Mo Fanning

Writer’s block – yet another writer with yet another tip

July 29, 2020 by Mo Fanning Leave a Comment

Writer’s block is painful. Everyone gets a form of it at some point, and most writers have ways of dealing with it. A frequent fix is to ‘just write anything’ until the feeling of being blocked passes.

I recently stumbled upon a new tip for dealing with writer’s block, and it’s working like magic; not just to free up a brain jam, but also as a way to build an effective and engaging narrative dripping with that magic ingredient, conflict.

Write the last line first.

I’ll give that a moment to sink in.

When you start a new story or chapter or scene, write the final line of dialogue before you get going (or when the block sets in). This means you spend the rest of your writing time working towards that outcome, shaping actions and words around creating this natural outcome.

The last line should either tie everything up in a nice bow or deliver a cliff-hanging incentive to read on.

‘And that’s why we should never have done it’ was the example handed down in a recent script-writing workshop. We set off writing dialogue, not knowing our characters, but knowing where we needed to end up. Keeping the outcome in our heads and having it so clearly defined influenced so much of what came before. Lo and behold, the writer’s block lifts.

Choosing something that would make the reader want to turn the page when creating your final line chapter ends helps give your narrative force. Think how you might write a scene or chapter in your work in progress that ends on any of the following:

‘What now?’ she said. ‘How the hell do we make this right?’
‘This is all your fault. I never want to see you again.’
‘She’s going to hit the roof when she sees it.’

TEASER: Rebuilding Alexandra Small

June 12, 2020 by Mo Fanning Leave a Comment

With (hopefully final) edits well underway on what will become my next romantic comedy novel – Rebuilding Alexandra Small – I thought I might tease you with an extract from one of the earlier chapters. No spoilers (beyond those on the dust jacket), just a conversation with a stranger that sets Alexandra on the path to something better.

Through rusting seafront railings, I gaze down at the grey pitch roof of the Beachcomber Cafe. In its tiny backyard, a petrol generator rattles and sooty chimneys belch evil fumes.

‘Are you OK, love?’ says a woman whose dog has been sniffing at my pumps. Big brown eyes gaze up from a pointy white face.

I tell her I’m fine. Except I’m not, and my voice wobbles.

‘If those are tears over a lad, wipe them dry,’ she says. ‘None of them are worth it.’

She nods over at a bench, and we sit.

‘My best mate works down there,’ I say. ‘I’m trying to decide whether to tell her what’s happened … and she can convince me everything will be OK.’

The woman weighs my words. ‘It’s been my experience that OK is exhausting.’

I glance sideways. ‘Have you considered joining the Samaritans?’

She chuckles to herself. ‘I was someone’s wife for thirty-seven years. I spent the last eighteen months looking after a man who should have passed two years earlier. When he went, my sister took me in and made me better. She called me a shadow. I lay down in her spare bedroom and didn’t get out of that bed on my own for another two weeks. I had to learn how to do everything again for myself, I’d invested so long looking after him.’

She hesitates a minute.

‘They had to prompt me to shut the bathroom door when I used the loo. I’d become used to leaving it open in case he fell and cried my name. I’d forgotten how to sleep. All I did was doze with one ear tuned to his voice. Everyone sent cards telling me how sorry they felt about him dying. Nobody thought to ask if I minded.’

I look into bright blue eyes shaped by sadness, and my heart falls silent.

‘I was glad his suffering ended.’ Her voice becomes a whisper. ‘Not because I wished him dead. I didn’t. I just realised he didn’t want to be the husband he’d turned into, so subservient, watching me waste away.’

She wipes the back of one hand across her eyes, and her dog peers up, as if sensing tears.

‘I had been telling myself that when he died, I’d be better. I’d make myself well again. He’d be out of pain, and life would go on. Until we meet again. If that’s what transpires. I never know. I’m not a Christian or anything, but I don’t count out the afterlife.’

‘My marriage is over,’ I say.

Out loud it sounds dramatic. Diva like. Dumb.

‘There’s some who would say it’s best you learn what sort of man you’ve married now rather than later. Do you have children?’

I shake my head.

‘Then you’ve had a fortuitous escape, even if it doesn’t sound like it.’ A stiff hand finds mine. ‘When my Donald left me, that was my fresh start. This is yours.’

‘What if I don’t want a fresh start?’

‘Life decides for you.’ She chuckles to herself. ‘We don’t get any say. What counts now is what you do next. Replay the mistakes or make new ones?’

Coming soon

After losing her job, husband and home in the space of three hours, Allie takes stock. Does she want what she had or is it time to rebuild her life?

Rebuilding Alexandra Small tells the story of what happens when a have-it-all life crumbles, and a new one starts.

It’s available later this year.

Would you like to read all my books for free, before they even come out? All I ask for in return is that you post an honest review when each book launches on Amazon.

To be on my ‘street team’, please email mo@mofanning.com

Grief: A visit to the museum

June 2, 2020 by Mo Fanning Leave a Comment

My mother died in February. At the time, the virus that now traps us in our homes was little more than a rumble. Second or third story on the news, rendered insignificant by reports of heavy rain or Boris Johnson’s latest infidelity. We were lucky in many ways. We had the funeral she planned, she left us surrounded by the people she loved. For a week or two, I lingered and tried to turn her silent house back into a home, finally admitting defeat and driving back to Brighton.

Then came lock-down.

Grief cannot be neatly portioned into two weeks or one month. It comes and goes.

Mine was placed on hold.

This weekend, I’ll return to the Midlands – with written police permission – to turn her museum into something new. I’ll buy three rolls of bin bags and fill them with precious photographs, ornaments, perfumes, Tupperware boxes, handbags and headscarves.

In the days and weeks that carried us through to her passing away, my temper often frayed. I grew frustrated and angry not just at her illness, but at those around me trying to help. If a cup found its way into the wrong cupboard or someone dared vacuum a rug, I lashed out. Listening for any unexpected sounds, I lay awake, knowing that calling 999 was no longer an option. All my go-to numbers were mobile phones, people trained to deal with death.

I’m unsure how seeing her home again will change me. It would be easy to settle back to the grieving process.

I know what she’d rather happened, and plan to do everything in my power to bring life back to a too-long empty house.

Getting help

Grief is a natural response to losing someone you care about. There’s no right or wrong way to grieve. Everyone’s experiences of grief are individual. The important thing is to do what feels right for you. I would have struggled without the support of Marie Curie nurses. In the memory of my mother, we asked that there be no flowers at her funeral, rather donation to the organisation.

Read: Grieving in your own way

How’s your lockdown going?

May 21, 2020 by Mo Fanning Leave a Comment

How’s your lockdown going?

I’m borderline depressed. So I don’t plan on ending my lockdown life … or doing anything with it.

I haven’t learned another language or finished work on my next book.

Each day, the government issues press briefings; shit sandwiches where the bread is also made of shit.

If you go on Twitter and post something innocent like “Baking banana bread is brilliant”, within one minute a total stranger hits back with “My sister is a coeliac and this is a harmful view”, while someone else adds, “Your silence about croissants is telling”

Facebook needs a “we all know you’re not really this happy, Karen” button. Most newspaper websites feature user comments that read like Mein Kampf on shuffle.

I keep reading how the hardest part of lockdown is missing someone you saw every day. As far as I’m concerned, not having to sit opposite Pam with halitosis is more a blessing than a curse.

To keep things normal while working from home, I leave passive-aggressive notes when mugs don’t make it into the dishwasher. I’ve put all our food into sweaty plastic tubs and written my name on the outside.

I’ve never been one for sunbathing. While everyone else cultivates new moles to worry over, I’m happier indoors. My latest hobbies involve watching porn and making up dialogue, and reading reviews for places I can never go eat.

But, all of this should be over in time for Brexit, when we get to spend the next 20 years eating fox meat in an abandoned Debenhams on the outskirts of Inverness.

Five lockdown whinges

May 15, 2020 by Mo Fanning 1 Comment

Lockdown: You know how everyone has up-days and down-days? And during this pandemic, they’re only too ready to tell you all about it? Today is my depression down-day. And yes, you’ve most likely read the same self-indulgent nonsense from a hundred other people, but it’s my party and I’ll cry if I want to.

These are my five reasons not to be cheerful. I share them hoping that by getting them off my chest, depression will lift. And if you recognise how yourself in these words, you’ll feel better too.

What’s the point in writing a book?

Since lockdown, every vaguely sentient being has decided it’s time they found that one book that supposedly lives inside us all. WTF! There’s already enough competition. If every actor, comic, singer or lead guitarist now thinks this is their moment to shine, what chance is there for a mid-table writer with a feisty new RomCom in the works?

Is my book historical fiction?

I’ve been working on ‘Rebuilding Alexandra Small’ for the best part of a year. I’m editing a story written pre-lockdown. People hang out together. they kiss. Love happens. At one point there’s a very messy three-way bedroom scene (not what you’re thinking). Do I tweak scenes to imply contact? What will the new normal (TM) look like? If I started over, would I write a very different story? Most of what I know is the comedy of interaction. Am I past my sell-by date?

Even without distractions, I’m not writing

I can no longer blame my sluggish pace on lunch invitations or meeting mates for coffee. Or shopping. I’m on furlough from my proper job, and that means eight weeks of time to write. I figured If I got up early, sat down at nine and worked through, I’d soon complete ‘Rebuilding Alexandra Small’. Instead, I’ve picked a perfectly good plot to pieces, and spent days staring at the same piece of dialogue. That’s when I’m not hoovering, baking bread, polishing mirrors, washing windows, ironing, sitting down for a cup of tea, watching a box set or reading the news … or Facebook … or Twitter. Long story short, even with zero distractions, targets whoosh past.

What if I lose my proper job?

I can’t be alone in letting this fear fill my every waking minute. How can anyone write when they might end up having nothing left to do but write?

When all of this started, we told ourselves lockdown might last two to three months. Now we’re looking at the rest of this year. Maybe longer. And how many companies can afford to pay their staff until then?

As any writer will tell you, books don’t buy you much in the way of a life. Unless you’re already rich and famous … and then they absolutely do.

People annoy me – even more now we can’t mix

Thursday at 8pm should be a time for communal joy. The first time our nation clapped for carers, I was moved. Genuinely. My cold dark heart thawed. By week eight, the magic is gone. There’s an element of: if you don’t clap, you hate nurses and deserve to die. The ageing homo who lives above, blasts Vera Lynn from his beat box while the students two doors down take a break from what sounds like a constant state of virtual pub quiz. And when I see politicians who only three months earlier were busy selling off ‘our NHS’ clap their money-grabbing hands, my head hammers.

Having shared my five-item list, a weight has lifted. Maybe tomorrow, I’ll knuckle back down and tidy the words back into pages and into chapters and then a book.

Be kind.

That’s really all we have.