The Puppet Spell author, Emma Adams, chats about singing Disney and writing YA

February 6, 2013 by sharonsant

As promised, the second of my guests, the lovely Emma Adams, writes about what started her on the road to writing and why she loves YA. The floor’s yours, Emma…

I was a strange child. I never wanted to talk with the other kids. I had a couple of close friends, and we spent most inventing bizarre games with complicated rules no one else could understand. Really, it was inevitable that I’d go on to write fiction.

When I was ten, I was writing for people my own age. And they liked it. I loved being picked to read out my writing. Then secondary school happened. Suddenly, writing for fun was no longer an option. I found it hard to fit in, and people thought I was odd because I preferred to sit in a corner with a book rather than go outside. All everyone else seemed to want to do was to grow up as quickly as possible. But I wanted to be a writer.

My teachers insisted I needed to think of a ‘real’ career. Books were my only escape, and even as I struggled awkwardly through adolescence, I knew I never really wanted to grow up. And that’s why I continue to write books for children and young adults. I want to live in that world where endless possibility exists, and hasn’t been stamped out by the Real World. I want to fight against the imperative to ‘grow up’, because it isn’t something that necessarily means being happier. University has been the best time of my life, and I think that’s because it’s like an extended childhood. Where else do you find yourself singing Disney songs at the pizza take-out at four in the morning?

I think that’s why I chose a university setting for my next book series – a young adult/new adult supernatural fantasy series. Writing for teens gives more scope to explore those essential life decisions and at twenty-one, I’m still going through the same thing myself! As a young adult you’re discovering who you are and what you want to do, and there are endless possibilities. Above all it’s about exploring boundaries, whatever the genre – between human and non-human, real and unreal, life and death. YA voices aren’t jaded by experience, and I think that’s one of the reasons it appeals even to adults. I want to read and write books that excite me, because I want to be excited by life. That’s what YA fiction gives us, and that’s why it’s here to stay!

About the Author:

Emma Adams is 21-year-old author of THE PUPPET SPELL, a quirky YA fantasy published by Rowanvale Books. She is currently studying English Literature with Creative Writing at Lancaster University whilst writing the sequel and also working on the creepy paranormal Darkworld series. Check out her fab blog about her writing journey, where she posts weekly updates and writing tips, and also regular book reviews and features.

Author Jack Croxall talks about writing YA

February 2, 2013 by sharonsant

Regular visitors may notice I’ve decorated. This is in honour of my blog guests for February. To start the series off, Tethers author Jack Croxall talks about how Will and Lyra ignited his passion for YA fiction. I’ve been looking forward to Jack’s Victoriana feast for a while now, so I’m thrilled that he’s now ready to release and that he’s popped into my blog home today. Take it away, Jack…

Why I love (and write in) the YA genre ‒ Jack Croxall

I remember the moment I first wanted to become a writer. I was sitting in my early-teenage bedroom reading The Amber Spyglass between stints of homework, GameCube and playing electric guitar badly, when *spoiler alert* star-crossed adolescents Lyra and Will were forced into parallel universes never to see each other again.

Before starting the His Dark Materials trilogy I had bypassed the YA genre completely, instead choosing to graduate straight from children’s books to novels aimed at adults. With the benefit of hindsight, I suppose I’d done this in some misguided attempt to appear cool to the opposite sex but, thankfully, Philip Pullman’s books were knocking about the house for some reason and one day they just happened to catch my eye.

I was not ready for the heartbreaking ending of The Amber Spyglass. It got to me in a way that nothing I had ever read/watched had done before. I’d identified with the characters early on and, although I didn’t fully appreciate all of the complex themes the books explored at the time, the plot had drawn me in hook, line and sinker.

Before that ending I hadn’t ever given much thought to the fact that books were written by actual people. I expect that, if you’d asked me who the author of The Amber Spyglass was when I’d just started it, I’d probably have given you the same vacant expression I gave most of my teachers when they asked me something in lessons. But, once I’d read the book’s final sentence, I immediately turned over to the cover and thought, Mr Pullman, I want to be able to make people feel how you’ve made me feel. And in truth, that was depressed into to a mild stupor for days – but in a good way.

From that moment on I started feasting on nothing but YA, only picking up the occasional ‘adult novel’ once I was into my twenties. I do enjoy reading books aimed at mature audiences but I rarely connect with them like I do with novels following adolescents. After much reflection, I think this must be because some of the trials and tribulations teenagers go through are universal and that means I can still relate to them despite being slightly less Y and a little more A these days.

So, when I finally sat down to write my first novel, Tethers, (sadly my education got in the way of me becoming a writer the instant I finished His Dark Materials) there really wasn’t any question over what kind of book it would be. I wanted to write in the genre I loved and, indeed, my protagonist was a teenager named Karl almost from the moment my fingers touched the keyboard.

About the author:

Jack Croxall is a YA fiction author and science writer living in Nottinghamshire. He tweets via @JackCroxall, and you can find out more about Tethers, by visiting his website or popping over to his facebook page. Or, if you’d like to buy it, check out the Amazon page.

With a little help from my friends…

February 1, 2013 by sharonsant

Over the next few weeks I’ll be asking my fellow YA authors to take a turn here (mostly to give me a rest, but don’t tell them that) to talk about what they love about the genre.

There are lots of reasons why I write and read YA. I don’t write or read it exclusively, but it seems to dominate my choices at a subconscious level. Whenever a story pops into my head, invariably, a teenage character pops in with it. Maybe it’s because I’m drawn to young people in life (or people who have a young outlook). Maybe it’s because I have a misguided attachment to my battered old Converse which means you’ll have to prise them from my cold, dead feet, regardless of how embarrassing my kids find it. Maybe it’s because I’m clinging stubbornly to my own lost youth. I’m not sure I can really say why I lean towards YA – you might as well ask why I like the colour green.

Whatever Freud would have to say, I love to write characters of this age. They escape the constraints that dictate the actions of the rest of us. There’s a whole new world opening up for them, endless possibilities still to be written. I write younger protagonists from time to time under a pen name and, while they have just as much fun, mostly I have the watchful eye of a parent or guardian to take into consideration. Young adult protagonists have more freedom to go out into the world on their own but without the burdens that adults have. It’s a time of massive transition – of finding yourself, who you really are, what sort of person you’re becoming – and for me, that’s so exciting. With a young adult protagonist you can pursue emotional arcs that you can’t with any other age group and your characters don’t have to worry about the next gas bill.

First up on the guest posts it’s the turn of the lovely Jack Croxall, author of Tethers, to talk about Philip Pullman, dodgy electric guitars, and what started him on the YA road. You can catch Jack’s blog post here tomorrow.

Five books that had me weeping from the off (and begging for mercy by the end).

January 27, 2013 by sharonsant

I recently started reading a book that had me crying during the first few pages. Which got me thinking about other books that have done the same thing. And then I thought I’d share them with you. So… my choices are, in no particular order, and there will be others that pop into my head as soon as I switch off the laptop:

The Book of Lost Things by John Connolly

I LOVE this book. I have read it three times and am preparing to use it for my PhD studies. Set in England against the backdrop of World War II, it follows the progress of teenager David, who has just lost his mother to cancer. Shortly afterwards his father meets another woman and a relationship blossoms, one that David finds hard to accept. What follows seemingly sets up as a tale of familial conflict, but soon takes the reader by complete surprise. Fleeing an argument, David finds himself trapped behind a wall as a plane crashes in his garden and the only escape is a portal to a world of every fairy tale he has ever been told by his mother.

Blub factor: Tears begin falling on page one, people.

The Road by Cormack McCarthy

On the face of it, nothing really happens. But The Road, in my humble opinion, is one of the most finely crafted books I have ever read. A man and a boy (we never find out their names) travel across America in search of some relief from their horrific life in the wake of an apparent apocalypse. The most important consideration is food and shelter from the incessant cold, but close to that is perpetual fear from the gangs that roam the country capturing and eating defenceless people. Terror for the reader comes from the notion that this man and his boy will be taken, and tears are shed for the internal dialogue of the man as he vows to protect his son, even if it means killing him with his own hands rather than let him be taken by one of these evil gangs.

Blub factor: Page nine.

The Fault in Our Stars by John Green

Teenagers with cancer. Doesn’t take a genius to work out where this is going. What Green does that is so poignant is that he gives them spirit and a need to wring every last bit from their short lives in the knowledge of their mortality. Everything they do is like they’re doing it for the last time. And when the time comes for at least one, as you know it will, it’s all the more tragic.

Blub factor: Page twelve

Oliver Twist by Charles Dickens

Sorry, but I have to put Charlie Boy in here. I adore this novel and have done since I was a kid. I can’t even remember how many times I’ve read it. And as everyone (unless you’ve been living on Venus) knows the story, I’ll spare you the synopsis. But God love Charlie, he was a master at tear-wringing. When Oliver’s mother dies right at the start, I’m already in bits, perhaps because I know what’s coming.

Blub factor: Depending what edition you have, page three.

Fugitive Pieces by Anne Michaels

This was a book I read for a university module and something I probably wouldn’t have picked up otherwise. Sometimes, the books that you don’t choose to read are the ones that turn out to be the most rewarding. It follows Jakob, a rescued survivor of the Holocaust who is taken to a Greek island away from the fighting to grow up. But as an adult he still struggles to come to terms with what he saw and went through as a boy and is haunted by the ghosts of the family he lost. Michaels has an assured and poetic style that is both melancholy and a delight to read.

Blub factor: Page seven

Another milestone in my self publishing adventure.

January 23, 2013 by sharonsant

It’s been almost two weeks since I released Sky Song to an unsuspecting public. When I say public, of course, I have my tongue firmly in my cheek. It has been a low key affair – I just stick the odd tweet out now and again and badger my friends and family. I don’t have the knowledge to do a decent job of organising blog tours or reviews and whatnot but I’ve been bumbling along doing my best with it. But the overwhelmingly positive response has made my little face glow.

It’s a funny feeling, offering up the darkest corners of your imagination for all to see. I noticed on Goodreads that someone in India is reading it. That was a very strange notion, that someone across the world in a completely different culture, someone who doesn’t know me, owes me no allegiance or has no reason to consider my feelings, someone who simply reads and judges, is looking at the thing that I spent hours lovingly creating and doing just that. I love the idea that people I don’t know are entering the world I made – after all, that was what I’ve always said I wanted as writer – but at the same time it’s strangely terrifying. It opens you up in a way that makes you feel naked and vulnerable, like your soul is up for inspection.

Closer to home I’ve had wonderful support from friends – writers and otherwise –and from people I’ve never met apart from in the Twittersphere. Offers of help and encouragement have come from the most unlikely places, as have opportunities. Another thing that has struck me is how the people I naturally assumed would buy a copy haven’t, but people that I never expected to have bought one, read it and given me wonderful feedback. All it takes these days is a couple of lines from an old uni classmate on facebook to reduce me to tears (good ones, I hasten to add). I know the backlash will come, I know that we all get one star reviews, but for now, the ones I’ve had I stare at lovingly for hours.

Right now, I feel humble, but I don’t feel the need to be falsely modest about the work I’ve put in on this trilogy. People who know me will know that I’ve been writing them for years while trying to hold another life together, that I’ve stayed up all hours of the night and ignored family members when an idea had to be worked through. I’m not saying that no other writers do this – I know they do. What I’m saying is let us have our little moment in the sun. Because we’ve earned it.

Thank you to everyone who has helped, supported, encouraged and downloaded. One day I hope I can repay your kindness. And roll on book two!

P.S. After all that, I’m off to watch re-runs of Merlin.

Where’s me brainy specs?

January 17, 2013 by sharonsant

Little old me – I could never imagine how anyone would be interested in what I get up to on dark winter evenings (don’t even go down that mucky alley…). So imagine my surprise when I was asked to be the subject of a feature for the Saturday supplement of the local newspaper, The Sentinel. That’s not to say that I wasn’t hugely flattered too – who wouldn’t be?

Although I have guested on a couple of local radio shows, I’ve never done a newspaper interview about being a writer and it’s not something I had ever thought about before, so I didn’t really know how I felt about it. It was lucky that I wasn’t given too much time to dwell on what to expect, or I would probably have locked myself in the garden shed. I used to sing in public as a teenager, and was told that I had a decent voice, but I got so ridiculously nervous before a performance that I wouldn’t eat for days. Regular readers of my blog will recall the same happening when I went to the premiere of Colin Morgan’s (of Merlin fame) film ‘Island’ at the mere thought that I might speak to him. Or, more accurately, that I would try to speak to him but would actually just declare my undying love in a monosyllabic stutter and then throw up over his shoes.

So, the features writer from the newspaper was due to phone me at seven that very evening and the photographer was booked for the following morning. I spent the day at one of my many jobs not really being able to tell anyone what my name was. On top of that, true to form, even the smell of food had me retching. I got home around six o’clock starving and dished a bowl of stew out, determined that I would force some down. One spoonful later it was given to hubby for his seconds. Then I sat by the phone biting my nails.

Of course, when the journalist phoned me she was really lovely and within five minutes I would have told her my deepest darkest secrets – where I keep my Toblerone stash, the time I got that injunction for stealing Morten Harket’s Y-fronts – that sort of thing. Luckily she wasn’t after information on eighties band-stalking exploits, just about my writing. Although it did become apparent as she quizzed me over the plot of each book and story that had received any kind of recognition that I may just have a slightly unhealthy obsession with writing about teenage boys. I do write girls too. Honest. Once she had wrung every detail of my life out of me I had only to worry about the photographer’s visit. Surely I could stand in front of a camera without turning into a sobbing jelly? Yeah.

The morning came and I thought I had successfully planned out the photographer’s visit to the last detail so that nothing could go wrong. But the top I had intended to wear had somehow slid into that parallel dimension where my money and a great deal of my sanity goes. I quickly realised that anything else remotely suitable was in a pile of ironing that dates back to the Pliocene era. And I had half an hour to get dressed, do make-up (which quite often goes so badly wrong that I end up looking like a walking Picasso) wash dishes, tidy toys away, spread manuscripts around the place and don a smoking jacket and pipe (well, what does a writer look like?). The notion of sweeping the floors had been dumped way before that. Once my bed was covered in the entire (and sorry looking) contents of my wardrobe, I hurriedly pulled on the best option and was dismayed to find it crinkled from being in storage for so long. No time to get the ironing board out, I grabbed the iron and ironed the blouse whilst wearing it (I really wish I could say that last admission was an attempt at humour but, alas, dear reader, it actually happened). And as I was doing this, congratulating myself on the fact that once I had finished I still had five minutes to throw all the dirty dishes into the understair cupboard, there was a knock at the front door and I opened it to find the photographer’s depressingly prompt arrival.

I don’t mind saying that I giggled through the entire session like a village idiot. The photographer gave me simple enough instructions such as: ‘can you get a pile of books together so we can do a shot with them?’
‘Books?’ I queried with a vacant stare like a caveman who had just been shown a wheel.

The poor man left half an hour later telling me that he had an infant school to visit next. I suspect he got more sophisticated responses to his requests there than he had done from me. I suspect he would have got more sophisticated responses from the twinkles in the mummies’ eyes than from me that day.

But at least he didn’t get to find out where my Toblerone stash is.

The gang’s all here…

January 14, 2013 by sharonsant

You may remember me introducing Luca, my little Italian stud-muffin. Well, now it’s time to meet Jacob and Ellen.

It’s taken six long years to get here. And there were times when I seriously doubted that Jacob and his friends would make it off my hard drive. But, finally, this weekend, I gave them their freedom and they sailed out into the world.

Sky Song started off as a little tale about a young girl whose dad watched the skies every night for something. The little girl didn’t know what but it soon became clear to her that whatever it was he searched for, it was something that didn’t belong to the world she knew. As I worked the story out in my head, the little girl became an older boy named Jacob and the thing that came from the skies became an unexpected destiny. I’m always fascinated by the thought processes that make a plot and, looking back, the ones that got me to this point must have made some pretty amazing leaps!

Despite the fact that Jacob came from my head, I find him a difficult character to sum up. He’s an academic high flyer, though he doesn’t want to be. He’s attractive in his own quirky way, though he doesn’t really know how to deal with the attention that it brings. Aware that he is one of life’s outsiders, all he really wants is to fit in. He has grown up not really knowing who he is. So when his destiny is sprung on him one fateful night, all these things suddenly start to make sense.

Once I had Jacob and Luca I knew I needed a girl to stir up trouble. So along came Ellen. With a tougher upbringing than either Jacob or Luca, Ellen is the anchor of the trio. She’s grounded, nurturing, loyal, perceptive, intuitive and unfailingly optimistic. When there is chaos (and where Jacob and Luca are concerned there usually is) Ellen is the one who cuts through it to the truth. But sometimes she lets her heart rule her head and it gets her into trouble.

I hope you get to know them all and love them like I do. As I do the final edits on the final book of the trilogy any time now, I might shed a little tear. After all, they’ve been with me for six years and they’re like members of my family. But, as a good friend once said to me, every time another reader gets to know your characters, they breathe on their own a little more. I think I know what she means. I just hope I don’t end up having to give them mouth-to-mouth…

Babes in the Woods

January 13, 2013 by sharonsant

If you went down to the woods today you’d have been in for a big surprise…

No, not teddy bears guzzling Dr Peppers and chomping on fish sticks. Just us city types, woefully ill-equipped and unsuitably dressed for a trek across the deepest darkest swathes of Cannock Chase. For today was the day we went location scouting for the front cover of Runners.

As usual, things didn’t go quite to plan. For a start, I don’t think we could have chosen a colder day. Some very good friends and their son accompanied me and my two daughters to act as models for the day so that we could get some idea of composition for photos. And while said friends were old hands at wandering the countryside, as for me and my girls, if we’ve strayed into a yard with weeds growing through the cracks we feel like we’ve been on safari. So I pitched up in knitted boots and the thinnest jeans I own (only because these jeans fitted inside the boots, you see) and the oldest daughter was almost as bad in pumps and a bomber jacket. At least the little one had enough sense to make up for us and attempted to put on outdoorsy clothes in her padded coat and space boots.

We arrived at the first location to find a huge search and rescue operation going on. Now, this is where I show how shallow I am and admit that I got quite excited by all the drama because my brain was ticking over with story possibilities. So we moved on from there after a while, really because we were in the way, even though I dearly wanted to sneak inside the operations tent and spy on them. Our next location was better apart from the deer that I nearly ran over parking up. Location number three was late in the afternoon and the icicles had already started to form on my eyebrows as we arrived. We trudged into the deepest section of wood and did some really nice posing, and were just making our way out as the sun went down when I noticed an eye-watering pong coming from our group.

Me: ‘Ok, who has poo on them?’
Friend: ‘Don’t worry, it’ll only be deer poo.’
Everyone checks their shoes. The culprit is little daughter, the evidence slathered all over her pink space boots. But it’s not lovely veggie deer pellets, oh no. It’s radioactive orange, sloppy, full-bore carnivorous dog cack. And guess who got to clean them up. Talk about suffering for your art. When we take the actual models up there, I’ll remember to take a hosepipe.

Neither Mickling nor Muckling

January 6, 2013 by sharonsant

Neither Mickling nor Muckling was the weird saying that my late mother-in-law used to utter every now and again. At the time I wondered what it meant (Billy Liar fans feel free to get rancid tomatoes at the ready) but I think I have a pretty good idea these days.

This week I handed out three different manuscripts to three good friends. None of the manuscripts was remotely like any of the others. I’m one of those annoying, mercurial types who can’t stay focused on one thing for long; instead, I dip into pools of knowledge and interest all over the place – science, history, archaeology, literature, philosophy – a little of everything and mastery of none. And I’m moody too, so while I seem to be my usual cheery self every day, underneath that I’m sometimes melancholy, some days introspective, some days just plain vacant. So I suppose it’s only natural that my writing brain functions in the same way. The project I work on today might be a quirky romance, but next week I might start a horror story. Sometimes it will be a big cross-genre mash or completely defy classification at all. And often, something that I thought was amazing when I wrote it will annoy the hell out of me and end up deleted the following week.

Which got me thinking. By writing this way am I actively scuppering any chances of actually writing for a living? The publishing world is so fond of genres and pigeon holing and people in general seem to like things where they can say: yes, this fits just here. I recently read a tweet from another writer saying that she wondered if she was unsellable because her work was cross-genre, and although I can think of lots of successful examples of work in that vein, I can probably think of more where it represented problems getting the work accepted for a long time.

If you write lots of stories in lots of genres, do you risk alienating readers too? If someone loves your quirky romance (just let me dream for a moment, will you) and they go looking for more (ok, I know it’s a stretch – indulge me) and they download your next book to find it is some paranormal weep-fest, will they be so disappointed that they will never read anything you present to them again? Can you build a following of loyal readers like that? Can you sell books like that?

But then, can you change what you do? Are you a slave to your writing brain, the one that won’t stop nagging you when that ghost story pops into your head, even though you’re in the middle of a kids’ book? I’m certain I can’t be alone in this confusing camp.

So, I suppose what I’m really asking is this: is there is a choice to be made here? Do I slap the metaphorical bottom of my writing brain and tell it to start behaving itself, or do carry on doing what I do and I accept that I’m destined to annoy the hell out of people for evermore?

Why I should live in a cave

January 3, 2013 by sharonsant

‘There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.’ Maya Angelou’s assertion is true, of course, but then I bet she never had to create a book cover for kindle, then put it into a pdf, then convert it back into a jpg just to get it to upload. And don’t even get me started on formatting and converting the damn book. Telling the story suddenly seems like the easy bit.

It’s not that I don’t like technology – I love it. It’s just that technology doesn’t like me. Take now, for example. I’m typing this with an irritating pop up floating in front of my face that, somehow, I have managed to invite onto my computer, despite blocking all pop ups on my internet security. And no matter what I do, it won’t go away. If I walk past a printer in the office, the front falls off. If I go to use the photocopier, without fail, it jams. I’ve been barred from even strolling past the local Curry’s.

If someone gives me instructions to follow, to set up a new piece of kit – be it computer, phone, tablet – and they follow these instructions with any of the following phrases: a child could do it or it’s so user friendly or any variation thereupon, then I know I’m in big trouble and within minutes I have wrecked said new gadget.

But with three separate written guides and the advice of an experienced friend, you’d have thought that just this once I could do something as simple as upload a book to kindle within a reasonable amount of time. Not three days – and I’m not talking three normal days, I’m talking three long, morning until midnight days. With emails flying backwards and forwards between me and the amazon tech team. And cups of tea – lots of them. I suppose I ought to come clean about the swearing too. And the damn thing still wouldn’t go on.

So if you see me walking down the street with a funny, stiff kind of walk, you’ll know that there’s an untold story in me just desperate to get out, if only I could find a computer with its guard down long enough so I could sneak in and relieve myself.