent tips included – saving a little bit of every fee earned, time management, that kind of thing.

But other aspects I disliked. There was advice to not spend money at bookshops, to buy cheap books from Amazon, to swap books with friends, to buy second-hand books from dealers who buy them back from you once you’re done… no royalties or PLR fees for writers in that little selection. There was a boggling recommendation to spend up to £150 on a lamp which supposedly cures Seasonal Affective Disorder, about which I shan’t comment further in order to spare my cardiologist an emergency callout.

I vented a little in a letter and sent it off. It was published unedited in the April edition.

Why was I upset? For me, it was the seemingly cavalier disregard for publishing that came across, combined with the breezy selfishness of the philosophy being recommended, a model which if everyone adopted tomorrow, would see our industry collapse within weeks. Or maybe it would not. But I was and still am a bit annoyed – because it might.

What’s wrong, in these austere belt-tightening times, with looking after No 1, you might ask? Well, nothing, but at the absolute expense of No 2? What if we applied this thinking to, say, recycling? “Don’t bother to sort out your recycling – just chuck everything into your ordinary black bin for landfill. You’ll save lots of time to do more writing!”

We all recycle. I do my papers, glass and plastics. We could probably all do more. I don’t do vegetable waste due to various, dull reasons – but if I really put my mind to it, I could. But I contribute – and I presume so do you. Because we should.

Similarly, we should contribute to the publishing industry. I’ve been known to swap books sometimes as well. I buy second hand books too – though often feel guilty about it. But I also buy from independent booksellers and I also use my library – and I hope you do too.

It’s not all about books, of course. The same principle applies to magazines. Sales are down and they are folding. Aside from the obvious fact that writers need to buy and read for too many reasons – research, market analysis, and all the rest of it – my feeling is writers should also buy and read to support the business they expect to support them. And if money is the sticking point for any doubters, then Mistake No. 17 may change minds.

And don’t only buy for you – buy for others too. Birthday present to acquire? Consider giving a book. Or a magazine subscription. And if it’s for a writer I can’t think of a better gift than a subscription to Writing Magazine (£44.90), Writer's Forum (£36), The New Writer (£27) or Freelance Market News (£29).

Mistake No. 44: Do you want hyphens with that, sir?

2011-03-20T23:17:00.011Z

Meet Rustic farmer Ben, presently ubiquitous on London’s transport system, and probably far beyond. He’s not rustic farmer Ben, which would be fine, or Rustic Farmer Ben, which would also be fine, if a little self-aggrandising, but Rustic farmer Ben, which is plain wrong and already predisposes me to want to slap him across the chops with a copy of Eats, Shoots and Leaves. (Post on Random capitals Is stewing, by the Way.)

I have other reasons for wishing light corporal punishment on Rustic farmer Ben, including the loathsome literal truth that he is carrying around fifty trillion percent more hair on his head than I am on mine, that he is about as convincingly rustic as I am positively presidential, and that he carries the look of a man who has ploughed as many potato fields in his lifetime as I’ve captained space missions to Mars.

‘Sharing your phone call with the carriage guilt?’ this individual enquires of me.

I can’t say I have ever had experience of carriage guilt, Rustic farmer Ben, but I can confidently state that, to the best of my knowledge, I’m not sharing my phone call with it.

One presumes that what Rustic farmer Ben – or, let's face the truth, the copywriter hired by McCain's – actually meant was the somewhat hyphen-heavy ‘Sharing-your-phone-call-with-the-carriage guilt?’

(Let us not stop, at this point, and wonder why the more obvious alternative – ‘Guilt at sharing your phone call with the carriage?’ – was not employed, and instead press forward with what I hope will be a useful little lesson on hyphens.)

For hyphens are what you need, metropolitan unfarmer Ben. Hyphens join up words, urban-model-in-a-shirt-too-clean-to-belong-to-a-farmer Ben. They are very useful. You see, ‘black-cab drivers’ and ‘black cab-drivers’ are different groups of people. You get that, right?

So hyphens clarify and reduce the risk of ambiguity. Write ‘black cab drivers’ and you’re potentially confusing your reader. Write ‘Sharing your phone call with the carriage guilt?’ across my city’s transport system and you’re definitely narking me.

You have a plateful of stumpy chips before you, Rustic farmer Ben. They look as if they could act as make-do hyphens. Here’s a thought: why not slot them into place, between the words above your head? Isn’t that a great idea? I’ll still find you annoying, but at least you’ll be free of punctuational infelicity while I'm finding you annoying. But before you do that, I’ve got an even better suggestion for the one you’re holding.

Mistake No. 43: Not reading the T&Cs

2011-03-12T16:55:00.004Z

They’re boring, aren’t they, the terms and conditions to writing competitions. Life’s too short to read them, really. It’s time wasted that could be directed towards writing. They’re written in legalese, and that’s impenetrable, isn’t it. Bi-ig yawn. And they can’t be that bad, anyway. You’re not going to be asked to sign away a kidney, are you. If they were that bad, the organisers would get into trouble. There’s surely a law to stop them being really bad. Anyway, everyone else seems okay with them. Safety in numbers, and all that. It’s fine.

It’s not always fine and they can be bad and you must read them. Last year I wrote an article for Writers’ News (August 2010) about the problem of questionable terms and conditions to writing competitions and some blogs, especially those relating to travel. There’s a little bit on the Copyright and legal issues page on this. As an example, here’s a term on Holiday Velvet’s writing competition, now ended but still online, which reads “Holiday Velvet retains copyright on all copy submitted” (Term 8).

I’ve seen a lot like this. And you’d be surprised at some of those involved, including those presenting themselves as pro-writers. Will save that for another day.

If you don’t know what copyright is – see the copyright bit in the contracts section of the Copyright and legal issues page. Basically: copyright is the right to profit from what you write. It is automatic. You write it, copyright is yours.

So, what such a competition effectively does is ask for the right to profit from work you submit. This applies to all entries, in many cases – not just the winners. Be clear about what this means. They can sell your work on to countless markets. Publish it wherever they like. Profit from it for all eternity. And not give you a penny.

It may well be their intention not to do this – and, having spoken to and exchanged emails with some organisers, including Holiday Velvet, it is clear this applies to many. Contracts might be drawn up by cautious lawyers, but in any case it is clearly often felt that it’s merely easier to request all rights – it’s less fiddly and messy and it is absolutely clear cut, avoiding any possible time-consuming queries from writers about where they stand. Request it all – copyright – and you don’t have to think about it again.

But, still, the point is they can do what they want with it, and you can’t tell who is going to use your work and how and where, and who is not. If you do want to reuse the work you submit – perhaps in a different competition – you can’t. You’d have to get permission. They may well grant it, but still.

I mentioned the Holiday Velvet term specifically because I dislike the use of the word ‘retains’, from which it could easily be inferred that copyright is something that is theirs to start with. It is not. It is yours to ‘assign’ – not theirs to ‘retain’. Again, I’ve seen other instances of this, and I feel it should always be objected to, because it promotes the misconception that copyright is not in writers’ control – when it always is.

Last month on My Writers’ Circle, the writing forum from the terrific Nick Daws, a post appeared inviting writers to submit a story to a future book being put together in aid of Body Gossip, a charitable initiative to promote positive body image. I checked the T&Cs, and personally found term 6b objectionable, as it requested writers assign copyright to the company behind Body Gossip.

I certainly don’t want to attack, or be seen to be attacking, a clearly worthwhile and charitable cause – but neither do I think such organisations should be immune to criticism or allowed greater leeway to claim additional rights from writers.

I tried a few ways to get in touch with them – replying to the MWC post, Twitter, email – and it took a week to get what turned out to be a very generous response from Ruth Rogers, who is closely involved in the campaign.

She explained that volunteer lawyers drew up the contracts to allow for the option to spread the word about the initiative as far and wide as possible – and that she didn’t want to tinker with the terms at this stage. Neither did she want to get distracted from the aims of the initiative. I understood and accepted all this.

She added this: “We do not want to exclude authors with stories to share that will benefit themselves and others from submitting simply because they are uncomfortable with the idea of agreeing to assign copyright. Therefore, people who don’t want to submit via the website can submit their stories by email to story (at) bodygossip.org, provided that they state in the email that they agree to all of the terms and conditions on the Body Gossip website with the exception of agreeing to assign the copyright to their work.”

I respect Ruth’s response and wish the initiative well.

At this point, I’d like to dispel the idea that a T&C other than an outright copyright request need necessarily be complex. It can be simple and still be fully respectful to writers’ rights. A non-exclusive license to use the work in connection with the competition is all that is needed. In the case of Body Gossip, a non-exclusive right to use the work in a book – and perhaps online, if that’s what they want, too. Saying what you want need not be hard. You just need to state it, in terms that people can understand.

Anyway, a small success, I guess, which shows that you can get results from querying terms. Good luck if you enter. And please always stick up for copyright.

Mistake No. 42: Anniversary!

2011-02-28T14:07:00.003Z

It is the anniversary of this blog. On 28th February 2010 I made this deposit on the blogosphere - and I refused to clean it up. Gratitude eternal to first-writer-to-comment Lorraine Mace for posting what she posted and not, say, ‘Sigh. Not another writing blog.’

So, ‘anniversary’. ‘The date on which something occurred in a previous year’ is how my Collins defines the word, so the first such date can be safely termed the first anniversary, and the second, the second anniversary, and so forth ad infinitum.

Strictly, then, a term such as ‘three-year anniversary’ is not quite right; after all, you’d never describe such a date as the ‘three-year date’. Just go with ‘third anniversary’ – it’s sharp and simple and correct.

Now then. From this tiny mistake to reach our next one on the error map requires a leap so athletic you may like to warm up beforehand to spare yourself a groin-related mishap. You will be required to hurdle a sign reading ‘The Earth is Flat’ and you will land in a place called Wrongville, the administrative capital of Cockup County, where you will encounter expressions in the local dialect such as – take a deep breath, it could be your last so you’ll be wanting a big one – “six-month anniversary”.

Allow me to put this on record before the convulsions take hold: I can’t remember a single incidence of such an error among my students. Perhaps I’m drunk on some self-satisfied anniversary high, but I refuse to believe aspiring writers would ever do such a thing. Though if you have made this mistake, or do make it, I refuse to blame you or roll my eyes at you, because it’s so frighteningly common it would be easy to suppose it’s acceptable. Google it and you’ll see too many examples, among them efforts from the Guardian and BBC, both of whom should know better. Let’s point at them, while we all feel smugly superior for a bit.

You’ve been with me a while, I credit you with wisdom, and you won’t need me to explain why six-month anniversaries, by definition, cannot exist. We should allow them only in speech, from the mouths of giggly courting couples alone, provided they are sixteen-year-olds or under, and for whom a ‘sixth mensiversary’ (no, I’m not expecting it to catch on either) is probably a significant milestone.

Anniversaries offer a rich source of ideas and potential writing opportunities, but a date six months on is rarely considered one worthy of remarking on in print – unless it’s the mid-way mark to some notable one-year target or endeavour, at which point a half-time reflection may be appropriate. Just don’t call it what I’m begging you not to call it.

Summary tip, then: use ‘anniversary’ as you might ‘birthday’. Nobody says one-year birthday or six-month birthday for a reason.

Right. I want to give a group thanks for reading, following, commenting on and linking to this blog. It’s been as valuable and fun a year for me as I hope it has been for you. I’ve had some welcome appreciative emails too, some suggesting I turn the blog’s central idea into a book. You’ll be either glad, or indifferent, or distressed to the point of actual tears to learn that I’m actively looking into this, and will share any news if and when it presents itself.

For my second year in office I can promise more errors. But I may digress occasionally from them as there are a few issues I’d like to tackle – most urgently, I feel, copyright-grabbing writing competitions – which might not lend themselves tidily to the regular ‘mistake’ format. I hope to do occasional book reviews too. Whether I can suppress the control freak in me to permit a guest blogger remains to be seen…

Again: onwards!

Mistake No. 41: Do I like it? Not alot

2011-02-16T21:42:00.003Z

I’m a reasonable man. Pay taxes. Smile at checkout lady. Drop coins in charity boxes. Hold door open for elderlies. Buy my rounds. Check, check, check, check, and check.

So why, when I’m presented with the following, do I get the fleeting urge to thumb out my eyeballs and stir fry them over a fierce heat?

a/ ‘alot’
b/ ‘abit’
c/ ‘aswell’

Mostly it’s alot, of course – I see a lot of alots – but there’s also quite a bit of abit going on among aspiring writers, and far too much aswell as well.

Look, don’t feel foolish if you’re guilty of one or more of the above, for I’ve known some highly intelligent ‘alotters’, at least, in my time. But I can’t help wondering why I see these specific errors so often – and I don’t see illicit liaisons between the indefinite article and other words (alittle, afraction, atutorwhoislosinghismarbles) or other inappropriate combinations with ‘as’ (asever, asalways, asmadasahatter).

Might it be because a little word like ‘abit’ just looks, you know, cuter than ‘a bit’? Or because we appear to have all-righted ‘alright’ so – what the hell – the Germans do it all the time – let’s jam a few more words together? Do these mistakes endure because even those who get them right don’t bother to correct those who get them wrong – perhaps for fear of being accused of pedantry since, you know, it's only a missing space – and that’s left many with the false assumption that either version is acceptable?

Don’t know. Maybe one day abitting, alotting and aswelling will be allowed and perfectly alright, but for now they’re… alwrong. Sorry.

My tip? Word’s Autocorrect function (find it under Tools). Mine came with the alot-to-a-lot correction already entered (which irked mildly during the preparation of this post), but you can enter your other personal misdemeanours and they’ll be corrected as you type. (Autocorrect is dead handy for touch-typing mistakes you regularly make too.)

Further, if this post has made you a bit insecure about your general one-word-or-two-word understanding, then Mistake No. 23 might be of interest as well.

And once you’ve read that, I would recommend you take your leave from me and point your browser towards this post on the Hyperbole and a Half blog, which I tweeted some months ago, but which you may have missed if you don’t follow me on Twitter (which you probably should at least consider joining, a point well made a few days ago by my colleague Simon Whaley here, and which I’ll doubtless address one day soon).

It’s very funny, and if enough of us click, and if enough of us ask nicely, perhaps Allie Brosh will come up with zoological examples of the abit and the aswell too?

Mistake No. 40: Not chasing your dues

2011-02-07T10:47:00.001Z

If you enter into a business transaction with a buyer for words you have written you should see that transaction through to the end.

The end is receipt of payment from the buyer.

If you choose to donate a piece of work – for the exposure, because you believe in the cause the publisher represents, or just because you want to – then fine (up to a point – but back to that another day).

But if you have discussed money, and its exchange in your favour has been agreed during negotiations, then there should be no shirking from your responsibility to see it remitted to you.

For it is a responsibility. You owe it to yourself, first and foremost. Writing what you wrote for money may well have been the only reason you did so. You (presumably) expect to be taken seriously as a professional writer. Well, professional writers are paid. You cannot expect others to look upon you as a professional if you do not look upon yourself as one.

You owe it to other writers too, and to the publishing business which you expect to pay you at least a partial, if not total, living. The business is a business because money changes hands. I’m not an economist, but it appears that model works. Please uphold it – for all our sakes.

Sadly, as most of us who have been in the game a while know all too well, not everyone is particularly keen to send the dosh. Regular clients may well be excellent – as mine are. Others drag their heels, promise to send money which never arrives, and come up with a selection of dog-ate-cheque-like excuses.

So you have to chase. You chase when the payment is overdue. It’s overdue when the date by which settlement was agreed has passed. If none was agreed, then the default is 30 days after the date you delivered the work or the given deadline (whichever is later).

How to chase? Politely, always, at first. Professionally, too. Increasingly firmly, if you have to. You can start by email, then move to phone. It’s the accounts department you want, but you may need to check with the editor that your invoice has been passed on. Get a firm commitment to pay, by a named date, and preferably in writing. Follow up if there are further problems. Become more persistant and dogged. Make yourself a bit of a pain.

This mistake is called ‘not chasing your dues’ not ‘not obtaining your dues’ because I don’t believe you should run yourself into the ground, into a state of mental delerium, and into the law courts to chase down every penny you are owed. There have been times in my career – an overseas client, an amateurish UK outfit with which I should never have become involved – when I’ve just not had the stomach for a bloody battle. My point is you must try, quite hard, as I did. It doesn’t matter if it’s a small amount (I once chased, and got, £35), it’s the principle. How bruised you wish to get, I’ll leave to you, but don’t just turn your back or you’ll feel rubbish. It merely makes it that little bit easier for dodgy dealers to get away with it again. Instead, send them a message that it may not be worth the hassle. And report unscrupulous dealers too, to the NUJ or to Writers’ News.

Ditto if your copyright has been breached and someone has reprinted an article of yours without permission. Don’t steam in with a litigious head: get in touch, point out the mistake (it could well be a genuine mistake), and request removal (if online) or payment.

You may only get a small fee, but I believe it is a duty you have to the writing community. It’s important to convey the sense that words are a commodity, carry a value, and should be paid for. It’s the principle on which our livings rely.

Mistake No. 39: Waiting for inspiration

2011-01-27T21:44:00.004Z

I’m guilty of this. I’ll know it’s time for another mistake-writers-make, but I’ll dither about which one to cover. There are dozens in my ideas file, so you’d think it would be easy. But no, that one’s not quite right yet, that one’s a bit advanced, I’m saving that one for the 100th… there’s always an excuse. I’ll try to start writing one then think… blah, not really into this. Let’s have a cuppa instead. I need to be in the mood.

“I don’t wait for moods,” said the writer Pearl Buck. “Your mind must know it has to get down to work.”

Well, exactly. Other than rejection, what can be more dispiriting than sitting at a keyboard, waiting for inspiration to strike, fingers poised over your qwerty – and nothing coming out?

Don’t kid yourself that this is writers’ block. That’s a cop out. No, in non-fiction, if you’re ‘blocked’, if you’re busy not-writing, then you’ve not bitten off enough to chew: you have under-researched your idea and your writing saliva cannot flow. Get away from the keyboard and go research and fact-find. And if it’s the idea which is missing, then do likewise – go read or brainstorm or distract yourself. Those elusive brainwaves are unlikely to come when you’re staring at a blank screen, getting increasingly restless and picking at your nails. Remember Buck’s words: “Your mind… hast to get down to work.”

Have the idea? Done the research? In theory raring to go – but still finding yourself not-writing? Then you’re scared of doing wrong. Just write one line – however rubbish; then add another – however rubbisher. And carry on. You can make it less rubbish when you revise (you do revise and edit don’t you?).

Or maybe you don’t know where to start? Force yourself to start anywhere – and keep going. It may turn out to have been the wrong place to start, but you can fix that later. It’s all right to make that mistake – and to make any number like it (for we love mistakes here) – because (and it is worth repeating) you can fix it (or them) later.

It's all about your attitude; it's all in your head.

And know what you’re not doing now? You’re not not-writing, that’s what, and soon not not-writing drifts seamlessly into writing, and subconsciously you’ll have forgotten that there ever was a problem.

Mistake No. 38: Revealing all your clients

2011-01-17T11:54:00.002Z

What follows may come across as uncharitable towards other writers. My defence is that you’ve got to protect your own interests in this game, and while I wholeheartedly endorse scratching other writers’ backs and sharing your knowledge, as I like to think I do here, a little part of you should remain unashamedly selfish.

There will come a time when you will be successful enough to count a number of clients in your portfolio. You’ll want to mention them, naturally: to editors as evidence of your abilities, to other writers to compare notes and trumpet a bit, and to all who happen upon your website – as I do on mine here.

All fine when we’re all familiar with the clients in question. When they’re prestigious – shout away. When more modest but still household names or on every shelf at WHSmith – by all means tell the world. People in a position to feed you work do need to know.

But what of those unheralded publications and little-known websites you’ve unearthed which pay well and of whom few have heard? Or those corporate, business or private clients, maybe paying handsome rates, who most writers might not even consider being recruiters of scribes?

Keep zipped about them, that’s what.

When I’m scouting for new markets a favourite method, other than talking to fellow health writers, is nosing around their websites. I know others have hootered similarly on mine. “I see you write for Gout Weekly,” they might even venture, in person or by email. And ask: “Who’s the features editor there?” I usually answer. And with bonus hints and tips, if it’s someone I know well or they’ve flattered me a bit. I don’t mind this, and I trust they don’t mind when it works in reverse, and that they too, like me, are keeping a few select employers under their hats. They won’t admit it, perhaps – they’re secretive about being secretive – but if they’re wise and successful it’ll surely be true.

Why do we keep schtum, then? Competition! It’s unavoidable with most markets, but with some you may find there is very little – and that you’d rather like to keep it that way for as long as possible, in order to be served the largest possible slice of the available pie, before others start elbowing you aside for a bite. You want to make hay while the cat’s not out of the bag, to completely mangle my metaphors.

That moggy may well end up working its way free – but why loosen the knot?

Mistake No. 37: Refusing to submit speculatively

2011-01-05T22:09:00.003Z

Some people will tell you that it is their policy to never submit speculatively, and advise you to follow suit. When they add that submitting ‘on spec’ is unprofessional, they’re basically choosing to distance themselves from those who have done it or do do it, and subtly marking these writers down as amateurs. I don’t much care for this attitude.

My first ten published articles – I went back to my 1996 records and counted – were speculative submissions. The eleventh was a commissioned piece. I was new to writing, I was keen, and I was enjoying myself. I wanted to do it, but knew I had to do it anyway. It doesn’t have to be the same for you, of course. Perhaps you won’t need to write speculatively in your whole writing career. I am just saying what it was like for me.

It’s very easy, of course, for established writers with regular clients to say you shouldn’t submit speculatively when they’re earning a comfortable living. I’ll concede, though, that for these individuals it’s not a mistake: after all, they’re doing well. They don’t need to submit on spec.

Beginners, at the other end of the spectrum, don’t, in my experience, make this mistake. Instead, it’s writers who have perhaps sold a handful of pieces, maybe one to a lucrative market, and feel they have ‘arrived’. Have hit the ‘big time’. Are playing with the big guys now. And leaving the little boys behind.

For many, getting established in this game takes time – we’re talking months, possibly years – and progress and success come from the cumulative effect of many tiny hops not one or few giant leaps. If you want to keep cracking new markets in the early days, and keep up that momentum, I’d say you will probably need to submit on spec occasionally, even regularly. (I carried on, on and off, until 2000.)

The reason, if it isn’t obvious, is that some editors will only consider speculative submissions. More experienced hacks among you may be aghast at this. And if you think submitting on spec is unprofessional, then you may (or you may not) like to consider that it is more unprofessional to submit an idea rather than a completed piece to an editor who has expressed a preference for the latter over the former. Editors are the bosses, after all.

It’s not always easy to tell who does and who doesn’t prefer which. As a rough rule, the nationals, the glossies, the women’s nationals, the lifestyle magazines, and the professional journals will want outline proposals and pitches. The niche, small circulation, modest, shoestring-budget, and ‘hobby-horsey’ (that’s not intended to be pejorative) titles will prefer speculative submissions. (A lot of the markets I list on this blog in the pages above prefer full submissions.) If you’re unsure, call up.

If you can’t get a clear answer – send an idea. If they like the idea but prefer submissions on spec then they’ll ask you to write it up without guarantee. My view on this has always been that the sale is there to be made, and it is your job, as a writer, to write it right and complete the transaction. Not everyone agrees. This happened to me with my first pitch to the Guardian Weekend in 2006. Which just goes to show that even as a fairly experienced writer – as ten years in I considered myself to be – you may be asked to submit on spec by an editor – on a major national – who doesn’t know you from Eve or Adam. (I wrote it right and got three subsequent commissions.)

And if the editor is easy going and accepts both ideas and completed pieces? Generally, again I’d advise you send the idea – but it may be better in some circumstances to submit the full piece. Examples? Well, say your idea is difficult to express or précis and you want to get it all out and put it before an editor. If you’re itching to write it and want to let your fingers loose. If you’re convinced the whole would carry more saleability and wow factor than the summary. Maybe if it’s a humour piece or a comment piece too. (You may find that, once written, the first paragraph can be used as the basis for the pitch.)

Perhaps, in an ideal world, it would be outlines and commissions only (I’ve still not convinced myself of this and have been thinking about it for an hour). But we don’t live in an ideal world. Sometimes, I think you’ve just got to suck it up and write the thing.

Mistake No. 36: Fury at a ‘stolen’ idea

2010-12-14T09:37:00.004Z

It comes to you in the bath – and you know instinctively it’s a good one. You leap out and run dripping to your computer, soap suds still hanging off your ears, to bash it out and submit to an editor. Job done.

A few days later, it’s rejected.

A few months later, you see it in the magazine, with another writer’s byline.

The first thing to say about this is that there’s no copyright in ideas – only in their expression or realisation. Other people have written about idea-pinching before, I am writing about idea-pinching now and other people will write about idea-pinching in the future – and we can all do that thanks to that rule. What we can’t do is pinch each other’s words.

The second thing is that this will happen to you at some point in your writing career – probably more than once. You’ll perhaps be convinced an editor has passed your idea to a favoured contributor, or maybe you’ll wonder whether, after meeting with a bunch of writers or chatting to them online, one of them might have taken your idea or passed it on to a friend or colleague. There may be other scenarios, and your degree of suspicion may vary.

Frustrating, possibly maddening, and not very nice – but by no means the end of the world, and it’s a mistake to react as if it is.

Do not, under any circumstances, accuse your editor of any wrongdoing. Don’t even strike up a conversation about it in an attempt to extract some clues. Don’t track the writer down to ask him from where he got the idea and/or to call him a scumbag plagiarist.

Truth is, your idea probably has not been pinched. Ask yourself whether it is really the idea that you feel is the same as yours – or is it merely the subject?

A dear and well-meaning friend once spotted an article by a well-known writer, published a week after a similarish article of mine had appeared in a weekly. The subject was office parties, and our treatments couldn’t have been more different – but my friend thought an offence had been committed. It had not. Subjects to write about are finite – and they come around again and again, repeating themselves in magazine world for ever. Ideas, or themes, or treatments, or angles or approaches on these subjects – these are infinite. There are enough to go around.

Several people can have the same idea at the same time. Ask any commissioning editor. Ideas come in waves and what’s topical for a short period is bound to trigger a flurry of pitches on that subject for a while. If your idea has been sparked by something you’ve heard or read or seen – chances are someone else, somewhere else, will have thought likewise.

I read several dozen articles a week by students and you’d be amazed how often a/ two students working independently come up with strikingly similar pieces and b/ some of their work bears similarities to work I’ve done, am doing or will be doing, or indeed stuff I’ve read in print, or that I know colleagues of mine are researching. It happens. A lot.

Writers get their ideas from all over the place. I brainstorm. I talk to people. I read a lot and scribble down questions. I get inspired by Italian magazines – you could argue that I ‘pinch’ the ideas and translate them for the UK market. Yes, I probably do. I do likewise with old magazines found in junk shops – the articles in there are ideas just waiting to be brought up to date. I know of writers who take ideas from men’s magazines and write the female version for women’s magazines.

Is this stealing? No, I don’t think it is. By the time you’ve added your own twist, done some fresh research, spoken to some new experts – the original source or spark may be barely visible. This is just what the creative process is.

You know, it’s not about pinching or stealing – it’s about behaving honourably. If a writer confides an idea they’re working on, you don’t take it to an editor – and vice versa. There are very few writers out there who behave this way, so please don’t be paranoid about talking to people…

… or about sending ideas to editors. I’ve known people stop submitting to those they suspect of pinching. But that’s not punishing the editor – that’s punishing yourself. If you’re suspicious, hold something key to your idea back. Don’t give it all away in your outline. And convince the editor that you are the person best placed to write the story.

Easier said than done, I know, but the philosophy I’d recommend you try to cultivate is that if you feel your idea has been pinched… then so what? It’s only an idea. You have others, don’t you? Because you need dozens and dozens and dozens to make a living in this game. Losing one should not hurt or damage. The more ideas you have, the less value you will place on any particular one – so if someone beats you to it, forget it and move on. Or come back to it anew in six months when it’s slipped off the public radar again.

And another thing: if your idea does get pinched, and you’re just starting out in this game, console yourself with the knowledge that it was a good, saleable idea – and that if you’ve had one, you can have another, and another, and another…

Mistake No. 35: “Erm, what’s copyright?”

2010-12-06T16:20:00.002Z

I don’t believe there’s a writer out there who has never heard of copyright, but I reckon there are many who have little idea what it is. If you’re among them, there’s no shame in it. But not doing anything to rid yourself of this ongoing ignorance is, I have come to be reminded over the last few weeks, one of the greatest mistakes a writer can make.

Perhaps you’ve tried to get to grips with it. You have maybe found it a bit dull. You’ve Googled it and all the results have made your eyes glaze over. Other writers you know don’t really seem too sure either. Many think they know about copyright, but they only so-so know about copyright. I don’t know that much, but I think I know enough. Some of what I do know you’ll find on the copyright / legal issues page.

Like any kind of knowledge worth having, knowledge of copyright does involve investment of time and effort. If you’re a jobbing writer, you may not feel you want to invest that time and effort, given you have to invest in that interview you need to conduct, for which you will get paid, or that research at the library for the article you are writing, for which you will get paid, or your weekly column which you always leave to the last minute, but for which you will get paid. Learning about copyright? Which bill will that pay?

Perhaps none this year, or even next year, but eventually, it will pay bills.

I started in 1996. I made it my business to learn a bit about copyright a few years later, and when I then joined the NUJ I began to query and stand up to publishers who demanded copyright through what I thought were unreasonable contracts. Many times I got my way. “Just draw a line through the clause you don’t like,” I was told more than once. Other times I was refused, and I declined the work – in one instance, for a non-fiction book I very much wanted to write. I’m no copyright hero – I have given it up on a handful of occasions, and still might under particular circumstances. But in general, I won’t do it. I think it’s wrong – for me, for others, for the industry in which we work.

Knowledge of copyright and my reluctance to assign copyright in a work to a publisher has meant that I have, on many occasions, been able to license other rights in that work elsewhere. Licensing only First British Serial Rights and not assigning copyright leaves me able to license First Australian Serial Rights and Second British Serial Rights, for example, often through syndication agencies who specialise in selling subsidiary rights.

So copyright can pay. But it’s still a bit, well, boring, right?

If you think it’s boring, then please look at what writer Stacia Kane wrote on her blog a few weeks ago about the subject. She wrote it as part of Jane Smith’s copyright call-to-arms blogging initiative last month, the results of which are collated on her excellent How Publishing Really Works website. If you find copyright dull after reading Stacia’s impassioned post, or, frankly, any of the posts Jane collated, then fair enough – but I can’t help thinking there must be something missing in your writing soul.

Copyright gives value to what we produce. Copyright keeps writers in business and supports creative expression. If it weren’t for copyright, magazines could reprint and recycle work as they pleased and fail to commission writers like us. If anyone could copy anything, then through necessity most of us would have to stop doing what we do. We’d be sucked dry of incentive to create anything. There’d eventually be little worth reading – or a radically limited choice, because only the comfortably off could afford to keep writing. The big name writers would still be up there – but what of the part-timers or ordinary jobbing writers? What of the next generation? The fledgling talents of tomorrow? The investigative journalists of the future?

I could go on, but have a look around and you’ll find more.

So: just be aware of copyright. Don’t disregard it. And at least sometimes please stick up for it.

Mistake No. 34: Getting your age wrong… ish

2010-11-18T12:08:00.002Z

It was my birthday at the weekend. I am still in my thirties, having just turned thirty-twelve. I understand some people call this number “forty-two” but they are just pedants and we don't need to concern ourselves with them.

Because I’m (possibly) middle-aged and (definitely) grumpy, here are some other age-related writing mini-misdemeanours which trip my grrr switch.

“I’m 29 years of age.”
It’s okay to say “I’m 29.” Nobody’s going to think it’s your name or height in inches.

“I’m 46 years young.”
No, you are 46 years old. (But see above.)

“I’m 33 and a half.”
Well of course you’re allowed to give your age in fractions. But only if you are under ten.

“I am 58, going on 59.”
Yes, my friend, that’s how the counting system works. “I turn 59 next month” is better.

That’s it I think. I’ll degrump after a nice week off.

Mistake No. 33: Saying it twice

2010-11-10T14:05:00.003Z

Repetition, tautology, pleonasm… whatever you want to call it, it’s basically saying something twice.

Easily done. Very common. I do it. While scouting for examples I came across one which I use all the time, and which I’ll include in this post. See whether you can spot it.

But first, some examples. And to demonstrate that we’re all in good company, here are some from some of the biggest media outlets.

Here’s the Mail, making the “last and final” repetition, the tautology so beloved of flight announcers at airports (“last and final call for flight BA241 …”).

And here they are again, talking about “lesbian women” – presumably to set this group apart from lesbian men or lesbian whippets.

Here’s the Guardian, speaking of a “deliberate attack” – lest we assume it was an accidental one.

The BBC here reports a Government “top priority” and here’s scourge of homeopaths Ben Goldacre speaking of, not false facts, but “true facts”.

And finally here’s the inimitable Sun, shouting loudly about “twenty different countries” – just in case there’s any chance you may be thinking twelve Spains, seven Canadas and a Papua New Guinea instead.

There are so many others, when you look into this, that they take on a kind of lyrical beauty: sum total, advance warning, former graduate, each and every, first conceived, personal friend, null and void, past experience…

Cheap price, too, would fall into this category, given that ‘cheap’ means ‘low-priced’ and “cheap price” is therefore “low-priced price” – making it a double mistake, bearing in mind Mistake No. 20.

So. Instead of saying “blue-coloured” – say “blue”. Instead of “my personal opinion” say “my opinion”. “Return” not “return back”. “Surrounded” not “surrounded on all sides”. “I saw it” not “I saw it with my own eyes”.

It’s not serious, all this. It won’t lose you a sale, or risk future work. A sub-editor will sort it out if it’s conspicuous – although as we’ve seen tautologies are easily missed.

But I think it’s good to be aware of them. It forces you to think of the meaning of the words you’re using a bit more deeply – which can only strengthen you as a writer. It’s a good exercise when editing an article to give it a read-through with repetition in mind. When you find one, rephrase or strike it out. The end result will be so much better.

Mistake No. 32: “Look, Mum, I’m a writer!”

2010-11-01T11:21:00.003Z

Fretting over friends’ and family’s lack of interest in your work, is today’s mistake.

This one seems to affect writers across the board – beginners and established scribes alike. I know a lot of writers who like to moan about it.

I ought to declare that my circle of loved ones took great interest and demonstrated huge pride when I first published. It was really nice. Had they not, I may well have been pissed off.

That faded. I was fine with it. You ought to be fine too. Because they’ll make all the right noises at first, they’ll coo and high-five you and tell their friends and show the neighbours. But after a bit this’ll drift gradually from “Oh wow!” through to “That’s great” and then “Oh right” and all the way down to a polite silent nod and a quick change of subject.

You’ve bored them. And they’ll probably stop asking about what you’re working on, because your new job is not a new job any more. You do a bit of writing now, and they know you do a bit of writing, and … when’s Strictly Come Dancing on again?

Some writers mope about this. I’ve known some to pester their nearest and dearest. Send them scans of their articles, for instance. Email them to alert them to a new story. Call them up to ask what they thought. And absence of enthusiasm irks them. And then they turn to other writers. Or me.

“My family don’t care!” (Aw, they do a bit – just not that much.)

“They’re not interested in my work!” (Correct. My latest article is on prostate health and I can’t expect my mother to digest that with her cuppa and a Rich Tea.)

“My mates don’t understand how hard my job is!” (And you understand how hard nursing is?)

Stop and ask yourself what you want from them. Approval? Compliments? Pats on the back? That’s all well and good – but is this truly satisfying to you when you’re clearly soliciting it? I know it’s lovely to have your team behind you, but unless they’re openly disapproving or negative about your work, does it really matter if they’re a bit so-so about it and don’t leap up and down with joy when you press your latest opus into their hands? Is it not enough that they make you hot cocoa when you’re writing till gone midnight and give you a warm hug when you’ve received the umpteenth rejection to your novel?

Do you know why I think it’s a mistake to fret? Because all the approval and compliments and pats on the back you do get in this way will dilute the pleasure you get from the spontaneous and sincere ones which will one day come your way – from all quarters.

I won’t forget the dietitian who sent me an out-of-the-blue email complimenting a piece of work or a reader’s letter of gratitude for an article which helped her towards a diagnosis. The same applies to the girl I met at a party who was a fan of an old column I used to write or the M&S checkout lady who recognised me from the same magazine.

There are a few others, though not many, and I’ve been doing this for over a decade. I guess the reason I remember them is because they were meaningful at the time, and so they stayed with me. More prolific and better writers get a lot more. But they’re all special. I’ve a friend who has been reduced to tears by a complimentary note from an editor.

They’re great because they’re reminders that you’re read: some writers find this difficult to imagine, someone actually taking in their words. They prove that you make a difference. They inspire you to keep doing what you’re doing. They’re rare little pearls which make it all worthwhile. And I bet they wouldn’t if they were lost in a sea of other little pebbles.

Students – keep thrusting your work under my eyes and nose because I do care. Do the same with editors because they’re the ones who ultimately matter. But don’t thrust them under your loved ones’. Friends don’t want to read your work: they want to talk about X Factor and have a beer with you. Your mum wants to check you’re eating well what with all the time you spend on your computer. Your dad wants to know whether you need any jobs doing around the house what with all the time you spend on your computer.

Isn’t that just great as it is?

Mistake No. 31: Sending an editor an article you shouldn’t send an editor

2010-10-19T22:51:00.007+01:00

Namely, one of these:

* The Origins of Halloween / Valentine’s Day / Guy Fawkes’ etc;
* The History of Tea / Coffee;
* My Intelligent Dog (and why he is the best);
* My Dead Cat (and why he was hilarious);
* Why I’ve Decided to Become a Writer;
* My Interesting Family Tree;
* My First Caravan;
* My Trip to Sainsbury’s;
* The Funny Things My Uncle Bill Does;
* My Birth Story.

Before I'd properly thought it through, this mistake was going to be entitled ‘Writing an article you should never write’ – until it was rightly pointed out to me by fellow tutor Simon Whaley that, actually, it can be useful to write some stuff. Rolling with that wise notion – you could argue that it’s useful to write any stuff. I remember interviewing a journalist once who told me nothing she ever writes goes to waste – it all inspires other ideas, or comes in handy years down the line. And, besides, banning writing or censoring yourself is not what this blog is about.

So. Here is Simon on articles on the death of a pet:

“They are too personal. I know how close you get to pets – when one dies it can be difficult to come to terms with. Sometimes it is best to write the article purely to help with the grieving process, but a writer should understand that this is what they are doing – grieving. Write it, then put it aside and write something else. There is a (very) small market for these personal pieces, but the editors are deluged, so the chances of publication are small.”

Writing about why you have decided to write can be useful too. It can help crystallise what your motivation and goals are; what precisely you are trying to achieve, and how you might achieve it. But then sending it to the editor – say, of a writing magazine? He’ll have seen it all before. I’ve been a regular reader of Writing Magazine, Writer’s Forum and FMN for some years and I can’t remember ever seeing such an article. You may see well-known authors explaining why they started, but these are made-it writers, not trying-to-make-it writers. There are thousands in the latter position. This isn’t meant to sound harsh, but what makes your reasons so special? If you’ve taken up writing in order to make money to pay for your loved one’s life-saving operation – then, yes, you may well have a story (for a woman’s real-life weekly). If you’ve merely “wanted to do it since I was a child” (fair enough), then I’m afraid you don’t.

I would say something needs to be special for a ‘My Birth Story’ too. Some parenting magazines do feature these, so the market is there. But with 800,000 births in the UK every year, you might need something distinctive in order to stand out from the crowd.

Everything can inspire saleable ideas, though. Here’s Simon again on personal articles about your pets: “I tell students to rewrite the article giving advice to other owners, using their pet anecdote as a means of illustrating the advice they are giving. But, the anecdote should make up 20% of the point – it is not the point in itself!”

That’s the thing: you do need to give your reader something. Readers of cat or dog magazines are more interested in reading about their pets than your pets. Address the reader, engage them, forge a connection with them – talk to them about them. A party-goer meeting someone who only talks about himself has to nod a lot and try not to let his eyes glaze over. A reader reading someone who only writes about himself can just turn the page.

Should you always write with a reader in mind? If you’re writing to a brief or to submit speculatively – then of course. But if not, then no. Provided you can see it for what it is, perhaps through more critical eyes in a few days’ time, and can then analyse your work and maybe try to tease out of it an idea for publication, then great.

Perhaps my advice, then, should be to get writing all the unpublishable stuff out of your system? If ‘My Clever Cat’ does relieve that urge, does scratch an itch, does give you something to show your wife, or even to your cat (if he’s so clever he can probably read it and critique it better than me) – then fine. And is there an idea there waiting to be teased out? Sure. “How to Determine Your Cat’s Intelligence” or “How to Boost Your Moggy’s Brainpower”.

One reservation. If you’re writing this material because of general impatience to think of and develop original ideas (“Bah, don’t know what to write about… Oh I know! My trip to the supermarket…That’ll do…”), or a reluctance to put work into researching facts and figures, or a fear of interviewing strangers – then it’s a problem you need to conquer at some stage, and it may as well be now.

You can’t write from your head for very long in non-fiction…

(Thanks to Simon Whaley, Lorraine Mace, Sue Wilkes, Penny Legg, Nicola Lisle and Susan Stephenson for their input.)

Mistake No. 30: “Dear Editor…”

2010-10-11T12:04:00.002+01:00

Not addressing an editorial contact by name when you write to them with an idea, proposal or article – an easily avoidable mistake. Each of these sets my teeth on edge:

Dear Sir/Madam
Dear Ms/Miss/Mrs/Mr Jones
To Whom it May Concern…

Each suggests lack of care, lack of research, lack of … unlaziness.

Imagine receiving an email or letter addressed to ‘Dear Sir/Madam’ or ‘To Whom it May Concern’. Would you not be instantly annoyed? Or bored? Would you not immediately assume it was junk mail – or an unimportant mass mailing? Would you not bin or delete it pretty sharpish?

You need the first name of the editor or – if there is one – the features editor or commissioning editor. So look in the publication. If it’s not listed there, look at the publication’s website. If it’s not there either, Google it. If that fails, you could ask other writers – perhaps via Twitter, or use a writing forum. If nobody can tell you, then call up the publication – because you must get it right. Speak with the switchboard operator who responds or ask her for an editorial assistant. Don’t fear: you’re unlikely to be put through to the person whose name you need – but if you are, just tell them you want to send them an idea and would like to address them correctly.

Once you have the full name, check the spelling. Not only surnames. So many first names have variant spellings – Graeme/Graham, Rachel/Rachael, Antony/Anthony – that you need to be certain.

And then you have several options:

Dear [first name] – I consider this preferable, and not over-familiar (as long as you sign off with your full name at first)
Dear [title] [surname] – this is okay too, provided you are 100% sure of the title
Dear Ms/Miss/Mrs [surname] – this is risky, I think, and may annoy some women
Dear [first name] [surname] – this is, in my opinion, hideous (a view not shared by all)

Letters to the letters’ page? Check the name and address supplied on the page. If you see ‘Letters to the editor’ anywhere then using ‘Dear Editor’ is okay. The editor isn’t always involved in the running of the letters’ page, though. For the women’s weeklies, something like ‘Dear Take a Break’ is probably better.

And once you get to know an editor, maybe after a few exchanges of emails, first name terms all round should be fine. Take your cue from them: if they sign off with their first name only – then so can you.

Mistake No. 29: Unimaginative Market Choices

2010-10-04T09:34:00.003+01:00

With around 10,000 publications in the UK – and surely a million around the world – you might expect that the range of markets targeted by new writers would be vast.

Any writing tutor would probably tell you the opposite is true. Most of us see the same titles namechecked over and over again. Reader’s Digest, Saga, Psychologies, The Daily Mail, The Lady, Yours, Best of British, Wanderlust.

Many of these publications are ultra-competitive, and use only journalists at the top of their game. Yes, RD take fillers, and one or two of my students have sold some in, but in almost fifteen years in the business I still haven’t met a writer who has written an article for them.

Others get swamped with submissions. I met a young editorial assistant from one of these titles above at a press event in the summer, and the poor thing’s shoulders visibly sagged when I brought up writer submissions. She dealt with several hundred a month, she said, almost all unsuitable, and was charged with the somewhat sad task of putting them back into their envelopes for return to senders. She also regularly fielded phone calls from impatient scribes seeking decisions on their manuscripts. It was clear she was run off her feet.

My suggestion? Try something different.

If you ask any jobbing writer who they’ve written for, they’re likely to rattle off a selection of titles from which you might only be able to pick out one or two familiars. Here are some of mine: Balance, Beyond, Career Zone, City Appointments, Drum, Foods Matter, Friday to Monday, the London Career Guide, Longevity, Midweek, Oryx, Palladium, the Planet, Red Handed and Spectrum.

How many of those do you recognise?

Okay, I’ve selected these deliberately to make a point, and yes I could have included the Guardian and the Times and some well known health magazines too, but the thing I want you to take away from this post is that many writers’ earnings come predominantly from clients who lack glamour, cachet and household-name status.

For tips on finding such markets, see my Finding Markets article.

If you think you can’t write for quirkier or niche markets, see Mistake No. 12, and if you think they’re not up your street, see Mistake No. 22.

Give it a go. Let me know how you get on.

Mistake No. 28: Stating what you want

2010-09-25T14:45:00.004+01:00

Usually, in a cover letter: “I want to share my story with readers…”

That much will be obvious, if you are proposing an article about your story to an editor. Besides, what about what the editor and readers want?

Rather than state what you want, state what you’re offering and ask the editor whether she may want it. Tell the editor why you think the readers may want what you’re offering too.

Not so good:

“I want to tell everyone about my triple organ transplant in order to make people understand what I went through and to give deserved publicity to the great surgeons who saved me…”

Much better:

“Would you be interested in an account of my triple organ transplant – the first of its kind in the country? I feel your readers would be heartened to learn about how I conquered my fear of going under the knife, and my story may help those struggling to overcome their own health demons…”

The related mistake which often follows in the completed article is the gushing thank-you ‘speech’, typically delivered in the final paragraph. “I would like to say thank you to the nurses who cared for me during my long convalescence – you were all fantastic – and I must send love to my husband for the support and…”

Stop right there, madam, your stitches might pop. By all means tell the reader how your carers looked after you, but if you want to thank your support team and speak to them directly then my feeling is a nice dinner, thank-you cards and boxes of chocolate are the way forward. The moment you start talking to certain individuals in an article (especially those who don’t fall within the target demographic and would not normally be reading), you are turning your back on the readers; you are no longer talking to them, and you are excluding them. I think it’s a mistake, as it suddenly puts them second – and I’ve already written about the problems of doing that in Mistake No. 8.

In a nutshell, then: it’s all about what an editor wants (to buy) and a reader wants (to read). Put them first. As I see it, what you want (to sell, to write, to say) generally stutters home in third. Feel free to disagree…

Mistake No. 27: Shy about money

2010-09-17T20:36:00.003+01:00

“Money’s such a sensitive issue to broach with an editor,” a rather talented student told me today.

No, it is not.

Publishing is a business. Writing articles is work. People get paid for their work.

The typical exchange goes like this:

Student: “Hi Alex! Just got an acceptance from an editor!”
Me: “Great! What fee have they offered?”
Student: “Er, haven’t asked.”
Me: “Ask!”
Student: “How? I don’t know how to phrase it!”

And it’s always the good writers too, who fret about how to word their query! It makes me smile. Try:

“Thanks very much. Delighted you like the piece. What’s the fee you’re offering for it, please?”

And sign off.

Do not:

a/ Ask “Is there a fee?” – which merely tells an editor you’re a new writer who may be prepared to receive nothing but a published clipping, and invites an easy “No”;
b/ Say “I hope you don’t mind me asking, but…” – which is pussyfooting around an editor; he will not bite; he deals with money issues daily;
c/ Say “Please can you pay me something because I worked really hard on this?” – which is amateurish and begging.

Be polite, firm, unapologetic, brief and professional.

He may say no, there’s no budget, I’m sorry, take it or leave it, albeit politely. You may like to refer to Mistake No. 7 in that case.

He may make an offer which is a bit crap. You could negotiate. (Some would argue that you should always try to enter negotiations, but for new writers, I tend to advise accepting a reasonable offer at first.) Again, use a similar straightforward approach.

“Thanks, but that seems a little low. How about £x?”
“Could you make it £y? The interviews took a lot of work.”

He may agree, or meet you half-way, or he may go “I really can’t, sorry”. I would probably advise to accept it, in that case, unless you really feel you can get a stronger offer elsewhere. (I have known a few to venture “I’ll get back to you in a few days” to give the impression to the editor that they’re going to try for more at a competing title. This bluff could work, once at most, but tread carefully as you could get a reputation for slightly dodgy dealing.)

He may make you a decent offer up front. All good.

What he will not – ever – say is this: “How dare you ask about fees, you mercenary swine! Never darken my door again, you greedy money-grabber! And you can keep your rotten article too!”

You have nothing to lose.

Mistake No. 26: The Apostrophe

2010-09-09T10:47:00.009+01:00

Few will think badly of you if you don’t know, say, whether it’s St James’s Park or St James’ Park, but if you write something like “its important to get word’s right” you’re inviting derision. Apostrophe howlers like this will make any decent editor wince. Granted, perhaps she’ll think “Oh, it’s all right – we’ve got a sub-editor to sort it out”, but at best it’ll be distracting and off-putting, and at worst she’ll wonder whether you care about the quality and accuracy of the rest of your work, given you obviously don’t care much about basic – very basic – apostrophe use.

Or am I being unfair? Is it really so ‘obvious’ that someone unable to use apostrophes with confidence does not care? Are they even aware of their mistakes?

Reason I ask is that I have explained the basics to many struggling students before, and have always emphasised how vital it is to take it all on board. But it’s a rare learner writer who demonstrates rapid improvement in this area. Quite often I see no improvement at all. “Can I help with apostrophes?” I ask. “Anything I can clarify?” No reply is the norm. Are people a bit embarrassed? Do they think it’s unimportant? Are they just not interested? Do they wonder why I’m pressing the point?

I don’t mean this in an infuriated way, but I genuinely struggle to understand why apostrophes are the source of so much error. It seems to me that many writers merely guess where they go and where they don’t. Could some writers be apostrophe ‘blocked’ – much in the same way some perfectly bright people wrestle with basic arithmetic?

I see some cornea-warpers, I really do. “Cheer’s” on a distressingly regular basis at the end of messages. “Mens” and “Womens” in T K Maxx. “Coven’t Garden” on a sign once. But it was this appalling example pictured that has inspired this post. The “term’s & condition’s” is by no means the only grammatical infelicity on display in this extract from a catalogue I was given recently at a press event (yes, really), but it’s the one that sucked my eyes out and made my sockets weep blood.

Here’s what I think on this – and bear in mind I’m fairly liberal. It’s fine to be hazy on advanced use, but vital to get the fundamentals right. Nay-sayers may argue that there are people in our business who do not know these basics – and I’d agree. I know of at least two whose use of apostrophes is woeful. But they are established, making a living, and, to some extent, can afford not to give a shit. And I need to keep in mind the possibility that maybe they’ve never been told how bad they are.

Anyway. If you’re starting out, my view is you need to know the following:

When are apostrophes used?
Principally:
1. To indicate possession or ‘of’.
2. To indicate missing / omitted letters - especially in less formal writing.

How do you use them in the first case?
After the possessor or entity / thing being “of’d”, adding an “s” if required:
* Claire’s car = the car of Claire
* everyone’s favourite = the favourite of everyone
* the people’s champion = the champion of the people
* ten years’ experience = experience of ten years

Note the difference between singular and plural:
* The book’s cover = the cover of the book
* The books’ cover = the cover of the books

There are exceptions:
* ours = of us / belonging to us
* yours = of you / belonging to you
* theirs = of them / belonging to them

“It’s” and “its” appear to cause particular trauma:
* It’s = it is (or ‘it has’)
* Its = belonging to it / of it
* It’s a large animal because of its appetite = It is a large animal because of the appetite of it
(There is no such construction as its’.)

How do you use them in the second case?
Here are some examples, with two or more words contracting into one:
* Let’s see = Let us see
* I’ve a degree in English = I have a degree in English
* The music’s rock’n’roll = The music is rock and roll
* Wouldn’t it be good, don’t you think? = Would it not be good, do you not think?

There are other quirky examples:
* sou’wester = southwester
* gov’t = government

There are exceptions:
* You shan’t go to the ball = You shall not go to the ball
(The double-l from ‘shall’ is not replaced by an apostrophe whereas the ‘o’ from ‘not’ is.)
* I won’t say! = I will not say!
(the ‘ill’ from ‘will’ being replaced by an ‘o’, not an apostrophe)
* Abbreviated words in common use, such as photo, phone, demo and ad.

When are they not used?
To indicate ordinary plurals:
* Best wishes to you!
* I like your LPs

To indicate an adjective:
* Sports field
* Accounts department

When in doubt…
I expect there might be exceptions, but try one of these:

1. Ask yourself whether you're dealing with two nouns – the possessed and possessor – with the possessor taking the apostrophe.

* The dog’s fur (ie the dog is the possessor of the fur)
* The dog’s furry coat (ie the dog is the possessor of the furry coat)

But:

* The dogs are furry (there is no possession here; furry is an adjective; there is only one noun)
* The furry dog walks fast (there is no possession here; walks is a verb; there is only one noun)

2. Another test is to see whether you need an apostrophe in the singular. If you don’t, you won’t need it in the plural. If you do, you will:

* one week’s notice (ie “notice of one week”)
* two weeks’ notice (ie “notice of two weeks”)

But:

* one month pregnant
* nine months pregnant

(NB: nine months’ pregnancy (ie “pregnancy of nine months”))

3. To decide whether it’s or its is right, replace the term with “it is”. If it makes sense, use “it’s”.

Anything else?
Loads. Advanced apostrophe use can get fiddly, quirky and controversial. Debate continues on some issues. “Dos and don’ts” or “Do’s and don’ts”? “Mind your p’s and q’s” or “Mind your ps and qs” / “Mind your Ps and Qs”?

Different publications and authorities may have different views and policies, but you don’t need to worry about these unless you’re an apostrophe nerd (which is not a bad thing) or want to be a sub editor. See a style guide or grammar book for more info if you’re keen.

And it’s St James’s Park in London, but St James’ Park in Newcastle. Neither is St Jame’s Park…

* Anything unclear that could’ve been better put? Have I missed something important? Made a blooper? Let me know – and I’ll adjust.

Mistake No. 25: Not reading

2010-08-29T12:32:00.003+01:00

If one more new writer tells me he has twenty hours a week to spare to write but “I don’t have the time to read!” I may ask to be shut away somewhere dark for a bit to wail until rescued. Any naughty middle-aged ladies out there want to stroke me, pick me up – and then drop me in a bin?

You’re reading this right now, so I suspect you don’t need to be reminded, but you really must read. Reading broadens your mind, feeds your intellect, stimulates your creativity. It makes you more interesting – as a person, as a writer. It’s soothing and satisfying. It fills you with questions and wonder and ideas and inspiration – lifeblood to a writer. Obviously, it boosts vocabulary and teaches you grammar and punctuation, but also it introduces you to clever sentence constructions and journalistic tricks and literary gymnastics you may not previously have conceived of. It shows you how it’s all done.

The excuses:

1/ I don’t have the time
But you do to write? If you have twenty hours to write you can give half of them over to reading. Only two hours to write? One hour writing and one hour reading. Yeah, I do mean it. (At least when you’re starting out.) So does Stephen King: “If you don’t have the time to read, you don’t have the time or the tools to write.”

2/ There’s nothing I like to read
I’m firmly of the belief that if you hold the view that there’s nothing out there you like to read, then it’s because you haven’t found it and not because it doesn’t exist. Spend more time in the newsagent, the library, the bookshop, even on the internet. What do you want to write about? In what do you wish to specialise? You have to read about subjects which interest you, to inform yourself and keep updated. You must interest yourself in stuff. If you can’t or won’t, then you’re in so much trouble I’m not sure anyone can help you.

3/ I want to write, not read
But reading is a part of writing; they complement one another. We learn this at school.

Look: you have to read what you’ve written, right? Well, reading and appraising the work of others will help you cast a wiser critical eye over your own output – essential in developing as a writer. A writer not wanting to read is like a chef not wanting to eat out, or a musician avoiding gigs, or a footballer turning his nose up at the match. Dare I say it’s a bit arrogant, too? What makes you so special that you only want to write and expect to be read and yet not read the work of others?

4/ It’ll ruin my style! I want to retain my own voice!
You know, the more I think of the issue of a writer’s ‘style’ the less I think it matters. Here, the usual concern is that reading other writers and thereby exposing oneself to their styles may dilute one’s own literary signature or compromise its destined development.

First, it’s rare to have a style distinctive enough to make you recognisable in print. I’m not saying that you’re not one of those individuals or that you lack the talent to nurture such an original voice, just that it’s not important to get published or make a living. There is no shame in reading like the next perfectly competent but otherwise unremarkable writer. None at all. I’m sure I sound like dozens of other health hacks out there. I’m fine with that; I make a living. Being able to adapt your writing and willing to work according to your client’s needs are more important skills to develop. Far more important.

Second: what is style anyway? What is this voice you’re so keen to protect? Surely it’s merely an assembly of elements you’ve been picking up from others since childhood? The words you learned from parents, teachers and peers, the phrases and turns of expression you’ve absorbed from the telly and your friends and work colleagues and – yes – the books and journals you’ve read? All exposures to words and their arrangements throughout life have the potential to leave their subtle marks on your writing. It’s unavoidable and inevitable. Each is filtered uniquely and mostly subconsciously by you: some is discarded, some taken on board, perhaps slightly tweaked. Nobody writes precisely like you, and nobody ever will – not even you in a few years’ time, because this organic process progresses daily, for life. Your style, then, has developed from a unique mix of the styles and voices of thousands of others – among them writers. Why be alarmed of them now?

In many ways, all this is by the by. The key is this: your style is unlikely to be what anyone is looking at or for when they read you. They will be looking for facts, information and entertainment. That’s it in a nutshell.

So: make time for reading. Read everything, not only the obvious stuff like locals and nationals, glossies and niche magazines, and books. Read the backs of boxes of cereal, read road signs, read ‘lost dog’ notices sticky-taped to lampposts. Read the classifieds, and the notices in newsagent windows. Read the terms and conditions and read all the rest of the smallprint. Read recipes and read lists of ingredients. Read catalogues and phone directories and dictionaries. Read quirky chat forums. Read subtitles and Ceefax. Read the junk mail. Read Twitter streams.

There are ideas lurking there, in each of these, just waiting to be discovered, teased out and developed.

Mistake No. 24: Margin of error

2010-08-18T12:25:00.002+01:00

Over time I’ve come to realise that when new writers study a market, and its regular slots and sections, with a view to perhaps coming up with an idea to propose or writing a piece speculatively, they are naturally drawn to potential openings which look, well, a bit ‘easy’ to fill.

There’s nothing wrong with this, per se. Publications feature easy-to-write stuff and hard-to-write stuff, and plenty of stuff that occupies any number of levels between. Given an editor is more likely to pay handsomely for words at the tougher end of the spectrum, this means it is the more advanced work – interviews, reportage, analytical features – that the big players and journalists will be going for. Competition will be stiffer there. Targeting more realistic slots is no bad thing when you’re starting out.

But that doesn’t mean you should just fire something off without checking whether submissions are welcomed.

Often, occupying the front pages of many magazines are multiple-page newsy sections – round-ups of what is going on and has been going on, essentially. Products, research, launches, quotes, celebrity gossip, chat, recommendations, snippets, bulletins, NIBs… that kind of thing.

Before me sits a copy of Mother & Baby Magazine. Their newsy section is called ‘first words’ and it features quotes from parents, new baby gear, some Q&As, health news, ‘what’s on’, and suchlike. Some of this, you might assume, may be open to freelance writers like yourself. In all likelihood, it won’t be.

Turn your open magazine ninety degrees. Look in the margin. Often, you’ll find something like “Written by:” or “Text by:” followed by a name. Check that name in the masthead – the panel that gives staff names, job titles and publisher details. Typically, you’ll find it’s a staff writer’s name. This tells you that the page in question is compiled in-house. This is because it’s easier and more convenient, as press releases and samples from publicists flood into the offices, and provide virtually ready-to-roll snippets which can effortlessly be rewritten to fit the page, quite often by editorial assistants or interns.

It could be an outside writer’s name you find, and that might make you think, again, that the slots are open, but, again, probably not. I have a page of men’s news in Vegetarian Living magazine which is a rolling commission each month, for instance. Many other writers are in the same position. Check to see whether the name changes over subsequent editions. If it doesn’t, it’s probably a no-go.

In M&B there’s a ‘Welcome to the world’ page – a Q&A with a new mum about her pregnancy and birth. On the face of it this is the kind of thing a mother with a young baby could and should go for. Her name is clearly flagged in the sell. But look in the margin again and you’ll see a staff member credited with the interview. Darn it – in-house again. You can put yourself forward to feature on this page, but you can’t write it, seems to be the message.

So how to know what is open when you analyse a magazine? Letters pages, obviously. Any other pages, columns or sections which clearly ask for contributions. Any items written by a different contributor each issue – probably. If you’re not sure, call and ask to speak to an editorial assistant. Sometimes, the nice lady on switchboard will know the answer too.

Features pages, in all likelihood, will be open. Features are harder to compile in-house because they take a lot of work and concentration and may require the writer having to get out and about to conduct interviews or research; in a busy editorial office, with constant distraction, there’s not much time for that. They’ll hate me for saying it, but junior staff writers may not be skilled enough, either. Further, the magazine’s editorial team may be short of ideas for their features pages. They can’t think of everything. They need fresh, outside blood – you – to propose fresh themes.

Remember that freelance contributions are always credited with the writers’ names – names that you are unlikely to find on the flannel panel. And don’t be surprised to find a name in the margin either, as I often have. Indeed, a fitness centre’s customer magazine to which I’d once contributed a story soberly informed anyone inclined to peruse the margin of my article that the text on the page was “Compiled by Alex Gazoolaz”.

Probably my favourite margin of error, ever…

Mistake No. 23: One word or two?

2010-08-13T10:45:00.004+01:00

I doubt there are many editors who would reject work featuring one or more of the following minor bloopers. But I see them a lot. Curiously, I also see inconsistency in close proximity – “every day I get up and everyday I have breakfast” – which always makes me wonder whether the writers must have thought it better to hedge a guaranteed one out of two than risk an evens-odds zero. Or perhaps they think either option is acceptable, or that it matters not a jot. Maybe they just don’t notice.

Okay. If this doesn’t come to you instinctively, one way of deciding is to use a synonym. I have a niggling feeling the method may not be full-proof, but that I can’t think of an obvious exception suggests to me that it will do, at least to be going on with.

Anyone / any one
The synonym to resolve this is ‘anybody’, which is the same as ‘anyone’.
If you can substitute the one-word ‘anybody’, then use the one-word ‘anyone’. If you can’t, then use the two-worded ‘any one’.
* “Is anyone going?” is correct, because so is “Is anybody going?”
* “Is anyone of you going?” is incorrect, because so is “Is anybody of you going?”
* So, “Is any one of you going?” is correct.

Anyway / any way
The synonyms here are ‘regardless’ or ‘nevertheless’ or, perhaps better, ‘anyhow’, which are each more or less ‘anyway’.
If you can substitute one of these single words, then use ‘anyway’. If you can’t, then use ‘any way’.
* “What happened to you, anyway?” is correct, because so is “What happened to you, anyhow?”
* “Is there anyway of knowing?” is incorrect, because so is “Is there anyhow of knowing?”
* So, “Is there any way of knowing?” is what you need.
(You can also think of ‘any way’ as being the same as ‘any manner’ or ‘any means’.)

You get the picture, so moving more swiftly through some others…

Everyday / every day
‘Everyday’ means ‘commonplace’ or ‘ordinary’.
‘Every day’ means ‘each day’.
Do a substitution to see which you need.

Everyone / every one
Same logic as anyone / any one.

Forever / for ever
‘Forever’ means ‘continually’ (eg ‘I am forever losing my keys’).
‘For ever’ means ‘for always’ (although ‘forever’ seems to be increasingly accepted too).

Maybe / may be
‘Maybe’ means ‘perhaps’.
‘May be’ roughly means ‘might be’.

Sometime / some time
‘Sometime’ means ‘occasional’ (eg ‘Her sometime partner’)
‘Some time’ means ‘a period of time’ (eg ‘I will call some time later’)

There are bigger mistakes than these when you’re starting out – probably each of the twenty-two preceding this one – but if you care about words – and you’re a writer, so you do – then it’s a shame to not try to get it right.

A seemingly reliable rule of thumb, then: if you can replace it with a word, it’s a word. If you can only replace it with two (or more) words, it’s two words.

Probably.

Mistake No. 22: “These markets just aren’t me!”

2010-08-07T14:39:00.003+01:00

Know the magazine I’d like to write for? Pick’n’Mix Magazine – the monthly for lovers of all forms of confectionary, sweets and chocolate bars. It has 100-odd pages of editorial and the editor actively seeks contributors to write about their favourite candy and review the latest launches from Lindt. Pick’n’Mix pays above NUJ recommended rates, and the editor remits on acceptance, also sending you a complimentary copy of the issue in which your article appears, and a spare one for your mum too.

If only, eh. Yep, I’d like nothing more than to tell the world how I used to eat my Double Deckers as a boy (three-quarters of the top layer first, then the same of the bottom, then the remaining quarter in one greedy mouthful), and why Valrhona’s Manjari Orange 64% is worth spending your last few quid on (do so at Waitrose), and get paid for it, but until Pick’n’Mix transforms from figment of my imagination into on-shelf reality, I will just have to write for the markets which are already there.

And tough as it may sometimes be to accept when you start out, you have to try to do the same.

What new writers often tell me is “I just can’t seem to find a magazine I like the look of” and “none of the publications on the shelves is really me.” They faithfully recount the lengths they go to in order to track down some just-right markets, yet those uncovered always seem to fail to make the grade. A sense of hopelessness and frustration hangs heavy over the whole correspondence.

By all means look for markets which you want to or feel you could contribute to. My article on Finding Markets will help. But if you’ve done everything – you’ve scoured shelves, you’ve trawled the web, you’ve asked everyone you know – and you still feel there’s nothing out there that’s quite you, then you need to stop looking and change your mindset.

I know. It’s a tough lesson when you’re setting out. But thing is, markets exist for the benefit of readers, not writers. They are there to entertain and inform the readership. They do not exist to give writers a convenient outlet for what they might feel they want to tell the world.

If you can’t, despite your best efforts, find your particular dream market it ought to tell you that in all likelihood the readership for such a market does not exist – and neither does the market itself.

See, as a reader, I would be unlikely to care much for reading about a mixed bunch of people’s sweet tooths and preferred choices of chocolate bars. I’m sure, as a reader, you would feel the same. And that’s why Pick’n’Mix Magazine does not exist. Nobody really wants to read it – although we’d probably bite off each others’ arms to write for it.

The magazines which people do want to read – many examples of which I gave in Mistake No. 12: “I can’t write for Yachting Monthly!” – are the ones on the shelves, which people buy, and which succeed.

But there are thousands of others out there, many of which are constantly on the lookout for original, well thought-out ideas, from writers who can put together readable and informative non-fiction, specifically targeted at the markets’ readerships. Channel your efforts towards them, not towards looking for something which may not be there. As I’ve said before, every market – every market – is a potential outlet for your writing, whether it feels ‘you’ or not.

Take on board this attitude from the start – it will stand you in good stead.

Mistake No. 21: Writing to demonstrate knowledge

2010-07-29T10:49:00.004+01:00

This is an interesting one, which I tend to see in younger writers, perhaps just out of school or college or uni, and therefore maybe fresh from writing essays.

Articles are not essays, clearly. One of the key differences – there are many – is that in an essay you are typically writing to show what you know: to tell the reader – your teacher, the examiner – that you are familiar with the subject at hand and that you deserve a good grade.

Some beginner writers put together their articles like this. It’s over-enthusiasm, quite often. They’re so keen, and so passionate, that in it all goes, fairly unedited. “This is what I know – and this is what I want you to know and what I want you to know that I know.” If it’s their pet or specialist subject, it can be hugely tempting to really go to town, with little titbits, extra asides in brackets, that the writer hopes will earn ‘bonus marks’, never mind the snowballing four-figure word count. Some even mention their research (see Mistake No. 10).

Here’s the thing: try to forget about what you want people to know, and concentrate on what they need to know.

The reader is not someone who is checking up on your general knowledge – but someone who wants to be informed, educated and possibly entertained. It can be sometimes easy to lose sight of this when you’re starting out.

Remember too that what readers need to know may be knowledge that you don’t have, and which you will need to research, or source from an expert through an interview. Uncovering this new information is, in a sense, doing your homework. Perhaps this business isn’t so different from school or uni after all…

Mistake No. 20: Numbers with character

2010-07-19T13:39:00.004+01:00

It’s summer. Everybody’s been talking about hot temperatures. Here’s the Press Association, here’s Sky, here’s the Daily Record, and here’s the Daily Express, all insisting that a temperature can be hot.

But it can’t. Temperature is a number. A number can be high. A number can be low. A number can be average. What a number can’t be is hot. Or cold. And not sweltering, The Guardian, or roasting, the Daily Mail. That would be the weather, or the day, or the environment.

Too pedantic? Yeah, maybe. But I am a little surprised that it so often gets past the sub-editors at the nationals.

In for a penny, then: the same argument goes for ‘fast speed’ and ‘cheap prices’. ‘High speed’ and ‘low prices’ are what you want if what you want is to be precise.

‘Old age’? Age is a number, so can it really be old? Strictly, I guess not, but we have established terms such as ‘old age pensioner’ so…

Okay, guess I’m done. Can you think of any others?

Mistake No. 19: “Oh $&#£ off!”

2010-07-12T14:10:00.003+01:00

A couple of months ago I read a BMJ editorial by Rhona Flin, Professor of Applied Psychology at the University of Aberdeen, in which she argued that experiencing or witnessing rudeness at work makes you more likely to make mistakes.

This would seem to be common sense, although it’s not something to which I’d previously given any thought. Rudeness can get to you, and make you uptight and distracted. It takes up head space that needs to be devoted to whatever it is you’re working on, which is bound to suffer as a consequence.

I’ve been working in the publishing and journalism business for well over a decade now and I’ve come across a fair amount of rudeness in that time. I remember when I was a writer at a publication whose designer was the most persistantly unpleasant and rude individual I’ve ever worked with, and I’m sure the quality of my work, and that of other members of the team, suffered as a result. We dreaded going to the office. It drove us to drink. It made us bitter and angry. Hardly conducive to creativity.

But that individual was rude by nature. Most people in the industry are anything but. But most of us – the odd saint or angel excepted – can be vulnerable to the occasional flash of rudeness. And for the purposes of this post, I’m interested not only in the consequences of rudeness on witnesses or recipients – but also on its perpetrators. Here are two anecdotes.

A couple of years ago, I bumped into an editor of mine at a health show and we fell into a conversation about freelancers. In passing, he casually let slip that he no longer commissions a long-standing acquaintance of mine who had been rude in a phone call to him concerning an overdue invoice. “It just isn’t worth it,” he told me. “I’m not responsible for payments, and sometimes our accounts team just pay a bit late. I know we should be punctual but I’m too busy to be hassled when money is only a few days overdue.”

About three years ago, when working at another magazine, I was forwarded an email exchange which was ‘doing the rounds’ among the women’s health and lifestyle sector’s editorial staff. A freelance writer had sent a features editor some ideas, not received a reply, and sent a follow-up asking that a response would be nice “if you can be bothered to find the time”. Not unreasonably, the features editor (politely) rejected the ideas, and this triggered an outpouring of indignant fury. It was eye-watering stuff from the writer, accusing the features editor of having an inflated sense of self-importance and being cavalier with the careers of freelancers. “I’m glad you rejected my ideas, as now I can take them to a professional editor who values me and them,” she flounced. I’ve never forgotten this individual’s name, and I doubt others who saw her emails have either. How much work she may have lost because of this can only be guessed. The tragedy of it was that she was “a pretty good writer”, as my deputy editor told me at the time.

The point I’m trying to make is – whatever happens – do your utmost not to be rude in your everyday dealings with editorial staff. It affects them; it affects others; it affects you – and your career. You see, you will get short thrift in this game. You will get ignored. You will get rejected. You will get rejected again. Even the nicest writers – which you all are because you read my blog – will have their patiences tested by the writing business. Swear at editors by all means – but only once you’ve put the phone down. Tell them to roll up their magazine and to stick it where the sun has never shone – but don’t go clicking ‘Send’ once you’ve done so. The publishing world is incestuous and gossipy. News spreads. Names are remembered. Try to bite your tongue and keep smiling and count to ten.

It would be hypocritical of me not to recount my own indiscretion at this point. I’d contacted an editor via email, introducing myself, with some ideas and clippings. I received a polite email back, thanking me, expressing interest in my work and proposals, and stating that the publication’s fee was £20 per 1,000 words. I in turn sent a polite email in return, thanking her for her time, but explaining that this amount was lower than my minimum rate (which was putting it mildly), and that I wouldn’t be able to accept any commissions.

“I must say I find your attitude disappointing,” she retorted. “In thirteen years as editor, I have never had a freelance writer decline to work for me because of money. All of my contributors write for the satisfaction of communicating essential information to people in need, and not for mercenary motivations.”

With what I felt to be nothing to lose, my response was swift and pungent, it didn’t half feel good, and I’ve never for a second regretted it.

Mostly it’s wrong to give in to the temptation to be rude. But perhaps sometimes it’s essential.

Mistake No. 18: ‘What do you think of this?’

2010-07-05T10:45:00.002+01:00

When you’re a writer – especially when you’re also a tutor or you offer advice or criticism to new and budding writers – you get a lot of people showing you their work. Some comes from acquaintances, or acquaintances of acquaintances, and some is from strangers.

Sometimes I’m happy and have time to help and usually I don’t mind being asked. But the key mistake so many writers make is sending work and asking ‘What do you think of this?’

I’ll be blunt. This is a frustrating question to be posed, because it unfairly puts the onus on the receiver to try to get inside the head of the writer and work out what they may really want to know and why they are asking for advice. Do they want praise? Do they want criticism? Do they want to be told where to send their writing? Do they want their spelling corrected? Do they want merely to be read by someone – anyone?

Make it easy for someone to give you feedback by telling them what feedback you are looking for. Don’t be shy. If you’ve been bold enough to make an approach, you may as well spit out what it is you’re after.

You don’t precisely know what it is you’re after? You say you just want some “general thoughts or comments”? Then I’m sorry but in that case you’ve not thought through what it is you are trying to achieve with your writing – where you’re ‘going’ with it, essentially.

Does the piece of writing have an aim, a destination? Is it an article for a magazine or paper, say? Is it a potential entry for a competition? Say so.

What advice or comment are you looking for? Do you want to know whether your grammar is up to scratch? Your article structure is logical? That your tone and ‘voice’ is right for your target market? Are you looking for reassurances of your writing strengths? For confirmation of your suspected weaknesses?

Think about these things. Think about what matters to you. Don’t ask dozens of questions: normally, just one or two is all that some generous, overworked scribing soul will be willing to answer (at least for free, anyway). Choose them carefully.

Being specific about your feedback requirements is more likely to earn you useful advice and pointers. You’ll also possibly get feedback on stuff you didn’t ask about.

Being vague and lazy will probably land you with little more than a “Yeah, that’s really good”, because that’s the easy, automatic response which doesn’t take much thought – and what use will that be to you?

Do ask your potential advisor to give it to you straight. Tell them you’re not afraid of criticism and can take it on the chin – even if this isn’t strictly true. Don’t, whatever you do, say “Go easy on me!” as those four words and light exclamation mark are likely to disarm them of any potent bullets of advice.

Don’t do it too much. Don’t forget to say please. Don’t beg. Be humble. Don’t send a reminder. Don’t stalk. Be very, very grateful for what you receive, even if it is only a tiny little bit. Don’t hate the writer if you’re ignored – because you are asking quite a big favour, especially if it’s of a stranger. Be very, very grateful for what you receive – did I already mention that?

Book review: The Writer's Handbook 2011

2010-06-13T21:35:00.004+01:00

‘The complete guide for all writers, publishers, editors, agents and broadcasters’ is back with a new edition – almost 800 dense pages of contacts, resources and advice. It’s for novelists, of course, and short-story writers too; poets, as well, and playwrights. But it’s what it has to offer non-fiction writers that concerns me for the purposes of this blog – and especially new writers. Worth it or not?

Yes – with a few reservations.

I’ll get my quibbles out of the way first. What has always slightly disappointed me with The Writer’s Handbook – and indeed its competitor, the Writers’ and Artists’ Yearbook – is the lack of much information about individual magazine and newspaper markets, besides the obvious essentials such as contact details.

Take the entry for MacUser. In its entirety it reads: “Launched 1985. Fortnightly computer magazine”. This is helpful only in that it confirms we’re not dealing with a journal aimed at Scottish drug addicts. Now I know, as I’m always telling my students, that you need to analyse the magazine anyway – however helpful the description may or may not be. But with the addition of some meatier facts – regular sections/columns, particular requirements, filler opportunities – I maintain the reader would be able to gauge much more reliably whether or not a market was worth exploring further.

I think it’s that these entries have the potential to be so much better that slightly frustrates. If you’ve ever seen the American Writer’s Market, you’ll know what I mean. Vast detailed entries, with tips from editors (including tips for writers looking to break in), and a breakdown of sections and requirements – all so, so useful. There are certainly signs that the WH has improved in this regard – as many entries are fairly substantial – but I for one would be willing to fork out another tenner to pay for the extra research that could flesh these resources pages out more fully.

Anyhow, quibble two: there’s nothing on copyright, it seems. I consider this to be the most important issue for writers everywhere, and it barely gets a mention. This really must be put right, I feel, and as a permanent fixture, not a one-off article. (There’s a copyright section coming to this blog soon, incidentally.)

Quibble three: the indexes. We have an index of entries and a subject index – but it seems not an index for subjects which are universally writerly, such as accounts, editing and copyright, some of which are covered by the pieces at the beginning of the book.

Quibble four: there’s nothing on writing for the internet.

Right. Glad that’s done.

I really enjoyed some of the articles. ‘Settling accounts’ by Ian Spring covers tax and VAT and expenses and more and is most practical.

Peggy Vance’s ‘Non-fiction: writing what you know’ made me laugh and nod in agreement – and furrow my brow and shake my head in disagreement too. It’s an unusual, mixed-bag of a piece, with occasional gems of advice – ‘Writer’s block simply isn’t an option’ – rubbing shoulders with the odd baffling untruth – ‘people who write non-fiction actually do something else’. There’s much wisdom about the publishing business here – especially when it concerns networking – and the value of no-frills writing is emphasised. But her sideswipe at aspirants who add the copyright symbol to their submissions leaves a little sour note on the tongue, merely serving to illuminate how regrettably widespread copyright ignorance is among the writing community (and also this book’s failure to cover the subject).

There’s reams of info for, er, non-non-fiction writers too. I don’t write poetry or screenplays or novels or short fiction or radio scripts, but mine is a never-say-never attitude, and perhaps one day in my old age I shall. For now, I like the warm feeling the fictional resources give me: there are seemingly abundant opportunities awaiting me in future decades should I choose to pursue them.

The book is super value for money – £15!

It’s a great book to read to generate ideas and find new outlets. Flicking through the magazine markets section, you find yourself mentally composing proposals to publications you’d never otherwise consider twice. This simply isn’t the case when you’re confronted with wall-to-wall magazines in WHSmith – which can on occasion render you instantly exhausted and overwhelmed when arriving on the back of a determined intention to seek out new markets. I think it’s because all you see are covers at the newsagent, and covers are concerned with image and photography and design and colour, and we writers are concerned with words and words only. The WH makes you ask: Why not submit an idea to Car Mechanics, to Caravan Magazine, to Cat World? And I like it for it.

Ultimately, credit has to go to long-standing editor Barry Turner for pulling this generous resource together. I’ve written a few books myself, but I still took a lot from his ‘So you want to be an author?’ introductory article, which really does offer the new writer the nuts and bolts of the book publishing business.

There’s a lot of ‘no serious writer should be without it’ talk that comes with books like the WH and the WAYB, but I know lots of proper writers who’ve never heard of either book, let alone seen them, so they’re not essential. But I do think, if you’re a new or newish writer, you should absolutely buy it – if only for reasons I gave in my previous Mistake.

The Writer’s Handbook 2011 (Ed. Barry Turner) (£14.99, Palgrave Macmillan)

Footnote: my original intention here was to write a double ‘compare and contrast’ review with the WAYB, but A&C Black don’t send out advance review copies of the latter and I’m too impatient to wait for publication (it’s out 30th June). I’d be interested in your thoughts over coming weeks and months on which of the two is better, and why you buy one, or the other, or indeed both.

Mistake No. 17: Not investing in your career

2010-06-04T00:10:00.002+01:00

I want to say upfront that in my experience British people are not cheap. They are quite happy to spend money on holidays, on home improvements, on clothes, on gadgets, on cars, on … pretty much anything. And they don’t only treat themselves. Brits are notoriously generous when it comes to, say, Christmas gifts and giving to charities and fundraisers. Furthermore, although I’m not a widely travelled man, I have been around Europe a bit, and in my experience it is in Britain where you’re most likely to have a drink bought for you at the bar by a friend of a friend or someone you’ve only just met. So far, so uncheap.

So, what I can’t help wondering is this: why are some writers so tight on themselves when it comes to their careers?

Because, I’m afraid, some really are. “Magazines are so expensive” is a moan I’ve heard a little too often. No, they’re really not expensive. Magazines are very cheap. Most magazines, even glossies, fall between £2 and £4. Yours magazine is £1. Chat is 80p. That’s Life! is 68p. Newspapers are often as cheap, if not cheaper.

Writers: these are your markets. You have to load up on them and familiarise yourself with them. Something I often advise students to do is to take £10 into a newsagent and spend it on a mix of publications. Most of us wouldn’t think twice of spending even double that amount at a bar on a round of drinks for friends – so why baulk at doing likewise at WHSmith for the good of your writing ambitions?

It doesn’t stop at magazines. Books, too, are often not deemed worthy of spending a tenner on. Something like The Writer’s Handbook (review coming soon) is a very useful tome, which will give you change from £15 (albeit only 1p). You’ll consult it hundreds of times over the year and beyond. Look upon it as a few pennies for each referral. Worth it? Yes, worth it.

Critiques, too. I’m often surprised at how few new writers invest in a good appraisal of their work from an experienced writer. It’s possibly more applicable to budding novelists and poets, but non-fiction writers who don’t feel they are making progress with their work would do well to consider the option. It’s not expensive. I’d be unlikely to charge you more than £20 per 1,000 words. Again, a round in the pub.

To be clear, I’m not saying go out and spend casually and thoughtlessly. Think about the research you need to do and markets you should explore. And if you’re really skint, there are economical options. You can ask friends and neighbours for copies of magazines they’re throwing out. Charity shops will have useful reference books. There’s no greater dampener of creativity than being on the breadline and worrying about your income, I know. I have been there several times during the last fifteen years, and it’s a horrid place to be – rooting around for stuff to sell on eBay, checking up forgotten Premium Bond numbers, hands groping down the back of the sofa… Not much fun. And if that’s you, then do get yourself financially sorted a bit before you invest in your writing.

But if it’s not, and you have a few notes in your wallet or purse, then do go out and spend them. It will be worth it.

Mistake No. 16: Admitting ignorance

2010-05-25T21:39:00.001+01:00

A weird one this, but I’ve seen it a fair bit, so thought it deserved a few lines.

As a writer, you must be authoritative. You might not be an expert in the subject about which you are writing, but for the duration of those 800 or 1,200 words, you need to act as if you are. Readers are generous: at the start of an article, they have absolute confidence in you. Your task is to never allow this to waver.

One of the ways some new writers erode this confidence is by admitting to lack of research or by implying, often inadvertently, that they’re ignorant of the facts.

“I suppose it could be that… or it’s possible that…”
“This writer hasn’t checked the full details of the case, but …”
“Who knows – perhaps it’s something to do with…”

These sorts of expressions are unlikely to have a place in any non-fiction work, but I see them not infrequently.

I don’t feel you can speculate about something unless you are certain the issue is in doubt. So in my view you first need to check whether or not it is. By all means speculate reasonably about the year in which an old building was built – but only once you’ve confirmed with the local historian that nobody knows for certain when that year was.

So, if it isn’t known, say so – and by all means discuss the possibilities.

If it is known, then obviously just state the fact.

But if you can’t find out whether the answer is known or unknown, it’s probably better to omit mentioning it at all. If you get it wrong, you can bet your bottom that a reader will pounce to correct you on the letters page. Good for the letters page; neither here nor there for the editor; not good for you and your reputation.

Ultimately, it boils down to doing your research. Often, you need to dig deeper into your subject than you might think. This may mean you end up with enough material for a 5,000-word article when you’re only writing a 1,200-word article. But that’s the writer’s life – and that extra material will come in handy one day, trust me.

Mistake No. 15: Ampersand Anarchy

2010-05-19T20:58:00.003+01:00

Okay, it’s a pet hate, but it’s still wrong, and you really shouldn’t do it.

This is the ampersand: &. It is stylised from the Latin word for and, which is et.

It has very specific uses, and almost always exclusively in the context of proper names, such as in company names, in an artistic collaboration, or perhaps an academic reference. Marks & Spencer. Emerson, Lake & Palmer. Ant & Dec. You get the idea.

To me, it implies a slightly stronger, more committed union than might an ordinary ‘and’ so you shouldn’t use it to join two names unless you are sure that the ‘marriage’ is official and the ampersand has been adopted by the parties involved.

When not to use it:

a/ in any standard sentence with an ‘and’ used as a conjunction;
b/ within a list (eg red, yellow, blue & green);
c/ in a pair (salt & vinegar);
d/ &c – meaning etc.;
e/ (Chief Pet Hate) as a substitute for any occurrence of an ‘and’ string in a word – such as s&castle, st&ndoff or, indeed, ampers&.

There are more crimes but my head would erupt in an Eyjafjallajökullian manner were I to continue.

I guess there’s one exception. And that is when you have a long list of items, one or more of which are, for want of a much better word, ‘anded’. So I might let this one pass, although I’m still not overly keen:

We ate sandwiches, bubble & squeak, prawn salad, fish & chips, cake and ice cream.

Here, I guess the ampersands additionally tell you that that you’ve not reached the end of the list yet while the ‘and’ tells you you’re about to. But I’m still fuming subtly from a side vent…

Ought I dehuff a bit, do you think?

Mistake No. 14: Unfinished business

2010-05-14T11:38:00.003+01:00

“Make sure you complete things,” says motoring journalist and author Maria McCarthy, who also runs writing workshops and classes. “Don’t have lots of ‘beginnings’ stuffed in drawers.”

The second I came across this tip I realised it was a winner. Maria was referring to fiction, as it happens, but it could easily be applied to works of non-fiction – proposals, articles, essays.

It’s easy to leave work unfinished, to get sidetracked by something else which you find just a bit more interesting, especially when you have assorted projects on the go, and also when you fear the work will be difficult to complete.

I know from what my students tell me, when I make enquiries about former (and very good) ideas that they’ve had, that up and down the land there must be decent articles lying unfinished in pending trays, book proposals sitting dormant on some sleepy hard drive and, yes, drawers bursting with scribbled-on outlines being ignored. “I’ve put it on the backburner for now,” they say.

This isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Sometimes you need to step away from ideas, let them simmer and stew, and turn your attention to other matters. But it is a mistake to allow yourself to give up on something and never revisit it. If you’ve forgotten it even exists, then you’ve left it too long. If you’ve been putting it off over and over and over again because it’s Just Too Hard – then you’re letting it defeat you.

Go back to these ideas, wherever you keep them. Perhaps set aside an hour a month to go through old abandoned notes and intimidating projects. If you’ve been doing this writing lark as long as I have, you’ll have dozens that have slipped through the memory net, and which you might now be motivated or bold enough to complete.

Why is it worth it? It’ll make you feel good. Succeeding in making an old idea work is a bit like stumbling across a shirt still price-tagged at the back of your wardrobe, which you wondered why you bought at the time, but suddenly suits your mood perfectly. It’ll teach you that even an old idea can come to fruition. It’ll teach you that the time spent on something you set aside now – for whatever reason – will never have been wasted, as its time will come.

The sense of nostalgia is nice too – it’s always curious to reflect on the kinds of ideas you were working on during an earlier stage of your career and appreciate how you’ve veered off into assorted unlikely directions since.

And if it’s something tough or challenging, completing it is extremely satisfying. The more you do it, the more likely you’ll want to experience that feeling again and again, and the less likely you’ll set stuff aside because it’s so tough. Simply, you’ll become a better writer.

Open those drawers. Destuff them at once.

Mistake No. 13: Loose brackets

2010-05-06T13:39:00.003+01:00

So: round brackets, properly known as parentheses. What are they used for?

* to offer the reader an aside (which is a thoughtful thing to do);
* to give an unimportant piece of information (in which only a few readers may be interested);
* to offer extra information (such as a fuller explanation of a term or unusual word);
* to enclose an afterthought or observation which is witty (or not so witty!);
* to provide an example (such as this!);
* to enclose alternative terms (ie expressions or names);
* to point out there are other options (or choices);
* to give a translation of a foreign mot (word).

There are many others, of course, such as to contain birth and death dates of a named individual, and to enclose an acronym of a body you’ve just mentioned.

So far, so good. The mistakes, when they come, usually concern punctuation. To avoid most of them, there is a golden rule: the article and every sentence in which your parentheses are contained should remain punctuated correctly were you to remove the parentheses and their contents.

Here’s an example:

This is a sentence, (which contains fourteen words), but it is punctuated badly.

Remove the brackets and their contents and you’re left with:

This is a sentence, , but it is punctuated badly.

Yes it is. You need to lose one of those commas, and although it may seem counter-intuitive, in such an instance it should be the first of the two to get the chop:

This is a sentence (which contains fourteen words), and it is punctuated correctly.

Repeating the bracket-removal job:

This is a sentence, and it is punctuated correctly.

Which is fine. Arguably, you could lose the other comma as well.

Here’s one with brackets at the end of a sentence:

This is another example (an important one!).

Many writers would not insert that final full stop, but you do need it, because without it, and without the brackets and its contents, you’d have an unpunctuated sentence.

If it’s a whole sentence, keep punctuation inside:

(This is another important example.)

And if you were to remove that, then the article would remain punctuated correctly, because you’ve merely lost a whole line. And that’s the golden rule in action again.

As for usage and style… well, some writers use brackets frequently and some hardly ever. Some are snobby about them, feeling them unnecessary and affected, but there are brilliant writers who love them (the journalist Zoe Williams, for instance).

If you find yourself using lots, perhaps consider rewriting a few sentences in such a way that you no longer need them.

If you can, avoid them in the first and second paragraphs when you’re establishing the article and you shouldn’t be distracting the reader with subsidiary information.

Don’t later refer to something you previously only referred to in parentheses (unless, of course, the reference is again in parentheses). (The only counter-example I can think of is when you refer to an organisation with a long unwieldy name, offer an acronym within brackets, and in later references use the acronym. Let me know if you can think of others.)

Essentially, your sentences and your article should not be ‘aware’ of what you put between brackets; they should stand independently of them.

I think that’s it. (Sorry, much longer than originally intended.) (And far too many brackets too.)

Mistake No. 12: “I can’t write for Yachting Monthly!”

2010-04-30T17:05:00.003+01:00

Or Dog’s World. Or Hair Today. Or any other number of specialist titles which make up the bulk of publications you find at major newsagents, in the areas of cars, computing, horses, classical music, crafts, genealogy, religion, gardening and the rest.

Wrong. You can.

I often encourage students and new writers to consider these specialist markets because they’re far more accessible, less likely to be targeted by established journalists, and will be more welcoming to approaches from newbies. (I’ve outlined some in my UK / Ireland Markets page.)

“But I don’t know a thing about bass guitar / cake decorating / horseriding!”

Perhaps not. Neither do I. But what if you were to set yourself a goal to come up with an idea for every specialist magazine you could lay your hands on – irrespective of whether or not you felt you knew something about its subject matter?

Someone is already doing this. He’s a journalist, writing semi-anonymously, and he’s cataloguing his efforts to propose article ideas to every publication in the Writers’ and Artists’ Yearbook at his witty and informative blog, Pitching the World. Why not take a leaf out of his book?

One possible technique is to take what you do know and try to tailor ideas based on that subject to specialist magazines.

I know a bit about nutrition. I normally write for health magazines, women’s magazines, parenting magazines, and health sections of papers, but what if I were to push myself to come up with ideas for less general titles?

Let’s take a dog journal. Perhaps nutrition for dogs? Sounds like a potential subject, but too broad in itself. Something more specific, then. How about a piece on nutrition for pregnant bitches? Or on the changes in dogs’ nutritional needs according to the seasons? Or great / bad foods for dogs? Or diet for dogs who are poorly or inactive? Or weight-loss diets for overweight / spoiled dogs? Or ‘detox’ for dogs? Or…

You get the picture. Just by picking your subject, applying it to a specific market, and a bit of brainstorming, perhaps adapting one idea to generate or inspire the next, you can come up with a chain of potential features. In all these cases, a case study and a few quotes from a few vets and bingo, you’ve got an article. You don’t need to know anything much about dogs. You’ll be speaking to people who know plenty.

And, with a bit of obvious tweaking, all those ideas would possibly work for a horse magazine, a cat magazine… And so on.

And a yachting magazine? How about an article advising on the food you should take on a yachting trip? Or a piece on nutrition for people preparing for a yachting race?

A hair magazine? ‘Ten Top Foods for Lustrous Locks’?

And so on.

As I say in my article Finding Markets, begin to cultivate the idea that every publication is a potential outlet for your work.

It’s a mistake, then, to rule out any market. And I think it’s a big one, which too many beginners make.

I’ll be writing more about generating ideas shortly, but in the meantime, I’d advise you approach those shelves at your local newsagent which you normally dismiss, and begin to browse closely. Very closely.

Mistake No. 11: Of untils, tills, ‘tills, tils and ‘tils

2010-04-26T22:28:00.004+01:00

I suppose it had to happen. Not that I considered myself immune – far from it. But mine’s a daft mistake – and it’s one that I’ve been making for some years. Worse: I’ve been inflicting it pretty much exclusively on my poor students. As if they’ve not suffered enough.

The word “till” is an acceptable synonym for “until”. So says Bill Bryson, in his brilliant book, Troublesome Words. So says the BBC World Service, and every style guide and thesaurus I can be bothered to check online. Most authoritatively, so says the Oxford English Dictionary.

However your blogger, fool that he is, has been saying just the opposite. Indeed, I’ve been striking through any incidence of “till” and replacing it with “until” on my students’ papers since the dawn of day one, having always assumed “till” to be a semi-literate man’s choice of preposition or subordinating conjunction, tolerable in speech but unfit for print. Repeat ‘offenders’ would earn themselves an “until!” by their third misdemeanour, and come the fifth or sixth a shouty “UNTIL!”, quite possibly underscored with double-lined exasperation.

Oh I really am very very sorry.

This, I guess, is a Mistake Tutors Make (there’s a vengeful blog in the making…). Actually, it’s probably a Mistake Tutor Makes, because I suspect there is only one who has thus erred, that one is transparently me, and it would be unfair to tarnish by association the good names of my colleagues, such as Penny or Sue or those whose sites you can find by referring to Writing Blogs on the right, and to whom I wouldn’t now blame you for turning and remaining turned.

If you’re still with me, the Mistake Writers Make, albeit only occasionally in my experience, is to write “til”. Either that or they introduce an incongruous apostrophe – ie ’til or ’till. I’ll defer to BB on this latter pair: “The second two are illiterate.”

Not to detract from my contrition, but I can’t stop strongly preferring “until”, and I can’t pretend to be fond of “till”, which still looks sloppy and slangy to my evidently snobby eye. But I’ll obviously accept it when I come across it, and try to come to like it a bit in time. It’d be the least it deserves: etymologically, “till” predates “until”.

Meanwhile, the microwave has pinged and nuked humble pie beckons. Till next time, folks… till next time.

Mistake No. 10: Mentioning your research

2010-04-20T16:31:00.003+01:00

This will be obvious and second nature to many of you, but I see it often enough to justify an entry.

Let’s take this extract from a fictitious article intended for a health magazine:

When I spoke to dietitian Victoria Plum on the telephone, and asked her what she thought of the study into the nutritional properties of the long-forgotten fnoogleberry, she said, “Its extremely high vitamin Q content means it may help ease the symptoms of Boggle’s Disease.”

Later that day, a helpful local librarian used an online search to find me an earlier study published in the Herbal Tymes, which told me that the berry has aphrodisiac properties too.

The problems should be obvious to you. Your readers are unlikely to care which questions you ask an interviewee, or what medium you use to do so, or when you learn a fact, or who helps you locate it, or how. Your research should remain hidden to them. They merely want its results. So:

Dietitian Victoria Plum is an international authority on rare fruit. “The fnoogleberry’s extremely high vitamin Q content means it may help ease the symptoms of Boggle’s Disease,” she says.

And that’s not all. According to a study published in the Herbal Tymes in 1964, the berry has aphrodisiac properties too.

Don’t mention yourself at all. Say what you need to say and say no more.

I’ve exaggerated for effect, of course, and I’m sure you’re thinking you’d never make such mistakes, but sometimes the slip-up can be so much subtler and therefore easily done and easily missed:

A quick look in An Encyclopaedia of Fruit Facts confirms fnoogleberries have only 14 calories per 100g.

Again, the reader doesn’t need to know that all it took was ‘a quick look’. Instead:

According to An Encyclopaedia of Fruit Facts, fnoogleberries have only 14 calories per 100g.

I’ve been trying to come up with an everyday or uncontrived example where ignoring this advice may be acceptable or even preferable. But I can’t. Over to you.

Mistake No. 9: “I can do better than that!”

2010-04-13T14:22:00.003+01:00

You’re reading – a book, an article. And you hate it. “I can do better than that!” you sneer, tossing it aside. That’s not the mistake. The mistake is not letting your response go. Let me explain…

Rubbish occasionally gets published. Does that surprise you? It shouldn’t. Bad songs get recorded and sung, bad art gets painted and hung, bad writing gets penned and printed.

If you read as much material as you should be reading as an aspiring writer (more on that later), then you will, not infrequently, come across some of this rubbish. An “I can do better than that!” response is understandable, fair and doubtless accurate. But taking that feeling to your keyboard, using poor work to inspire and motivate you, even basing a writing goal on it… all that is, I think, inadvisable.

Ask yourself this: do you want to write something which is good – or do you want to write something which is merely better than bad?

If you read a bad book, it’s more than likely to be by an author who has written several, possibly very good books, and has merely had an ‘off day’ with his latest. The publisher may have made the best of it, and still went ahead and printed. After all, if the writer has a track record, it’ll probably still sell.

If you read a bad article, it will certainly be by a writer or journalist who has a healthy portfolio of perfectly competent work. This time, though, something went wrong. They had other pressing deadlines demanding their attention. They were unwell and turned in half-hearted material. They couldn’t get the answers they needed and made the best of it. Why, you may wonder, did the editor print the piece regardless? Probably because there was a gap to fill and that was all that was available to fill it. It happens.

Go back to the author’s first and second books. Go find earlier examples of the journalist’s articles. Chances are they’ll all be good. Say “I can do better than that!” about all those. Aim for a higher standard, and be inspired by what you admire, not loathe. Even if you miss your loftier target, you’ll achieve more than you would’ve achieved by aiming for something merely better than bad. If you don’t already have it, begin to cultivate the attitude that you can do better than something that is good. Realise, too, that before you can get away with occasionally being average or – whisper it – bad, you first need to be good.

A lot of new writers tell me they think they could be a writer because they can do better than some of the rubbish they read. If you’re just starting out, please abandon this philosophy. Doing so will stand you in good stead.

Mistake No. 8: Putting your reader second… (behind your interviewee)

2010-04-06T10:51:00.004+01:00

“The most important thing was to write a piece that my interviewee would be completely happy with,” was what a writer told a colleague of mine a while ago, regarding a sculptor she was profiling for an arts journal.

I’m sure the final piece was excellent, but I couldn’t help feeling this attitude was a mistake.

As a writer, your first duty is to your reader – not to your subject.

When you interview someone, your approach should be to ask questions to which you think your reader will want answers – not necessarily questions which the interviewee may want to be asked and which might allow them to portray themselves in a perfect light.

They may be old and frail; they may be sweet and gentle; they may be offering you tea and Fondant Fancies. I’m afraid it doesn’t matter – not even if they’re the lemony ones. What you can’t do is to shy from questions that need to be asked.

If, for instance, your interviewee’s work has been criticised, then you should address this – for example, by asking how the criticism made them feel or how they dealt with it. Avoiding the subject because it may further upset them is weak.

Ask several ‘nice’ questions, by all means – then ask the odd tougher question too.

But asking questions isn’t enough. You need to incorporate answers into your piece. If you catch yourself editing or omitting material because your subject “might be upset by it” or you begin imagining your interviewee’s head resting heavily on your shoulder, glaring disapprovingly as you write, then you’re in trouble.

I’m not suggesting a stitch-up job. I’m suggesting you have to be as impartial, fair and objective as you can be.

This doesn’t mean you can’t plug the interviewee’s book or exhibition or whatever project it is they may be promoting – but it does have to be relevant to the reader. Agreeing when asked if you could squeeze in a quick mention of your subject’s new sideline in organic jam-making is likely to be a big no-no.

You don’t only owe it to your reader. You owe it to your editor – who is, remember, paying you to ask questions on behalf of the reader.

And you also owe it to yourself. Asking difficult questions and delivering to the reader will improve your interviewing and writing skills, earn you respect – and make your work more compelling to read.

Mistake No. 7: Accepting “we have no budget”

2010-03-28T16:09:00.004+01:00

I often advise new students to start modestly with local papers, local magazines and other niche or humble titles. It helps build up confidence, gets you into the habit of writing regularly, boosts your research skills… and so on. You’ll also probably get useful feedback from editors with whom you’re working.

Often, small publications may offer nothing more than a free copy of the issue in which your work appears, and the pleasure of seeing your name and work in print. “We have no budget, I’m afraid,” the editor may solemnly tell you.

What they probably mean is they have no allocated budget for freelance writers. Perhaps most of their material is produced in-house. Perhaps their local celebrity columnist is charging them too much.

Or perhaps they’re just saying that to see whether you’ll agree to donate your work for free. I don’t want to make you distrustful of editors, or paint them all as unscrupulous, but some editors, seeing you as a new writer, may tell you they can’t pay you when, actually, they could. And in their defence, it’s merely a business move. If there’s a chance they can get something good for free, why fork out for it? There’s always something else on which to spend the budget.

Because there is a budget, mark my words. No publication has no budget. It may be a shoestring budget. It may only be a tin of petty cash. But there’s always something in the kitty. Staff wages, printers, postage, stationery, utility bills – all these have to be paid for. And there is income to pay for it all, obviously – advertising revenue, mainly. So, unless all concerned are working generously for some charitable cause, money is changing hands. Can you get your paws on some of it?

I am not saying never work for nothing. Sometimes, to get clippings, you might need to. I’m not suggesting you imply the editor is lying. Sometimes, an editor really has been given no money to spend by his bosses at all, and it’s difficult to know when this may be the case.

What I am saying is that if you’ve done several pieces of work for a client for free, then it’s time to ask for a fee and time consider moving on if you get a “We have no budget”. In this situation, it may be a good tactic to call that possible bluff. I’ve heard a number of stories of writers giving notice of their services, and a little money – even if only £50 – being suddenly and miraculously found. Don’t be afraid to try it.

And if you’ve got a strong one-off feature idea, and you’re in a strong position to write it, then you’re in a strong position to negotiate a price for it. If you get a “We have no budget” in such an instance – I’d advise you to try elsewhere.

Mistake No. 6: Not looking up familiar words

2010-03-23T11:21:00.004Z

It’s easy to assume a word with which you’ve been familiar for years means exactly what you’ve always taken it to mean.

Maybe you first came across the word in a slightly ambiguous context. Maybe nobody has ever corrected you when you’ve used it. Maybe they didn’t know either. Maybe you’ve just not given it much thought.

Most people refer to dictionaries to check spellings or unfamiliar words, but looking up less unusual words can prove a fruitful exercise. Here are some examples of words I often see misused, to illustrate what I mean:

Contemporary
Does not (necessarily) mean: modern
Does mean: of the period or age in question

Electrocute
Does not mean: receive or give an electric shock
Does mean: kill through an electric shock

Enormity
Does not mean: largeness, massiveness, scale
Does mean: evil, something monstrous, wicked

Infer
Does not mean: imply, hint at
Does mean: deduce from evidence

Random
Does not mean: unusual
Does mean: by chance / without choice

Refute
Does not mean: deny
Does mean: show to be false / disprove

Consulting – and browsing through – a dictionary can boost your word power. Do it. And let me know what you learn.

Mistake No. 5: Designing

2010-03-17T15:36:00.005Z

You’re a writer not a designer. You work with words not a palette of colours. Your business is text not image.

What follows has been partly inspired by Julie Phillips, author of the Article Antics blog, and Diane Perry of the Working 2 Write blog. Julie recently posted here that her writing tutor had asked her to capitalise the first word of her articles. Not unreasonably, she wondered why. Diane, in response, also wondered why.

Why indeed. I have no clue. I’m open to enlightenment, but I remain in the dark. So until such illumination descends, I’d strongly advise against it. Although capping up a word isn’t the most exaggerated of aesthetic touches that can be applied to articles, I’d still urge you to avoid it or any other artistic affectations in your work, be they dramatic or subtle. Editors dislike them. Quite a lot.

Just because your font library boasts Palatino Linotype does not mean ‘What the hell – may as well give it a whirl!’ is an appropriate response. Engraved and embossed cyan text may sound pretty, but not to a frazzled editor with strained eyesight and scratched bifocals. Watermarks? No. And ditto clip art. No boxes with borders and shading. No drop capitals. For the love of heaven please please no dingbats or I’ll cry.

I don’t mean to be unkind, but if you fuss about with the design you risk giving the impression you’re all image and no substance. It’s just a bit distracting and amateurish.

There’s nothing intrinsically wrong with all these effects, you understand. If you want to use them in emails to friends, in the newsletter you send out to relatives abroad, even on your blog – fine. But these are all occasions when you’re both a writer and a designer. All publications have their own designers – and you’re not one of them. Let those who are do their job.

So, here’s what I think. Roman 12pt font throughout, black (always black), single spacing if sending by email, double spacing if hard copy, a line between paragraphs, no indenting, four one-inch margins. Bold for titles and sub-headings if you like. Italics in exceptional circumstances (but don’t italicise quotes; just put them in inverted commas). If you have sidebars or box-outs add them to the end of the article, and treat each as an extra paragraph with a sub-heading of ‘Sidebar’. If sending by snail mail use nice white sheets (no less than 90gsm) and envelopes which don’t look cheap.

A neat professional image. That’s all you need project.

Of course there are exceptions: photography, if requested and/or applicable, can be sent (but separately); ditto other graphics or line-drawings, if you’re talented and qualified to provide them.

But on the whole, you’re a wordsmith and so aim for smart simplicity of presentation.

And remember they’re called bullet points not cute-little-orange-butterfly points for a reason.

Mistake No. 4: ‘Something for everyone’

2010-03-12T18:15:00.005Z

So here’s a fictitious and slightly OTT example of something I used to do a lot, still slip up on occasionally, and see a bit in the work of new writers, especially in travel articles.

“Nicetown-on-Sea has something for everyone… Foodies will drool over the delights at Pedro’s continental deli on the High Street, but if you hate posh nosh that smells of old socks, McDonalds is open 24/7 just next door. There’s a terrific museum for art lovers too, but if you want somewhere to amuse the kids, how about the fifty-hole crazy golf course? Or if you’re down for a weekend stag do, head to Venus’s Nightclub where the bouncers are mean and the dancers are … ”

And that’s enough of that. But you get my drift. Trying to offer something for everyone is a kind intention – yet the problem is that not ‘everyone’ is reading. And it’s not that the articles I see are necessarily poor – far from it. They’re often energetic and enthusiastic – ideal style for a travel piece. But in trying to convey their passion about a place, writers sometimes lose sight of whom they’re addressing. Easily, easily done.

So who is reading? Male or female? Parent or grandparent – or neither? Working class or middle? Outgoing or reserved? Single or partnered? While there are a few publications with a broad, mixed readership, most have a firm idea who their ‘typical’ customer is. And if the feature content can’t precisely tell you, the ads certainly will. Country retreats or Club 18-30? Junk food or diet food? Stair-lifts or face-lifts?

This blog is aimed at those just starting out in non-fiction and writing for magazines, especially those doing correspondence courses in their spare time. But I hope fiction writers and journalists, for instance, may occasionally drop by and leave a comment or pick up something useful too. While I would never want to alienate or exclude the latter group, I still want to address the former.

Apply a similar strategy when composing an article. While remaining aware of others who may be out there, make the typical reader feel as if you’re talking directly to them, not a wide and mixed audience. Imagine them peering over your shoulder occasionally when you write. If that’s too off-putting, take a few minutes to have a final read-through through his or her eyes. Become them. Demand that every line you’ve written be relevant to ‘you’. If not, adjust. Simple.

Mistake No. 3: Writing Every Day

2010-03-09T13:33:00.004Z

I’ve been coming across this one a lot lately. Writers comparing their ‘writing’ muscle to a physical muscle – that is, you’ve got to keep working it to keep it in tip-top shape – and worrying that if they don’t write daily, that muscle will atrophy. And only yesterday, writer Daniel H Pink posted his ‘7 Rules for Writing’ on his website, one of which was: “Write every day. Regaining momentum takes three times as much energy as sustaining momentum.”

Do you agree?

My view is that the muscular or physical analogy is in many ways a good one, in that the more you write, the stronger you get at it. But where it fails a bit is that, as any athlete will tell you, you need rest days to allow recovery – especially following a tough workout.

If, after several days’ hard graft, squinting at the flickering PC screen, hammering your keyboard with now bruised fingertips, bottom turning to fossil fuel on your unforgiving chair, you feel you need a break – then take one.

And if you do subscribe to the writing-daily school of thought, there are other ways to keep your writing muscle moving – send a postcard to a friend, write a letter to a relative, make a list of errands you need to run, cook up a new dish and write the recipe as you go along. You could look upon this as light stretching or relaxing yoga or massage – what marathon runners might do the day after 26 miles of pounding the streets.

And if like me you don’t subscribe to that school, then do nothing writerly at all. Shops, cinema, beer, football. Go do what you do. Your writing muscle won’t disappear. You’ll come back itching to get going again, refreshed and invigorated.

I’ve come to the conclusion now that I prefer the ‘riding a bike’ analogy – you never forget how to write. You may have a few wobbles early on, but once you’re settled back in the saddle, you’ll be pedalling with a very familiar energy and momentum indeed.

Mistake No. 2: Thinking It’s All Writing

2010-03-06T21:06:00.004Z

Yes, writers write. But writers do a lot, lot more. You have to feed your writing. From where do writers obtain that fuel?

Writers read. I’ll be returning to this subject, as it’s so important, but it’s a huge mistake to not read. Often I’m amazed when people tell me they want to write for papers and magazines – yet breezily admit they don’t read any. It’s natural to be so enthused about writing that you feel you have no time for reading – but reading gives you ideas and information, and if you don’t do it you’ll run out of things to say, and soon. It’s equally okay to fear that if you do read you’ll subconsciously take on other writers’ styles rather than develop your own – but to some extent this is partly unavoidable, as your style, whatever it may develop into, is likely to be a particular, ever-changing blend of elements of all the writing you have read before, and hence a concoction which is always going to be unique to you.

Writers talk. To each other, to experts, to members of the public. To themselves. (“Just me? No, Alex, not just you.”) For all the reasons I mentioned in Mistake No. 1.

Writers research. How else are you going to get your facts? Of course you have loads in your head, as you’re a very clever person indeed, but you’ll quite quickly run out. More reading, more talking, more sniffing, more digging, more discovering... You must do all.

Writers think. Yes, in the bath; yes, lying in bed; yes, in the queue at the supermarket. But I’m inclined to think most writers do their thinking in front of their screens, either just staring at the words before them, or idly gazing through the window.

And writers do admin. Invoicing, filing, taxation, banking. Not as glamorous as you thought, huh?

Mistake No. 1: Believing You Can DIY

2010-02-28T20:32:00.001Z

A lot of people love the idea of becoming a writer – and why not. It’s satisfying, stimulating, fulfilling, fun, and every day is different.

When you tell people this, you often spot a twinkle of excitement in their eyes. “I’m going to have a go too!” they tell you, and you smile, and try to gently steer them towards a correspondence course, or journalism course, or a good book about writing for publication, or just explain a few ground rules of the game.

But when they start to lose interest in what you’re advising, and they go “Yeah, yeah” a bit but not really mean it, and then enthuse about the column they’re going to send off to the editor of the Times tomorrow, you know you’ve got a DIYer on your hands.

You can’t Do It Yourself in this business. There’s no shame at all in thinking you can – but you really, really can’t.

Here are some of the people you might need: fellow new writers, journalists, authors, editors, press officers, librarians, members of the public, spokespeople, experts, professionals.

Here are some of the reasons why you need them: support, feedback, opinion, information, knowledge, expertise, quotes, guidance, tips.

Writing is a team sport. Every day I get advice from other journalists, facts and viewpoints from health experts, key information from books written by knowledgeable authors…

As you progress, you’ll discover who you need and what you need from them, and I hope one of the resources you come to find indispensable is this, the Mistakes Writers Make blog.

Onwards!