Mo Fanning - British writer and comic

Comedy

A dark romance I wrote today

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New York Romance

It’s been a while since I’ve released a book. People have been asking me when the next one is coming out, and today, I’m excited to announce that my new dark romance novel will be out towards the end of this year.

New York CityThis new book is special to me because it’s set in a city I fell in love with: New York. I’m still trying to decide on the final title – there are several in contention – and my beta readers are hard at work telling me what’s wrong. (Yes, I take feedback very seriously!)

It’s the story of a father who lost touch with his gay son due to words spoken in haste and his journey to reconnect. The main character, Silas, is an interesting man who weeds gardens and (once a year) dresses up as Santa. I’m sure you’ll love him as much as I do!

What they said about ‘Rebuilding Alexandra Small’

I’ve also received some wonderful feedback from my readers on my most recent book. Here are a few testimonials:

“A book that was easy to get into from the star.”

“Told in a chic lit format but with a gritty core”

“Witty and fast-paced”

“A lovely, fun, summery read that’s also smart and moving. Definitely laugh out loud so don’t say I didn’t warn you”

OK, so I’m shamelessly plugging my new book. But please buy a copy of my earlier books as well! They’re all available on Amazon and make great gifts for the romance reader in your life. Thank you for your support!

 

Writing: it’s my job to point things out

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Writing for writers

A frequently quoted ‘rule’ for writing is to write something every day. No matter if it’s good. No matter if it’s bad. Set yourself a window – anything from ten minutes to every waking moment – and sit in front of a screen or an empty piece of paper and write. The idea being if you do this each day, a habit forms and something good will come. As advice goes, it sits up there with ‘sometimes, even a blind squirrel finds a nut’.

Writing isn’t a natural thing for us as a species. For most of evolution, nobody wrote anything – fair enough there’s the odd cave drawing that historians insist are early attempts at storytelling. On that basis, bus-seat sharpie-penned pledges of Kazza luvs Jez carry equal value.

Writing for many years was the preserve of the elite. Even now, it remains a strange way to communicate.

When I stand on a stage and tell jokes, I see faces. The feedback is instant and I sense when an audience needs me to clarify or drop planned patter and jump to another topic. When I write a story, my words vanish into a void. Short of the occasional Amazon review, I don’t know who reads my books or how much they understand of the worlds I create.

Writing short set-ups

I try to find something interesting and point it out. I’ll ask you to look at someone or something and understand the flaws and persuade you that what I see is of interest. When learning the language of stand-up comedy, I picked up on how the shortest set-up works best. If a comic needs to explain the premise, chances are it’s unfamiliar.

It’s not the job of a writer or comedian to ram information into the brains of an audience.

The worst writing (and comedy) happens when those in charge abandon ‘joint attention‘ in favour of trying to sell their audience into an idea or world. It’s incredibly hard to do surreal comedy or writing and do it well.

Some of the worst writing advice is to create words for yourself and never consider the audience. For me, the audience comes first. I am part of the audience, but I’m also aware when what I find funny might be too personal. I’m not here to impress with clever plot twists or elaborate language and don’t care what you think about me. I’m not in the book. When I’m on stage telling jokes, you see a version of me.

What I aim to do is point out what’s there … if you look in the right places.

This is how we function as humans. Side-by-side we scan those around us, our landscape, the absurdity and improbability.

It’s my job to point things out.

Getting choppy with standup

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It’s been a while since I updated readers on my bizarre bid to become a standup comedian. With nearly two terms under my belt, I’m well on the way to being an absolute beginner.

As with anything new, there are times when I despair at the lack of progress. I emerge often from the class with every word I thought hilarious crossed out, and my fledgling comedy brain mired in confusion.

The thing is when it comes to writing a story, I’m on solid ground. When I read back over new chapters, I see at once what works and what doesn’t. And – importantly – I know how to fix what’s broken. With standup, I’m nowhere near that perfect state. I know the theory, but putting it into practice isn’t as easy as it looks. So much depends on the writing.

Standup comedy demands a different skill set. The language is different. Any audience must be able to read my act as standup. I can’t shuffle into the spotlight, grab the microphone and tell a story. That’s been the hardest thing to accept.

This weekend, my ego gave itself a boost … and if you happen to be struggling to make progress with your latest writing project, I may offer help.

Standup comedy – experiment 1

This applies to standup, but you’ll easily adapt this exercise in self-flagellation to any writing project.

Just so long as you’ve read or seen enough of what you’re trying to write.

For this experiment, you’ll need

  • 1 willing partner/friend
  • 1 sample of your writing
  • A safe space (optional)

Hand your willing partner/friend a copy of your work in progress. Ask them to perform or read your work out loud.

That’s it really.

It’s all in the edit

Mr Fanning picked up my set and put on his ‘let me show you how it’s done‘ face. He started to read and within seconds I was shouting out. He was adding words here and there. Doing the thing my comedy teacher warned against.

Standup calls for choppy, very short sentences. It takes forever to edit six words into four and have it still make sense. And work as a gag.

It really helped to put myself in the shoes of my long-suffering standup comedy teacher. To hear what she hears each time I get up on the stage and try something new.

It made me think I might have learned something.

I reckon this would work for any creative project. As the writer, you know how it should sound and what will work. Get someone else to bring it to life. And you’ll see how easy it is to kill.

One word of warning, this experiment will drive a wedge of resentment between you and whoever you choose to support your quest to become a better writer.

Buy them nice flowers. It works.

A new addiction

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Jill Edwards Course Mates
Jill Edwards Course Mates

I’ve a new addiction. In its purest form, it’s a need for attention.

That stand-up comedy course I did … I want to do more. On Tuesday evening, along with 11 other terrified first-time comics, I waited backstage at the Komedia in Brighton, as nearly 300 people took their seats.

Our ‘New Act Night’ marked the end of a twelve-week course where I put myself in the very capable hands of Jill Edwards.

She doesn’t suffer fools gladly. On occasions, she scared me. Her rules didn’t always make sense … at first. But she made a solemn promise in that first lesson – “If you follow my instruction, listen to feedback, take on board what I’m telling you, I’ll put you on stage and people will laugh.”

She didn’t break her promise.

Every one of those twelve weeks were – as they say on every tired talent show – a journey. My emotions veered from sheer frustration through to the joy of nailing a performance. When the audience laughed (and at one point applauded one of my jokes), I was stunned.

And more than that, I’ve made new friends. People I care about deeply.

So … how to deal with this addiction?

For weeks, I couldn’t decide whether to bite the bullet and join Jill’s advanced comedy workshop. At one point, it looked like that decision was taken for me when I wasn’t invited. But that turned out to be a technology glitch. Of course, the second my money cleared, I changed my mind.

But after Tuesday evening, I changed it back.

Now I can’t wait!

If you fancy giving stand-up comedy a go, visit Jill’s website.

 

Learning to write again – the world of standup comedy

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It took years to reach a point where I believe my writing reflects ‘my voice’. There is a rhythm, and the words flow in a certain way. An attitude lives on the page.

It wasn’t always so. I’ve made all the rookie mistakes … joined peer groups and reacted to each and every suggestion (writing by committee), punkishly failed to break convention, edited as I write, failed to plan. I’ve done them all, and more.

Learning to work with a structural editor is tough. The bad ones rewrite. The good ones dig into pace and structure, and make scant reference to actual words. The end result must still sound like me. People buy my books. Not stories written by an editor.

This isn’t how things work in standup.

Stop telling stories

Being told to lose the self from my words is anathema to me. I’ve spent more than ten years finding ways to tell stories with the fewest words possible. Often, by the time I get up on stage in comedy class, what’s in my hands has been through hours of honing.

When my teacher crosses out words because I’m ‘telling a story’, I want to argue that this is what I do. I make money by telling stories.

Every comedy class handout stresses how standup needs to be about the person on stage. It has to stay true to the performer. Otherwise, the comic becomes a hack … what my teacher calls – with a roll of the eyes and ample derision – ‘another new act’.

As a group of students we are told to be themselves, not someone else. But the handful of words that survive a classroom edit no longer sound like me. I’m not allowed to tell stories.

It leaves me asking if standup is something I can do … at its very basic level.

Choppy

The point my teacher labours is that standup relies on a choppy rhythm. The audience needs to read an act as comedy. My lines must form themselves into (short) setup and punch.

Nobody talks like that in real life, but authenticity is not the objective. Standup works like poetry. It has meter and rhyme. It’s choppy, choppy, choppy.

In TV and film, (first world) horror stories abound of scriptwriters who turn in work, only to have teams tear apart and reassemble perfect prose into lines they no longer recognise. The writer’s contribution amounts to little more than an occasional turn of phrase. A persistent idea now voiced by others. That’s what happens in comedy class. I become my own creative consultant.

Everything that passes muster – the dozen or so gags permitted airtime in my three-minute set – will have been through many iterations. I’ll have read the wordy mess out loud, cut each line that didn’t land with a laugh. I’ll have been told which words to lose and had my beautiful authentic-sounding sentences shredded. I’ll have read it again, and tried to get behind something that I no longer find funny. I nod again as more invited edits contradict previous cuts. My teacher reduces carefully crafted pictures into lifeless iambic pentameter.

Clone zone

I detest what remains, but at the same time find the process fascinating. There are times when I feel like giving up in frustration … and that reminds me of when I first learned how to write stories. The challenge this time is not to write for readers. It’s to get up on stage and breathe life into dead words. A different skill set.

What I fear most is sounding like a clone. Having thrown myself into things and hung around new comedy nights throughout this three-month process, I’ve developed an ear for performers who come from the same factory. Would I want to market the end result under my name when I don’t feel connected to what remains?

As a novelist, such an approach would get me nowhere. But in this new world of standup, it seems to be expected. A fellow student noted our education is like learning to drive. The rituals and rules exist to make us safe and competent drivers. It’s only after passing that we get to cross over our hands and develop our style.

I’m left having to ask if this is for me. I’ve enjoyed doing something different, and pushing myself to face a fear. The company along the way has been most agreeable, but it’s played havoc with my writing.

There remains one last hurdle. An audition to perform live at the course showcase. Right up until I added my name to the list, I was sure I wasn’t going to bother, but now …

It won’t sound like me. The words are not truly mine, but I might as well see this through.