Mr McGuffin is back for some seasonal shenanigans, in which he’s visited by 3 characters who have a bit of a bone to pick with him…
I spent a lot of 2019 insulting my goals; poking them, calling them names, and generally hating on them. I’ve decided that in 2020 I should be kinder to them, and as well all know, whenever I decide something like that, I’m going to make a blog post out of it and insist that everyone should be doing it. You’re welcome.
On what felt like the first and long-awaited spring day of the year, I think about how the things we do in this season could also be applied to fiction that’s been in hibernation for any period of time.
(And if anyone dares to make a comment about how writing a blog post about something instead of actually doing it is the ultimate procrastination, I will sic Tark and Mara on you.)
We all have something in common. We were once terrible writers. Perhaps you’re a terrible writer now. Perhaps you’ve never even tried. Perhaps you were a terrible writer last week, but have been something approaching genius since last Thursday. Most of us never find out. We should, though, because there’s a lot of value in bad writing.
Ten years ago, we had woefully little to get truly offended about. There was little pleasure to be had in face-to-face confrontation, given its general ickiness and constant threat of physical violence. But now we have LOADS to get offended about, every day of the week! Whoever says that things aren’t better nowadays obviously just doesn’t have enough friends online.
We can’t get enough of these modern historical TV dramas! Such feisty heroines! Such swashbuckling storylines! Such bosoms! Seriously, there are bosoms everywhere! Wouldn’t it be fabulous to have such excitement in real life?
But hold on a second… what would this mean for your olfactory well-being? Your ultra-modern duplex? Your HONOUR?
We’re told that by far the best training for writers is reading. But what happens when what you’re reading is being a big bully? Tempting you with sweet nothings? Calling you names? Interfering with your confidence and ability to write? I have a conversation with an unbearably smug book to explore the concept, and discover something nasty.