charles barrow's writing

Pantser -  "A NaNoWriMo *  term that means that you 'fly by the seat of your pants' when you are writing your novel. You have nothing but the absolute basics  planned out for your novel.  This outlook towards writing is often opposed by the 'planner', who knows exactly what is going to happen, when it will happen, and where it will happen. There is often enmity  between the two types of writers." The above quote is lifted directly from the online  Urban Dictionary **  and I post it here because the whole debate of plotting versus pantsing (I might have just invented that word) is very much exercising my mind at the moment. Back in September I wrote about the struggle I'd been having with doing any kind of writing at all, and how I'd employed one of my trusty old tricks for demolishing writer's block; namely writing for just eight minutes every morning. Well, as usual, the trick had worked for me and I found myself turning up at the blank page every

Comic Sans to the rescue - be gone writer’s block. I read a post on FB, from a writer, saying that she'd discovered a really helpful tip for anyone suffering from writer's block: change the font you usually write in, preferably to Comic Sans, and the problem will almost magically evaporate, as if that particular font has some kind of healing power for the suffering wordsmith. She wrote, quite lovingly, about the soft, rounded quality of the letters, and how this helped to stimulate creative thoughts. Quite frankly, I was sold. Also, as soon as she posted this revelation, other writer's who had discovered the same (or a similar) trick, weighed into the conversation saying that it actually didn't matter which font you chose, because the mere fact of switching up the font, almost always had the desired affect of shaking loose a stream of words/sentences/plot twists and other desirable weapons in the war against the blank page. Changing the colour of the font was a popular

Some five years ago I blogged on here about a stressful time at work and how it was impacting my creative process, and my writing habit. Reading over that blog post this morning I easily remember the anxiety of that period, and how it bled into every area of my life. Anxiety and stress are like poisons that seep through the blood, affecting every part of the body, as well as the brain. The solution I found, back then, for my inability to write anything, was an eight minute daily exercise. I'd sit down each day and write for eight minutes. It would seem that hardly anything could be achieved in such a short amount of time, and if a daily word-count is all important then that might be true,  but beyond the matter of a word tally was the not inconsequential matter of confidence regained. Over time, an eight minute a day habit worked wonders for that. And I also found that those manageable eight minutes could easily stretch into ten, fifteen, twenty, often without any effort at all. Bu

I really haven't got much writing done during August. My head has been full of other stuff, life stuff, family stuff, work, home. Everyday stuff. And I couldn't manage to carve out any large chunks of time for writing. I have been making notes on John Mann 4 (tentatively titled Fewer), and re-reading old notes that have been made over the past year, or so. I'm going to collate all these notes, type them up, and see how much of a story they add up to - plot wise, that is - and then I'll take it from there. The one thing I did get written was a short, non-fiction piece for a Brighton book, due for publication next year. No news yet on whether my story has been accepted, but I was pleased with what I wrote, and very much enjoyed writing it. I'm keeping my fingers crossed for good news.

I've just a read an autobiographical letter that my Uncle wrote to his two sons (my cousins). The letter runs to many pages, and details his life between the ages of 7 and 13, between the outbreak of World War II and VJ (Victory Over Japan) Day, when the war was officially ended. It's a fantastically entertaining document, because my uncle is a great raconteur, and it's full of interesting family history, and anecdotes, and biographical details about his young life (and by extension that of my father too), during an unimaginable time for anyone who didn't live through that period. Many things that I read will stay with me. My uncle chewing a softly heated lump of tarmac, because it was flavoursome (it had a smoky flavour, he says), and he was so starved of sweets/toffees to chew because of rationing. But, he also says that you didn't dare let it harden in your mouth as you'd never remove it from your molars. My dad got blown off his bike in a V2 rocket blast. He

I've always enjoyed visiting cemeteries, or wandering around them I should say. No one near and dear to me has ever been buried in a cemetery, we're all about cremation in my gang, so I have never had a destination grave that I could deliver flowers to, a headstone that I could reflect silently beside; one that records the barest details of a loved one's life. My forebears' ashes float out at sea or, rather, feed the fish at the bottom of the ocean. Maybe that's why I enjoy a stroll through a graveyard, I'm not emotionally invested. I am always intrigued though; by the choice of marker (stone, granite, cross, statue, urn), how well it's tended (fresh/wilted flowers, plastic ornaments, polished marble), the occupant's names that always seem to conjure Victorian maiden aunts, and Edwardian railway porters, and of course those all important bookend dates (enviably distant cousins, or woefully close siblings) that both start and finish all of our stories. My

I'm dealing with a few health issues at the moment. This is a very dull situation to be caught up in. Thankfully I'm not ill enough to take to my bed, but neither am I well enough to fully participate, or that's how it feels on a daily basis. Consequently, there has been little writing getting done. My focus just isn't up to the task. I can still make notes though; jot down story ideas, outline characters, imagine scenes and situations. And I can still take photos that prompt questions. Photo is the author's own.  

I imagine I'm not alone in wincing at the sound of my own voice when I hear it on my answerphone message - thank heavens for the automated one that giffgaff supplies (though it's recently changed to a gruff sounding bloke with a Mancunian accent, which I imagine callers could conceivably believe is actually me). So, why the Dickens, would I consider recording myself reading extracts of my own writing, you may wonder, as, indeed, I wonder myself? Writers reading their own work to an audience is a time honoured tradition, of course, Dickens (since I've already invoked his name) famously toured all over the country, and America too for that matter, giving wildly popular live performances. I'm sure there are other examples too but he's the earliest example that I can think of. I've been to hear/watch a few authors read from their latest books; Matt Haig, Jake Arnott, A. N. Wilson, Cathy Rentzenbrink, Kate Mosse, Markus Zusak to mention just a few, and I've been

I once read a review of a Billie Holliday album, and the reviewer wrote, 'She sang, and singing was never the same again.' That, right there in a nutshell, is how I feel about Kate Bush. The first time I heard Wuthering Heights on the radio it rocked me back on my heels, and it still does. The Kick Inside was released in 1978, and I've bought every new album she's put out since then, and I haven't done that with any other artist. In 1979, I saw her play live three times at the Hammersmith Odeon in London. T he third concert was a benefit gig, at the end of her tour, in which she performed jointly with Peter Gabriel and Steve Harley. In 1980, I queued for hours outside HMV, Oxford St, to get my copy of her latest album, Never Forever, signed. I eventually made it inside the store, and to within 20 feet of her, and had to give up my place in the queue and leave, I can't remember why but I kick myself (inside and outside) now. Kate Bush fans have to be patient you

 Once again I'm reminded how a calm mind and a regular routine are crucial to my ability to focus on my work in progress, and to actually sit down in front of a screen and write. When all is calm, and I have no pressing worries then I can produce work. When a big life change crashes through my front door then my ability to form sentences, and record them in some way, immediately leaves by the back door. Gone. The big issue is a home move. I'm moving on again. I'm buying a property this time, something I've never done before, and never thought I would be able to do. The prospect is, by turns, really exciting and really scary, and thinking about it consumes all my available processing power (leaving no room for creative endeavours). I simply can't call the estate agent, and then email the solicitor, and then sit down and outline a third act twist. I just can't. At least not at this stage. The situation may change in the coming weeks but I suspect I'll have to

Music. Very evocative, but very subjective. One person's all time favourite, is someone else's headache. And a lot of it is elevator music, muzak, annoying ear worm, a racket. Of course, with some tunes, there is also a lot more going on than lyrics and a melody. There is the instant Bing of recognition when the opening bars of a song starts, that can transport the listener to another time and place completely. For me this happens, most often, with songs from my youth. To be honest, I don't even have to much like a song to have this happen, but most times I don't choose those tracks, they just appear on a nearby radio, but a big part of the appeal of my favourite ones is that they do transport me back to what, now, seems like simpler days (though I'm sure I never thought my life was simple at the time). The memories aren't necessarily all happy, of course, a break-up song is just as evocative as a make-out song.  Another bonus of an old favourite is that I reme

FaceBook served me up a Memory this morning, from this day last year. I usually don't pay too much attention to these Memories, but this one is pertinent because it was the cover image of Utopia Avenue by David Mitchell, and I'm currently reading this very book, so it's something of a coincidence it should appear. I can see in the post that I was very excited by the thought of its publication, and the excitement has proven justified. I am loving the book. It's the best book on music and being in a band that I've ever read. Utopia Avenue is the band's name. They are British, and struggling to make it on the 60s music scene. Mark Bolan, David Bowie, and Brian Jones make cameo appearances as do Alan Ginsberg, Sandy Denny, Keith Moon and many others. I thought Daisy Jones and The Six by Taylor Jenkins Reid, about a 70s American band, was a good read but this knocks that into a cocked hat. What it's also really good at, and this shouldn't be surprising comin

It's snowing outside. Us Brits get very animated about even a light dusting of snow. Either we rush out into the garden to desperately scrape together enough of the stuff to build an undersized snow person, or we declare a national emergency, and panic buy pasta, and bog roll. Three inches of snow and the trains stop running, a five inch blanket and the electricity supply fails, and we call family to tell them how much we love them before saying our final goodbyes. I submitted a short story for publication, a piece of micro fiction. I just wanted to highlight that fact. It's important that I remind myself that I am achieving things in lockdown, that I'm still moving towards my goals. Just more slowly than hoped because there's an avalanche of snow up to my ankles out there people, give me a break. Photo is the author's own  

My mum and dad both worked at Warner Brother's film studios, in Teddington (UK), when they were teenagers. It's where they met, in fact. It was something of a family tradition, working there, as both had either aunts, an uncle, a mother or a sister all employed in one capacity or another at the studio. While my mum worked in the offices, as a gofer, my dad was an errand boy, cycling around the studio lot delivering messages. But family legend has it that he did have one brush with the glamorous side of film production when he was promoted to the role of clapperboard boy on a James Mason film, Candlelight in Algeria (1944). Apparently, my dad harboured ambitions to work his way up to cameraman eventually, but the Luftwaffe put paid to those dreams when the studio was badly damaged in a V2 rocket attack in July of '44. Damn Hitler to hell for millions of reasons, but I feel really bad for my dad that he had to watch that dream of his go up in smoke. Curious to see the movie t

This, really, is a reminder to myself that I shouldn't give up on things so easily. I've just picked up a book that I gave up on reading previously, and I'm really enjoying it. The book was a smash hit, bestseller back in the early 90s. It was the title that everyone was reading that year, and it was a critical success as well as a commercial one. Of course, I jumped on that bandwagon, and I bought it, and I dove right in, and... I hit a brick wall. It doesn't happen often that I give up on a book, but it does happen sometimes, and it happened with this one. I struggled, so I closed the book, and put it down. But, here's the thing, the author did his job on me. The echo of the book never left me, even after decades. The flavour of it lingered. I don't know whether it was the characters, or the atmosphere, or the insights into a different culture that fascinated me, or a mixture of all of those things, but it put a hook deep into me and I never managed to shake i