Oh, that lovely moment when a story is accepted! I had an email yesterday from a fiction editor, accepting my story and adding a few kind words. "Rewarding read" is the phrase that stuck with me. After all, if a reader has no reward, no satisfaction at the end, why would they stick with you even for 2000 words?
I have a pattern when these letters or emails from editors arrive. First, I stare blankly at the screen in surprise ('somebody likes my work!'); then I rush to my documents folder to remind myself of which story has been accepted, because I have several out at any one time and I often change titles while I work. Muttering, 'Oh, it's THAT one,' I re-read. At this moment, the work takes on a Ready Brek glow of success. I re-read, remembering bits I was fond of - and hoping they don't get cut in the editing - and experiencing a curious surprise at the bits I had forgotten - those are always the parts I admire most, because it feels as though someone else wrote them.
This story I'm particularly pleased with. It arose out of a readers' contribution in the magazine and so it was specifically written to that market; I couldn't sell it elsewhere. Risky in pure business terms, but if a story drives you on, you have to go with it. I loved writing it, I could hear my characters' voices, feel their words unfurling in my head.
This all sounds very high-flown for a short story that will be read in a week and followed by another half-dozen in next week's magazine ... not quite chip wrappings but certainly fodder for dentists' surgeries. Yet if you don't write with utter conviction, I believe it shows through. I could - and will - write another whole post on this balance of conviction and cool-headed market knowledge because I'm certain it's what sells your work.

Aims and Distractions

First post. I should start by introducing myself but I've begun that one in writing the 'About Me' section - and that's enough personal disclosure for now, while I get used to the ether. There'll be more coming along, after all, as I blog and you never give away all the story in the first paragraph.
So: Aims and Distractions.
My aim is to write, to expand my markets, sell another story. I love earning money like this. It is money conjured out of nowhere, out of my head. When I was in an office, I felt that to some extent I got money for turning up each morning but writing isn't like that. If I don't put the words down, and send them off, and sell them each and every time, I don't get the money. Harder work, but so satisfying.
I've been spurred on by two other writers this morning. One was a celebrity writer I came across recently in the media. Lovely person, great at her first career ... but really - and I've read the extract - not the greatest writer. She is naturally criticised for trading on her celebrity. Fair point: she was certainly published because of who she was, but then again, she wrote it herself and she had the self-belief to do it. And if she can, why can't I? This is, after all, supposed to be my trade.
Second was Anthony Horowitz on Breakfast TV this morning. Always an energizer - my mother reckons he talks like an express train - which he does, but he's vivid, articulate, tells the story straight and fast. He's well-known for having a skull in his office, to remind himself of the passing of time. Always an inspiration - he for his activity, the skull for its stillness.
His view is of the rooftops of Dickens' London. Mine is a willow tree. Changing colour just now, turning yellow among the green. My son loves this time of year as he earns money for sweeping up those leaves!
Distractions? After my companiable tree, and the state of my house, it's Woman's Hour. At 10am, just as I should be getting into my writing day, I need to stop for my daily burst of inspiration. Woman's Hour connects me out to the world beyond and I love it but I can't write at the same time so then I stop and do my housework while I listen. There's an odd sense of worlds colliding when I act as housewife while listening to women who do so much more; but it keeps me sane while I wash up and clean and empty bins and pick things up and move them, endlessly, around this house hoping that in the end, it will be tidy.