End of one story…and a new beginning

Inbali’s blog for Mslexia has come to an end, but you can visit our new blog at www.mslexia.co.uk/blog

Thanks for joining us,
The Mslexia team

Finishing what you Started

My first book was published a year and a half ago and since that time, I’ve often been asked how I finish my stories. It seems that many of us throw ourselves into ideas, gallop through several chapters and flounder, at a loss. How can a writer pull it together, resolving the various sub-plots and offering closure? How can we finally let go? Now, as I consider my last column for Mslexia‘s blog, I forget. Where do the words come from? How do they settle in order, cover a page – ultimately come to an end?

‘A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.’
- Lao-tzu, The Way of Lao-tzu, (604 BC – 531 BC)

Large chunks are hard to swallow – even my cat Wilma could tell you that. I suspect that many writers would say something about planning. Break your overall story into a short synopsis; further divide it with chapter summaries. Add clarity with research. Identify the appearance of your characters, their longings and motivations. Armed with this structure and detail, you should have a clear sense of where you’re going. You will know how the book will end even before you draft the first line and you will develop the narrative accordingly. Take it one manageable step at a time. All this is sensible advice for writers of fantasy adventure, which demands similar attention to an unravelling plot as crime fiction and thrillers. At my editor’s suggestion I prepared a detailed chapter breakdown for my second book, The Bloodstone Bird. The story is complex, including two interwoven locations and time-altering judders, and precision in structure was vital.

The edge of chaos: the boundaries of complexity

Perhaps it goes deeper than planning alone. I suspect that there is a rhythm to these things, and that words, like other cultural concepts or ‘memes’, tend towards patterns just as much as a spider’s web or pebbles on the beach. Bear with me a moment while I sound you out. Proponents of complexity theory see emergence and self-organisation occurring through the natural world. With only a modicum of extrapolation and an apology to my father, who is a maths professor, and his colleagues across the sciences, it is easy to see how a story takes on a shape and energy of its own, almost independently of the author. The secret is in flowing with the patterns, gently steering them while allowing them to take their course. In that, the writer is benevolent ring-master, guiding the circus but never oppressing the performers. That, at least, is how I hope to write – a loose framework, a deep understanding of my characters and a gentle brush-stroke. The trouble is that we become lost in the minutiae, and that’s to be expected – writers care about the subtlest idiom, the slightest glance of sunlight; a rouge-flecked crescent on a blade of grass. This bent towards detail can be an encumbrance – eighteen chapters into a book and you can’t see the wood for the trees or, in the case of The Tygrine Cat: On the Run, the feline for the whiskers. Time to back away for a few days, take a deep breath and look again.

She who laughs last laughs loudest

While I might not find the end of a book the easiest section to write, it is almost invariably the most exciting. In a highly ‘narrative’ genre, such as children’s fantasy, the story drives towards the climax and those last concluding chapters, almost from the first page. Here’s the bit where the writer really gets to express herself, where the characters are pushed to their limits, confront their enemies, vanquish their demons. What could be more thrilling? Yet the burden of getting it right can be weighty. The tenor and tone of final encounters may ultimately define the whole book. They may even define the author. Among South Africa’s stray dogs, what does the last line of Disgrace mean for the protagonist, the country or J. M. Coetzee himself? What does the last line of The Night Watch reveal about Sarah Waters?

And finally: an admission

I often tell people, rather glibly, that the publishing process has been good for me – it has forced me to confront my pride and dispense with some previous vestiges of ego. I say this with a glint, of course, and a life-long tendency towards hyperbole. But it’s true. Like any creative endeavour, a book pushes the writer into the path of criticism and self-doubt. It is intensely exposing. At its highs, it is also deliriously rewarding. A dizzying, mind-blowing, wondrous broth – long may it continue.

And so a confession in this seventh and final instalment of my blog: I have not quite completed the sequel to The Tygrine Cat. Despite feeling like an errant school child, I thought it only fair to tell you that I shall miss my publishing deadline. I have broken the news to my editor; I shall deliver late, but not too late. I am almost finished – I really am – but some things can’t be rushed. Amid life’s various pressures and a punishing Book Week schedule, the cats ran away from me. Coaxing them back onto the page is my greatest priority.

With any luck, The Tygrine Cat: On the Run will be out in 2010. I shall look forward to your comments – whatever they may be…

With every success, for letters and life,
Inbali

Celebrating the good times – launching The Bloodstone Bird

Reaching out to Readers: Surviving Book Week

 

It’s often the things you don’t expect that ultimately define an experience. When I signed a deal with Walker Books, I anticipated something of the editing process. I imagined with a thrill how it would feel to see my story in print. But I didn’t know what role I would play in promoting the book. Writer or repertory? Crafter or comedian? Read on…

 

Thursday 5 March 2009 was World Book Day in the UK and Ireland, part of a UNESCO initiative aimed at encouraging literacy and fostering a love of reading (note that the actual date varies in different countries). Children across the UK are entitled to a £1 book token (or equivalent €1.50 token in Ireland), which can be exchanged for one of six specially published books or redeemed against any title at participating bookshops. Schools and libraries increasingly use World Book Day as a pivotal signpost in the academic year, centring a string of activities around it, such as book groups, review challenges and – here’s where I come in – author visits. As a result, it can be the busiest time of year for the children’s writer. And because it has become so much more than a day’s worth of fun – World Book Day has morphed into Book Week.

By next Monday I will have participated in 10 events at schools and libraries in the South East. I would have liked to travel further afield – perhaps I shall next year. Some writers visit schools on a regular basis, talking about their books and signing copies for fans. Author visits are one way of generating support for a title, of gradually raising the writer’s profile. For some, fees accrued from events can amount to a second income stream, which is no bad thing in this difficult industry. I couldn’t find a figure for the number of school visits that former Children’s Laureate Jacqueline Wilson is said to have made, but I hear that it is astronomical.

I envy this commitment. My events are more sporadic, clustering around Book Week or a new release – not for want of enthusiasm but for lack of time. Between practising as a lawyer and publishing deadlines, I probably don’t get out enough.

My first significant speaking commitment came soon after release of The Tygrine Cat. I was scheduled to fill the after-dinner slot at the Youth Libraries Group‘s annual conference in September 2007. It was important to make a good impression – librarians are central in the realm of children’s books. Here is a group of adults who are passionate about books for young people, intimately familiar with the market and influential in spotting and creating trends.

I was down to speak at 9pm – worryingly late – and I sensibly eschewed wine during the meal. Still, the clinking of glasses and the general sounds of merriment did nothing to calm my nerves. Neither did the organiser’s whispered instruction that I should ‘crack three jokes in the first few minutes’. He was teasing me, of course, but still I glanced warily at my copy of The Tygrine Cat. Set against a backdrop of brooding tribal war, it’s a fantasy adventure about a lost cat seeking his destiny. While several readers have told me that it made them cry, none have claimed that their sides split with laugher. It hadn’t occurred to me that I’d need to be a stand-up comic!

Somehow I survived the 20 minutes in front of the YLG and received a hospitable round of applause. On returning to my chair, I charged my glass; soon after, I was in the pub with a very jolly group of librarians. Fast forward to October 2008 and I’m launching book two, The Bloodstone Bird, at Sutton Central Library’s Summer Reading Challenge – at the invitation of Rachel Levy, a librarian who looked after me at the YLG conference under her alternative guise as a member of its National Committee. I’ve also spoken at a South East regional meeting of the YLG thanks to Rachel’s supreme organisational skills. As I said, youth librarians are the best.

Talking to young people is an entirely different experience and for me it’s been a real eye opener. I have spoken at inner-city comprehensives, public schools and independents and have come to realise that every class has its own chemistry. Events are never predictable. Last year I ran two identical workshops with 12-year-olds at a village school where the first class worked happily in teams, largely indifferent to the activities of those outside their teams, and the second broke into pack warfare. Each team had a cat character, around whom they were required to work together to develop a story. In the combative class, the cats were perennially fighting each other – I was impressed by the class’s eagerness, if slightly alarmed at their blood-lust!

Of course, things go wrong. Expect leftfield, inappropriate and occasionally inspiring questions. AWOL teachers; AWOL books; AWOL writers (missing on route – yes, this has happened to me…). Events held in bookshops can be even trickier. If it’s a Saturday, wandering shoppers will talk over your spiel or stare, slack-jawed; if it’s a pre-arranged school visit, pray the class will arrive. The key to surviving these events is to relax and enjoy them. How often does a writer have a chance to engage with their audience?

The enthusiasm of young people is contagious. Last Book Week I ran a competition at a Borders bookshop where children were asked to draw the first cat – a character from The Tygrine Cat. Having read the book and learned of the event, a boy called Andrew appeared with a beautiful painting that scooped first prize. Andrew kindly gave me his work and it now adorns the wall of my study. If I lose a sense of my feline characters or question what it’s all about, I need only look up.

Next week  - Finishing What You Started

Chalk and Cheese? The Author and the Editor

When I wrote my first book, The Tygrine Cat, I knew next to nothing about the editorial side of publishing. As an intellectual property lawyer, I could comfortably work my way around a licence agreement but I couldn’t have told you much about the inner mechanisms of a publishing house. Every book had an editor – that was a given. But what exactly did an editor do?

Chris Kloet and Inbali Iserles

I first met Chris Kloet in 2005 when I went for lunch at Walker’s sunny offices in south London. Her name sounded familiar. While leafing through The Writers’ and Artists’ Yearbook, I realised why – Chris contributes the article on the children’s market. Online searches revealed that she had been fiction publisher for Victor Gollancz Ltd. I later discovered that she edits Anthony Horowitz‘s high-octane Power of Five blockbuster series and has worked with a slew of talent, from Ursula Le Guin to David Almond. The idea of submitting my story to the exacting eye of such an accomplished editor was exciting but more than a little daunting.

Three quarters of the way into my third book, the world of publishing remains – to misappropriate Churchill’s notorious comment on the Soviet Union -  ‘an enigma wrapped in a mystery.’ Yet I’m much clearer now on what an editor does. Chris’s role with respect to my books goes like this (in no particular order):

• Editorial Enabler
• Town Crier
• Good Shepherd
• Proofreader
• Factchecker
• Crisis Counsellor
• Bringer of Cakes

Getting the most out of the manuscript – editor as enabler

The editor’s most obvious task is to review the manuscript and make sure it is as good as it can be. An editor’s gimlet eye will catch problems as far-ranging as logical inconsistencies, character flaws, flat sub-plots and verisimilitude (there’s that word again – see last week’s instalment for more on this). The editor needs an overview of the story, keeping a high-level picture of its various characters and complexities. Attention to detail is essential. While most publishing houses employ copy editors for proofreading, an editor will also be scrutinising the manuscript for typos, spelling mistakes and homonym errors (mine are infamous). A full moon cannot turn crescent over consecutive nights and such sudden changes of phase will not escape the watchful editor.

A good editor will do all this without ego or agenda. This is vital because to work effectively together, there needs to be trust between the author and the editor. Although it may occasionally feel as though authors and editors are pulling in opposite directions, they both have the same goal: getting the book into the best possible shape. Which isn’t to say that I always agree with Chris (only 99 per cent of the time).

My ally on the inside – editor as advocate

The lesser-known but no less important role of the editor is as the representative of the author, and of the author’s books, at the publishing house. An editor is a writer’s principal contact with the publisher and, as such, she is likely to be central in any decision to publish a new book. Without Chris’s enthusiasm for The Tygrine Cat, it wouldn’t have made it through Walker’s exacting commissioning process.

An editor’s advocacy role does not end on signing a book – as my agent Pat White puts it, she is the author’s ‘good shepherd.’ With over 12,000 new children’s titles published in 2008, it is easy to understand how competitive the market has become. Before struggling against the tide of titles in the shops, books are forced to compete for attention and resources among a publisher’s own list. New writers may be forgotten amid the glitter and glamour of bestsellers. A debut title can be lost among numerous others – cannibalised by its peers before it hits the shelves. An editor will try her best to ensure that this doesn’t happen.

A debut title is unlikely to bring in significant royalties. Children’s publishers are increasingly keen to sign authors for the long haul, looking to develop an association with the writer to span many books. The editor is at the heart of this relationship.

Let them eat cake – editor as friend

Now that I practise as a lawyer part-time and write a couple of days a week, friends and colleagues joke that I’m taking the easy option. Those who write know better! The strains and pains of this business can feel legion. If a bookshop isn’t stocking my titles, I take it personally. My eyes still prickle when roundups omit to review. I’m learning to toughen up in a world where stiff lips and strong stomachs are mandatory. Chris is always on hand with a pep talk if things become gloomy, happy to chat through a writing dilemma or even to supply cream cakes (we share a love of patisseries and a taste for red wine). Not that she indulges me – she’s the first to tell me to get a grip when I lapse into temporary mania.

Perhaps that’s what having an editor is really about – knowing that there’s someone there who is passionate about your books. Someone with your best interests at heart. Someone who’s on your side. Oh dear, my lip is quivering. Chris will tell me to get a grip!

Next Week – Reaching out to Readers: Surviving Book Week

Nubian Jaunts and Sailors’ Haunts: All in a Day’s Research

Discovering the ship's control room with Captain Hainaru Mircza

Verisimilitude. It’s one of my favourite words. I actually remember when I first encountered it: Mr Patterson’s class, Long Road Sixth Form College, during a discussion on Hollywood films. He explained that it means the appearance of reality, and it’s a fundamental component of all but the most surreal or postmodern fiction.

Children’s fantasy asks a lot of the reader. Come with me, it beckons, to a world of magical portals, sword-fighting knights and feline warlords. I have always maintained that the best fantasy is firmly rooted in reality. This may seem like a paradox. Fantasy is, after all, the very opposite of reality, exploding the grubby day-to-day in favour of flights of fancy. But to be persuasive – to be convincing – fantasy must be anchored in the familiar. Vitally, there are rules.

I am fascinated by the gateway between our own experiences and the magical space where the impossible is realised. In The Tygrine Cat, the fantasy comes from seeing our world from a new perspective, by entering the secret lives of ferals and following them into Fiåney, the feline ‘dream-wake.’ The ferals live on a market-place, loosely based on Camden Lock in north London, where I spent time wandering around the stalls and snapping photographs when planning the story. You can read an account of my market walkabout for a Write Away! Story Starter here.

In The Bloodstone Bird, an ordinary boy called Sash – the son of a Russian immigrant – discovers a portal to a mysterious paradise beneath an unassuming London street. Gully Lane is a far cry from Hobbiton or Narnia, housing a string of small shops with flats hidden behind them or above them off street level, including ‘a rug shop, a pawnbroker’s, a charity shop’ and ‘the place on the corner that sold fried chicken.’

Sash lives behind Stuff the World, a taxidermy shop where his father, Max, practises his mysterious trade. The geographical co-ordinates are vital to the veracity of the story because of a true feature of London that Sash discovers. While researching the book I spent time studying maps of London and trotting around key streets with a camera and notepad.

As Hampstead turned to Gospel Oak, detached Victorian houses gave way to terraces and council developments. Sash made his way down Highgate Road into Kentish Town. At the junction of Highgate Road and Fortess Road, four lanes of traffic funnelled into two. Armies of cyclists wove between grumbling cars. Gridlocked and impatient, the cars inched forward, their fumes lapping at Sash’s feet in murky gusts.

[from The Bloodstone Bird]

Max takes his craft seriously, believing that it’s possible to preserve life through taxidermy. In order to obtain a clearer idea of what was involved, I read manuals, signed up to various taxidermy chat rooms (trust me, they exist!) and attended the Guild of Taxidermists‘ annual conference. The conference was held in the heart of the Derbyshire countryside and naturally I lost my way there, arriving late and feeling more than a little out of place. I quickly got into the spirit, watching ‘live taxidermy’ – if you mind the pun – and chatting enthusiastically to Guild members. I was intrigued to hear the talks. One by an award-winning taxidermist addressed amateur errors, such as systematic over-grooming. Max himself makes a similar observation in The Bloodstone Bird:

The trick is not to over-preen. The taxidermist always wants the perfect specimen, but nature is imperfect. Fur is sometimes ruffled, twitching and shifting in response to muscle tension beneath the skin.

Most of all, the experience of meeting such a varied group of enthusiasts reminded me that it’s dangerous to make assumptions about people. It would be easy to consign the taxidermist to the role of storybook ogre. I was determined to avoid simplistic type-casting. Max would be a complicated, faintly melancholy character, a man who struggled with fatherhood and the pressures of a world that is alien to him.

A Nubian catling waits for scraps beneath a table in a cafe

In my current book, The Tygrine Cat: On the Run, Mati and his friends stow aboard a cargo ship bound for Suez to escape the menacing phantom cats. I visited Egypt in November, taking notes about Nubian ferals and absorbing the sounds and smells that a catling – a young cat – might experience. Were traders patient with their city’s feline co-habitants? Would the Nile look brown or green up close? Did papyrus reeds really line its banks? The answers to these questions would help me to set down the landscape of the story.

Closer to home, I have recently spent a delightful day at the Port of Felixstowe, where a chaplain from the Seafarers’ Society gave me a tour and arranged a visit aboard a massive cargo ship. Felixstowe is one of the largest ports in England and akin to a city of ships, containers and giant cranes. Without seeing it with my own eyes, I would have struggled to appreciate the scale of the dockyard or understood how a cat might climb the metal gangplanks. The ‘gangplank scene’ is pivotal in the story, and I knew that I had to get it right.

Much of the research for each book will never appear on a page. At Felixstowe, I filled reams of a notepad with numerous and random observations. None of this is lost – it all helps to contextualise the story in my mind, to set out the world of the book. It has energised me and allowed me to empathise with the characters. When Mati weaves between metal containers to discover the immense tarmac gangways, I understand what he sees. With him, I raise my eyes to the moon and shudder. Heart thumping, I know that the phantoms are close. In the nature reserve outside the borders of the dockyard, a shadow stirs.

The air grows hazy. A hiss catches the autumn wind. I spot the metal gangplank and realise it’s my only hope…

Next week – Chalk and Cheese? The Author and the Editor

Eastern Cats and Western Eggs: The Trouble with Titles

Lisa: A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.
Bart: Not if you called them ‘stench blossoms.’
- The Simpsons

The delivery deadline for my fantasy sequel is approaching at light-speed and I still don’t have a title. This realisation propels me into existential malaise: what is a story without a title? Little more than a manuscript, a jumble of words on a memory stick. To exist as a book it will need a name. I find myself asking, and not for the first time: why are titles so hard?

I sympathise with F. Scott Fitzgerald. He struggled to find a name for his prohibition-era classic, moving from Among Ash-Heaps and Millionaires to Trimalchio in West Egg – apparently his favourite – before settling with The Great Gatsby. From its haziest beginning to its final conclusion, a book can dominate years of a writer’s life. Infinite subtleties, sub-plots and complexities lurk between its pages. Yet with a few pithy words we hope to capture its essence; to categorise it; to sell it to readers. Together with the jacket, a title helps the browser to speculate: ‘Is this book for me?’

Titles can be wilfully mysterious if not downright misleading. While The Perfect Storm does exactly what it says on the tin, To Kill a Mockingbird gives little away. A poignant appellation sets a novel apart. From the moment that I heard about Maya Angelou’s I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, I was determined to read the story. Why does the cage bird sing? I had to find out. Lian Hearn’s Across the Nightingale Floor sounded similarly intriguing – and I wasn’t disappointed. If Trimalchio hasn’t convinced you of the importance of a compelling title, let us turn a moment to the latest book-to-film triumph, Vikas Swarup’s Q and A. Pithy, it’s true, and inoffensive – but does it really sell the story? While who could resist the delicious contrast of Slumdog Millionaire?

I have wrestled with titles from the outset. The first instalment of my feline fantasy took time to emerge as The Tygrine Cat. Through most of its development it was The Feather and the Flame (with ‘working title’ self-consciously typed on the cover page). The feather sequence was deleted from the story long before I sent it to agents but still I struggled to sum it up. It’s a book about a special cat – a Tygrine cat – and the answer was staring me in the face.

You’d have thought that this business gets easier with time: apparently not. The provisional title for my second story, according to my contract with Walker Books, was The Arufa Heresy. ‘Heresy’ is such a captivating word. Even the etymology fascinated me, coming from the Ancient Greek for ‘choice.’ The book was all about choice, with a fair bit of dogma thrown in, so the title seemed fine to me. My editor Chris Kloet shook her head emphatically. ‘No, no,’ she said, ‘that won’t do at all, it isn’t appropriate for a children’s book.’ The story was aimed at junior aged readers and teenagers. This audience would be unlikely to understand the word ‘heresy’; it could put them off. She was right, of course (she usually is). For months, we picked our brains. Here are some of the rejects:

Inbali's list of possible titles

• Aruva’s Spindle
• The Amity Bird
• Aqarti’s Second Sunset
• The Riddle Bird
• The Fulcrum and the Feather (note the similarity to The Flame and the Feather, original title for The Tygrine Cat!)
• Aruva’s Compass
• The Truth Beneath Gully Lane
• Aruva’s Voice/Song
• The Second Sunset

Some of these make me cringe with embarrassment. In the end, we plumped for The Bloodstone Bird, which seemed sufficiently tangible while retaining an air of mystery. Oh, and anything with ‘blood’ is good.

In a fantasy series, a title becomes part of a brand, a badge or origin that guarantees a type and style of content, such as Lemony Snicket, Redwall and of course Harry Potter. A reader who has read and enjoyed one instalment is likely to opt for another. This makes series titles even harder to conjure, upping the ante and hair-pulling impulses.

And so to the sequel of The Tygrine Cat. The story follows the adventures of Mati and the ferals, who are chased by menacing phantom cats. In a bid to keep things simple, I suggested The Shadow Cats. ‘Vague and rather dull,’ said Chris. She wanted to retain the word ‘Tygrine’ to indicate the book’s identity as a sequel. I was keen to keep ‘Cat’ so that readers would know that it’s feline fantasy. We considered more elaborate titles, such as The Tygrine Cat and the Secret of Sa, but these seemed clumsy – and how would they fit on a spine? We resolved to keep the original name while adding a spin and a sense of pace. A solution has appeared and I am excited to present it to you. Without further ado, I hereby lift the curtain on the sequel’s title:

The Tygrine Cat: On the Run

You heard it here first! Now writer: on the run – to get the thing finished…

Next week – Nubian Jaunts and Sailors’ Haunts: All in a Day’s Research

The Death of a Cat: Killing a Central Character

In writing my first book, The Tygrine Cat, I wanted to explore the secret lives of felines: their loves and losses; their battles and betrayals. Here was a world where humans lingered on the outskirts – where tribal loyalties were tested to the limits. Life was brutal and often short. Cats could be cruel, foolish, or proud. Evil was there to be fought and overcome. But what about the brave and the good? 

I am currently writing the sequel to The Tygrine Cat and have encountered a dilemma: is it acceptable to kill a central player? In the context of a children’s book, who is allowed to die, and how? J K Rowling famously killed off favourites in the Harry Potter series but does the demise of a major character – a ‘good’ character – remain a children’s book taboo? 

Let us be clear: I really didn’t want to kill this particular cat, of whom I had grown fond. But a story can take on a will of its own; this one demanded a sacrifice. The cat’s death would serve a purpose, affecting the remaining ferals and altering the nature of their journey. A death can leave characters feeling reflective and melancholy, while encouraging them to appreciate the value of life. It can also make them tougher – and perhaps some toughness is necessary before doing battle with evil spirits. ‘Don’t do it,’ said my mum – unofficial life coach and faithful oracle. ‘The readers will be so sad – why upset them?’ But isn’t drawing out a range of emotions part of what we hope for as writers?

I pondered the fantasy fiction of my youth. From Tolkien to Le Guin, violence and death were common, but rarely too arresting and never (from what I could recall) among key characters, at least not mid-story. I found myself wondering how different The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe would have been had Edmund not been saved by Aslan’s elixir. What if Shelob had prevailed in The Lord of the Rings? The unspoken rule seemed to be that peripheral players could die, particularly if they had done something wrong. Evil characters fell in large numbers. But the central figures, the leaders, the wise and the good were usually to be spared. Had things really changed since the epics of my childhood?

I put it to my UK editor at Walker Books and my US editor at Candlewick Press. While neither condoned a killing-spree, both agreed that there were times when the plot permitted or even demanded such a death. After all, death occurs in the real world – an aphorism, no doubt, that it’s the one unavoidable truth. A note of caution was added: the character should be written out thoughtfully, with consideration and suitable regret.

With this in mind, it seems as though it’s acceptable to kill a good character, provided it’s reasoned and handled appropriately. Much depends on the audience for the book – the broad umbrella of ‘children’s fiction’ covers a huge range of ages and abilities. A child of 12 may be better equipped to deal with challenging topics than a nine-year-old, but even within an age range there are notable discrepancies. Particular genres have their own conventions. Death in junior fantasy may be a regular spectacle, but it is probably just as well to tread lightly.

It’s an exciting time to write for young people, with so many possibilities and so little proscribed. I read somewhere that despair is the final taboo: you can leave the reader with sadness, you can leave them with regret, but a kernel of hope must remain. Perhaps this is the last remaining boundary between adult and children’s fiction – the one rule that is sacrosanct. Because childhood is transitory, special, worth protecting – there’s enough despair in an adult life.

In the end I decided that the cat’s death was warranted. But all is not lost for the remaining band of ferals. It signifies an end – but not the end. While the last cat stands, there is always hope.

Next week – Eastern Cats and Western Eggs: The Trouble with Titles

Personal Prequels and Strenuous Sequels

I have only weeks to conclude a first draft of the sequel to my feline fantasy, The Tygrine Cat. How did I get here? I never meant to write a book for children – I hadn’t even intended to write a book. In 2002, when the first inklings of the story entered my mind, I was training to be a lawyer in the City of London. I had penned various offerings at school and, more secretively, at university. But it didn’t occur to me to get a story published – that writing was something one could do ‘as a job.’ I hadn’t come into contact with writers as a child. If you’d asked me back then what they looked like, I might have described a small, goblin-like creature that lives in burrows and only comes out at night – not so far from the truth when deadlines loom.

Yet the books I read in my youth made a lasting impression on me. Michael Ende’s The Neverending Story captured my imagination: here was an ordinary boy who was transported to a land of adventure through the pages of a book. An Everyman edition of Charles Dickens’ Great Expectations was my most prized possession in my early teens.

Fast forward to an unremarkable Sunday lunch in spring 2002. I was entertaining a querulous infant at my parents’ house, the son of family friends. To avert an imminent tantrum I offered the boy a book of cat breeds. Leafing with him through the images of cats I started to ponder the idea of a rivalry between ancient feline dynasties. I carried these thoughts with me for weeks before the protagonist, Mati, took shape in my mind. During weekends and holidays, I began to write. Only my sister and a couple of friends were privy to my efforts. I felt sheepish about the story. A lawyer, writing a children’s book? Daring to dream that she’d get it published? Wouldn’t people laugh?

By spring 2005 I had a finished draft. It was clear from publishers’ websites that the direct approach was discouraged. Armed only with a lawyerish tenacity and The Children’s Writers’ and Artists’ Yearbook, I wrote to a small number of agents. I approached the application process with the same doggish diligence with which I prepared client memos: I researched the agents, checking their websites and poring over their lists. I ruled out any who weren’t members of the Association of Authors’ Agents; excluded those who didn’t represent children’s fantasy. I knew I had to get it right in order to give my cats the best possible chance. I had read about the slush pile and had some idea of the deluge of unsolicited approaches that most agents receive (100 a week is not unusual). I was determined to deny them the chance to reject on superficial grounds: I combed my application for spelling errors, double-spaced as stipulated and used the prescribed mode of correspondence (usually a covering letter, synopsis and the first three chapters, although increasingly agents request an initial letter asking permission to send more information).

Two or three rejections arrived with alarming speed. Then, following weeks or even months, I received some interest. Encouraged, I tried to coax myself out of the impulse to sign away everything to the first agent I met. A couple were non-committal in any event – they liked the story but wanted various changes before they would represent me. Two were less hedging, happy to take the leap straight away. After a meeting with Pat White at Rogers, Coleridge and White in the summer of 2005, I had no doubt that she was the agent for me. Her experience was considerable, her enthusiasm infectious.

Pat approached publishers with the manuscript. Walker Books stood out. They were incredibly friendly and positive; they seemed genuinely interested in my writing. Pat entered discussions with them and on 17 October 2005 I received a call: Walker had offered a two-book deal. It was one of the best days of my life.

Getting a book published was only the beginning. Since signing that deal I’ve had incredible highs and lows. On the plus side: The Tygrine Cat won the 2008 Calderdale Children’s Book of the Year Award and was short-listed for the Stockton Children’s Book of the Year; Walker’s US affiliate, Candlewick Press, published a US edition in April 2008; Walker commissioned a sequel to The Tygrine Cat; and my second book, The Bloodstone Bird, was released in October 2008. On the downside: I have torn out my hair over titles; spent sleepless nights over deadlines; and lost my bearings on the way to a taxidermy conference (it was research, I promise). I’ve arrived at a bookshop where the scheduled school group never materialised; have missed an event where the dates were ‘confused.’ I have, in short, explored the depths of my pride and found that yes: I can sink even lower than I had imagined! It shouldn’t happen to a writer – but it does.

Over the next few weeks, I hope to share with you some of the dramas of writing books for children. I urge you to post your experiences too – the stranger, the better – you’ll be in good company!

Next week – The Death of a Cat: Killing a Central Character