Recently, all I've been doing with my writing work is editing, and I'm beginning to wonder if this is really what I signed myself up for. When you tell people you're an author, they expect you do a lot of writing. But the fact is, the amount of time I spend editing far outweighs the amount of time I spend writing. Occasionally I ask myself if this is a good thing. Or am I just a boring writer?

 When I teach exam students singing, I spend twenty minutes of the lesson doing everything other than teaching them their song. We mark the theory homework. I ask them a series of theory questions and time them in their answers. We do a warm up, and I harp on and on about breathing, about the positions of the articulators, about the need for large, fat vowels. After this, we progress to sight-singing. The student sings something they've never seen before, just by reading the music. We study the exercise first, and then the student attempts it to piano accompaniment. Following this, we do aural - or musical ear - tests. And finally ... finally, we reach the part of the lesson where a song is sung. And then I proceed to apply absolutely everything we've talked about prior to this point to the song that is being sung.
 The preparation time has made the point of the lesson - the excellent singing of a song - an easier target to reach.

 In the family TV show Cosby, Bill Cosby as Cliff Huxtable tells a fictional story about how he wanted to learn the drums. The teacher made him sit there and bang once with the right hand and once with the left - once with the right, once with the left ...

 I suppose what I'm saying is that sometimes we have to wade our way through the boring stuff to get to the good stuff. I've seen a lot of authors get super excited over an idea they've had about extraterrestrial warfare or something like that. They dash off, write a novel, and then shove it under publishers' noses. Even if they did get the contract of their dreams, would everything be as good as they expected? I'm guessing not, unless they have low expectations. They didn't edit. They wrote once - rapidly and possibly shabbily - and then they sent out the work to professionals, thereby creating for themselves the reputation of a half-baked author. If the work was published, would it stand the test of time? Would it attract a readership that was educated and - after reading - edified and entertained? In my opinion, it is unlikely.

 To get to the fun stuff, we have to wade our way through the boring parts. It's just how life goes. Being a writer is not an endless game of excitement - new drafts, new story ideas, fabulous stuff that's never been done before, all the time. Being a writer is being able to finish a draft. Then it's being able to rewrite a draft. Then it's being able to edit that draft, over and over and over. A good writer cannot simply write. A good writer must perfect also. 

 This is why I spend hours and hours of my life editing. I'm slower than a lot of authors, and I party less at my desk. But I believe the product will be worth it. I believe the mental exertion and discipline will make me a better thinker and person. I want my work to last.

 I read this somewhere, and I believe it is attributed to Stephen King: "To write is human. To edit is divine."

Amen, my brother. Amen.

 If there's one thing that's definitely helped me on my writing journey, it would be good classic books. I used to hate those books. I used to lie to my Mum that I'd read all the books on the lists that she would give to me when I was a little girl. I felt really guilty when I got older - partially because I became aware of how much I'd missed out on ... not that the Enid Blyton really did me much good. It was more the lack of things like Tom's Midnight Garden and Black Beauty that was making me a shallow writer.
 I started writing my first book when I was ten. And it was about a year later that I realised I had no vocabulary, voice, or mode of expression whatsoever. I quite simply could not say what I wanted to say. It was hopeless. I was hopeless.
 Ever since then, I've made a habit of reading daily. When I hit about fifteen, I started seriously looking at classics. And they weren't just Watership Down and Black Beauty either. I read Milton's complete works. I read Mansfield's complete works. I got into the Shakespeare, Spenser, Homer, and Ovid. I tried to consistently read books from all of the literary periods. Every time I found an exciting old author I hadn't heard of, I would look them up and hunt for their book.
 Classics are awesome. You learn so much from them - you learn about people and about the world around you. You learn words, sentence structure, grammar, character development, and plotting. But best of all, I just learnt how to speak out. I developed the skills to say what I wanted to say, without having to sit there rubbing my head for hours on end. I learnt to be a writer by spending time in the heads' of other writers. And by reading books from all of the literary periods, I learnt not to be cliché. I feel now that I don't write like the authors of every other YA book you pick up. Sure, I try to be hooking. And I still write more briefly than the classic authors did. But there's something different there. Publishers don't always like it - maybe it won't sell.
 I don't really care. Reading classics has allowed me to become rooted in literary history, so that when I say something, there's a depth to it. I'm referencing something, paying homage to something. I'm becoming part of that world.
 I'm not brilliant. But I can feel myself growing with every new book I read. It's exciting and fun.

 I'll leave you with some quotes. Some of these are by my favorite authors of all time.

"To the Lord I cry aloud, and he answers me from his holy hill.
I lie down and sleep; I wake again, because the Lord sustains me."

"Cyclops, the men you snatched with brutal force
and ate within your cave were surely not
the comrades of a coward. You have caused
much grief; and it returns to haunt you now:
you did not hesitate; hard heart, you ate
your guests within your house; therefore lord Zeus
has joined with other gods to batter you." (1990, translated by Allen Mandelbaum, pg 184.)

"O, that this too too solid flesh would melt,
Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew!
Or that the Everlasting had not fixt
His canon 'gainst self-slaughter! O God! God!
How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable
Seem to me all the uses of this world!
Fie on't! O, fie! 'tis an unweeded garden,
That grows to seed; things rank and gross in nature
Posses it merely. That it should come to this!"

"Henchard was a little moved. 'I - sometimes think I've wronged 'ee!' he said, in tones which showed the disquietude that the night shades hid in his face. He shook Farfrae abruptly by the hand, and hastened away as if unwilling to betray himself further." (1995 Wordsworth version, pg 176.)

'I didn't put my name in that Goblet!' said Harry, starting to feel angry.
'Yeah, OK,' said Ron, in exactly the same sceptical tone as Cedric. 'Only you said this morning you'd have done it last night, and no one would've seen you ... I'm not stupid, you know.'
'You're doing a really good impression of it,' Harry snapped. (J K Rowling, 2000, pg 252.)

"It is always cruel to laugh at people, of  course, although sometimes if they are wearing an ugly hat it is hard to control yourself." (2007, pg 66.)

  I'm still trying to identify why novels written in the present tense bother me. Perhaps it's just me, but when I open a book and read something like the following, I begin to feel frustrated.

When I wake up, the other side of the bed is cold. My fingers stretch out, seeking Prim’s warmth but finding only the rough canvas cover of the mattress. She must have had bad dreams and climbed in with our mother. Of course, she did. This is the day of the reaping.

 (The Hunger Games, by Suzanne Collins, published by Scholastic in 2008).

 I find present tense just feels uniquely awkward. The author is trying to freeze the main character's story into an eternal present that lasts for the whole of the novel. Present tense feels to me like a defiance of some of our oldest story-ing traditions. When someone starts a story with the words "once upon a time", it feels comforting, reassuring. Present tense takes away that comfort. It essentially says: "Once upon this time - now." We are no longer ushered into an era gone by. The story doesn't have that feel of history, of a reliable record set down by an observer. Instead, we have a strange, prolonged present that somehow spans a significant chunk of time.

 The idea of present tense is, of course, to make everything feel more immediate. It's supposed to be gripping and to give the reader the idea that everything is happening now. But it seems to me that of necessity, a book entirely in present tense must feel somewhat artificial. The present is fleeting. If we divide time into three categories (the past, present, and future), the present will the shortest one of those categories. Because "now" is so immediate, it must be short. 

 Additionally, a writer who pens a novel in present tense is constantly having to find ways to sustain that style. Because it isn't the most natural way of telling a story, it is a more risky way of writing. For one thing, in order to write with correct grammar, the writer is obliged to stack up helping verbs inordinately in particular cases. Also, action scenes feel a bit unwieldy to me.

 Writing in the present tense appears to be a new fad in YA novels, and it is likely something Suzanne Collins has inspired. But is it the clearest way to write? Is it a method of writing that will make the reader comfortable? Will it give them the desire to read the entire story through? Is it understandable? Is it elegant? Does it result in writing that feels natural - words that slip off the tongue with an excellent ring?


 These are all worthwhile questions to ask. I have no problem with an author who uses present tense in a short story. A short story definitely feels closer to the present - it feels immediate and fleeting like "now" actually is. But a long novel written entirely in present tense seems to be a contradiction in terms to me. 

While I looked at the differences between magic in our own experience and magic in literature last week, this week I wanted to highlight the ways in which we can treat magic in literature. Above all, the use of magic must come across as believable. The reader must feel as if it is possible.  

 I've been looking at more modern fantasy books of late, and one thing that I've discovered is that many of them seem to portray magic very abstractly. One book even went so far as to describe magic as "resonating within the heart". The reader cannot touch, taste, see, hear, or feel that. Magic should appeal to at least one of those senses, if not more.

A fantasy series I love is the Harry Potter one. Magic is performed through incantations that need to be pronounced agonisingly well, for the correct results to be achieved. Magic comes in many different colors, and is often accompanied by a bang or a popping sound. In many cases, it leaves a smell or a kind of pall behind it. All of those things are sensual. Even though magic is performed with a wand, Rowling still manages to avoid coming across as stereotypical.

 Other excellent uses of magic include that which is described in Paolini’s books, in which something must be correctly named for the user to have power over it. This is an idea that Ursula Le Guin also explored, much before Paolini’s time. Paolini further authenticates magic by showing the toll it has on a person. It makes them incredibly weary, and its effects last only so long. Clear and realistic rules further serve to make magic believable.

 A recent example I discovered was included in the book The Indigo Spell by Richelle Mead. Richelle Mead shows the many different substances, amulets, and herbs needed to perform magic. Magic is clearly a force that requires many resources and much energy and skill to perform. By grounding the use of magic in physical realities, Mead makes the magical experience gripping for the modern day audience.

 In my own books, I have strived steer right away from the traditional portrayal of magic. Yes, magic is accompanied by bursts of light, bangs, or rushing noises. But I’ve tried to put a unique spin on it. Instead of calling it magic, I’ve called it kesmal. In giving it a different name, I’ve tried to give it a different definition.

  “Kesmal?” Etana said. “Well, it’s very beautiful, Rafen. The Tarhians call it ‘sorcery’ but kesmal is really an imbalance in the nature of something causing a supernatural result …” (Excerpt from Rafen, first book of The Fledgling Account, out this August).

 All things are made up of a particular balance of four basic principles: fire, water, air, and earth. (This may all sound a bit like classical thought, inspired by the Greek philosopher Empedocles; in truth, I've leaned on resources like this.) When an imbalance is created in the composition of something – suppose that more water is injected into the natural balance of air –kesmal, or the supernatural, results. Air is normally the medium which is manipulated the most in kesmalic conflicts. The ability to perform kesmal is an inherent thing. Some people naturally have an imbalance in their elemental composition. Perhaps they have proclivity toward water or fire. The result is that they can perform kesmal – that they are, indeed, a type of kesmal. Kesmalic ability can be divided into two categories: daniit kesmal, which is the manipulation of the physical; and jarl, which is the manipulation of the spiritual. People who have jarl in their veins (and this is by far the most rare type of kesmal) can see spirits and influence them. Kesmal is not performed with an incantation, nor does it require a wand. An instrument of some description can serve to focus the discharge of someone’s kesmal, but it is not necessary for the actual performance. Kesmal is often taught as a branch of philosophy or thought, in conjunction with physical warfare. But in truth, it is performed instinctively, and responds to one’s intentions and emotions. It is a largely a matter of the will, combined with self-control, deep thought, and consistent and intense currents of energy.

 Here’s an example of kesmal in conflict.

Fritz laughed.

“Do not bluff your way out of this, Alakil,” he said. “You have broken into a palace where you are no longer welcome. You will pay the price.”

The first flash of blue was alarmingly quick, but Fritz flicked up a yellow shield, and then gave his sword another twist. The wall of yellow morphed into an overlarge arrowhead that shot toward Alakil’s face. Alakil sidestepped elegantly, moving the copper rod a fraction. Fritz’s kesmal vanished before it could hit the locked doors. The copper rod rose again, and this time Fritz was sure he could hear voices from it. A beam of blue forked five times, and each gleaming snake it left in the air shot toward Fritz’s eyes. Fritz stumbled back against the mullioned windows, regaining his balance just in time. Stepping before one of the black desks, he swiftly erected another wall of yellow that caught Alakil’s kesmal. It bound the blue in a gleaming mass, which rolled over in the air and threatened to envelope Alakil. The rod moved again, blindingly, and the kesmal vanished.

How is he doing that? Fritz thought wildly. He had seldom seen someone able to simply extinguish kesmal in battle. He flung his sword up again, feverishly searching for something to distract Alakil with. His phoenix feather felt as if it were about to burst into flames.

(Excerpt of Sovereign of the West, Volume Six of The Fledgling Account).

 Clearly, Alakil’s kesmalic imbalance leans toward water. He is immensely skilled with that element. Fritz’s is harder to identify, but the very physical nature of his kesmal partially betrays that his primary skill is with earth, even though the color of his kesmal is yellow, like light. If one would feel Fritz’s kesmal, it would hit them with a solid impact – not with the cold, watery touch of Alakil’s work.

 These, then, are several examples of how magic can be treated in a unique manner in literature. Readers should be able to visualise magic clearly, and should have knowledge of how it is done, what limitations it has, and how it manifests itself according to the senses. A strong portrayal of magic may well be enough to save a given fantasy book from falling into the cliché.