Mo Fanning - British writer and comic

Corona

Lockdown: The year of doing nothing

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Lockdown masks please

What did I do during lockdown? Did I learn another language, take up meditation, reorganise my life? No, actually I sat on my arse and stared at a computer screen, scrolling news site after news site hoping for something better. I took my ability to put things off to a whole new level. With a chapter to write or a short story to edit, I set aside tomorrow, and couldn’t settle to a blank page without first making sure I’d dusted shelves, peeled carrots, reorganised my spice collection or washed the bedroom windows.

My lockdown creation‘See how brilliantly this has come out,’ I said, brandishing what used to be a pickle jar at Mr Fanning. Sprayed Winter Gray and filled with dried flowers snaffled from Etsy. My creation would surely spark joy. Those were the days.

Ten months into lockdown and we’ve run out of things to say. We no longer rant and read headlines. All fight is drained. Quaint expressions like Covid Tsars, Track and Trace and I only drove to Yorkshire to test my eyes are consigned to the bin fire of recent history. Boris Johnson has copied Theresa May’s homework and passed it off as his own and dragged the country out of Europe when unity and group purchase power matters more than ever. A year ago, I’d be on a march, or demanding to talk to my local MP. Now I tut and turn the page.

I’ve lived through panic buying loo roll, tinned tomatoes and dried pasta, cut my own hair badly and refused to rattle saucepans as the NHS re-appropriated my rainbow.

Lockdown mania

Having always had an anal side (no sniggering in the cheap seats), Covid lockdown has brought out in me a new mania for cleaning products. I’ve every type of spray and pump-action refillable pouch known to man. The Fanning homestead smells of lemon, pine and honeysuckle rose. I discovered Apartment Therapy and bought into each tip and trick they sent my way. I’ve trolled Amazon for tools to clean windows, sprays to remove rust and (much to Mr Fanning’s chagrin) declared war on any item left out on a surface after use.

I’ve read many books. I tried Audible for a while, but never lasted longer than two minutes of someone’s soothing voice before losing consciousness and waking three hours later with the same voice now sixteen chapters further on. All these other stories did was make me more determined to write and finish Rebuilding Alexandra Small. And yet I still took eight months to progress from third to fourth draft.

I’ve filled many bin bags with the contents of my late Mother’s house. ‘Out with the old,’ I cried. ‘This is grief therapy.’ And then cowered out, stashing everything in a garage. I’ve made sourdough twice, a pizza once, and used hardly any of the stockpiled pasta.

2021

With 2021 barely on solids, it’s time to pretend I’ll make changes. Eat better, get fitter, spend less, write more, buy a sous-vide and never look back. Lockdown takes away any excuse about there not being enough hours in the day. With no morning or evening commute, a kitchen on hand, and zero social life, I should be laughing.

The issue here isn’t society or corona or the Tory party. It’s me. I’m lazy at heart. The only things done half well involved giving stuff up (smoking and drinking) rather than taking on new hobbies.

But come on. A sous-vide has to be worth a shot.

Coming soon ‘Rebuilding Alexandra Small’ and if you’re up for reading advance chapters and special offers, please join my mailing list.

The first TEN people to sign up will be sent a Kindle version of ‘The Armchair Bride’ absolutely FREE.

Rebuilding Alexandra Small will be published in 2021. The Armchair Bride is now available now from all good websites and bookstores. If you’d like to support my work, consider using Patreon.

2020: That was the year that was

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2020 - a view from my writing room
A view from my writing room

So, how’s about that 2020, then? It’s been a LONG twelve months. I’m going to avoid the elephant doing tricks on a beach ball in the corner of my writing room and stick to events non-Covid.

Why am I even bothering to tell you this? Because 2020 is a year I want to file away and not always for the worst of reasons – though let’s start with that. Things can only get better.

New Year’s Eve 2019 brought a phone call from The Royal Sussex Hospital for Mr Fanning. Something about how his previous test results somehow ‘got lost’, and would he come in urgently as the doctors spotted precancerous cells in his throat. If ever there came a clue as to the year that would follow… He’s now on every kind of medicine and in a ‘wait and worry’ non-critical state, but the fear sits in my mind, waiting to pounce.

A week earlier another hospital had called to say they’d admitted my mother. But not to fret, she’d be fine. On 15 February, my world suffered a huge blow as she passed away. On the bright side, she got great palliative care once free of the undignified horrors inflicted by Russells Hall Hospital; something she would never have received if Covid moved faster.

My regular cancer check-ups continued, and the powers that be decided my likely benign brain tumour could stay as it is. I’m still not sure I’ve dealt with this.

Big Girl Small Town - 2020 Book of the Year2020 Reading

Reading remained a constant pleasure. I devoured some great books in 2020. Jane Fallon always features on my year-end list. ‘Queen Bee’ was no exception. I got through it in days and revisited the story twice more. Kirsten Johnson’s ‘Guts’ turned into a gripping read and helped me sort out the mind of the lead character in my next novel. Richard Osman delighted me with ‘The Thursday Murder Club’ and if you haven’t already dipped your toe, can I recommend Lesley Manville’s Audible reading. A special mention for ‘The Wrong Knickers’ by Bryony Gordon and my absolute novel of the year (if not decade) ‘Big Girl, Small Town’ by Michelle Gallen.

2020 Writing

I Zoomed my way into two writing workshops this year. One from sitcom supremo Bennett Arron and the other my God of Comedy Logan Murray. I made online friends with some brilliant writers from the latter, and although I’ve been incredibly lazy about staying in touch, I plan to do more on that front. Their talent leaves me in awe.

Rebuilding Alexandra SmallRebuilding Alexandra Small by Mo Fanning finally came together after years of dithering under different titles and my putting writing off until my head was ready. I’m still not sure it is, but I need to move on. So many new ideas are clamouring for air. I might do a Kate Bush and stun you with two in one year in 2021. Though I probably won’t. Don’t hold your breath. It’s bad for you.

Standup took a backseat and is likely to remain thus. With Tier 4 looking set to settle awhile, pubs and clubs are shut, and as a novice, the online world provides nothing useful in the way of feedback. You can’t feel how well a joke lands in a virtual comedy show, given the audience are mostly other comics waiting to do their bit. I haven’t closed the door on this forever and am recording jokes for future use, but I know that if I revive things, it has to be a cold start. I must treat stand-up comedy like I’m a total newcomer with zero stage experience if I’m to get this right.

2020 Vision

And that’s been my year. I’ve moved from Brighton to the Black Country, though not fully. I gained a garden and a dedicated writing room. All my books came out in new covers and (to my surprise) sold well despite their age. Coming soon ‘Rebuilding Alexandra Small’ and if you’re up for reading advance chapters and special offers, please join my mailing list.

The first TEN people to sign up will be sent a Kindle version of ‘The Armchair Bride’ absolutely FREE.

Rebuilding Alexandra Small will be published in 2021. The Armchair Bride is now available now from all good websites and bookstores. If you’d like to support my work, consider using Patreon.

Six ways for a writer to handle the Covid pandemic

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COVID-19

I can’t be the only writer unsure how (or if) to deal with an unpredictable global pandemic. COVID-19 didn’t exist when I started work on my upcoming novel – and given a whole chunk of the action hangs off events at a seaside cafe, I could have done without it hitting. I don’t mean to demean people who lost loved ones or suffered through lockdown, just for now, this is all about me.

There’s a sound argument that books are where the reader goes to escape. The world is ugly, so why drag misery to the table? I thought the same a few months ago.  Now, I watch films, drama, and comedy on TV, and flinch as characters get too close or hug greetings. The rational me knows this isn’t an issue, but I feel like I need to make my story resonate more and mirror the time in which it’s set. And that time is ‘tomorrow’ – the immediate tomorrow, not the sci-fi future.

After scrolling many a blog and social media site, it seems there are six ways for writers to handle Coronavirus.

Ignore it

Pretend COVID never happened. Write the story you always aimed to write as if nothing in the world changed. Tell your story in a parallel universe. Most books reaching the shops were written long before the pandemic hit, so they make limited or no reference. They work. Why wouldn’t yours?

Predict how it might be

Soap operas have come back to UK TV screens. They’re filmed months in advance and handed the onerous job of having to appear current. The writers make their best guess at how things might be. And given our government’s hobby of confusing the Holy Bajesus out of everyone, that’s no straightforward task. Assuming your book comes out in six months, might there be a vaccine, might it be on ration, might more be dead, might there be an even bigger lockdown, or could everything go away … like Trump insists?

Sunny uplands

If you are as crazy as a coot and Trump’s predictions resonate, you could set your book in a time when the characters are ‘back to normal’ with the odd snippet of dialogue talking of how hard COVID life used to be. Things might be better. Lessons learnt by everybody. It might be a gentler world. I’m a natural cynic, so this isn’t the path I ever plan on taking. It sounds too much like science fiction.

Dark and desperate

I’m more prone to take this (total opposite) approach and force my characters to grapple with a post-COVID world where air is in limited supply and everybody lives in bubbles. There’s a place for this – and many TV commissioning editors are crying out for this kind of trite nonsense, but what if we move out of the shade in six months? It’s going to date your story – like that entire chapter I set in an Internet cafe in The Armchair Bride. That’s egg on my face.

Change your time

Most of us tell our stories in the here and now. With the here and now being just a tad weird, maybe we should change the timeline. If jumping into the future isn’t safe, why not skip back a year and set it in the recent past? To be fair, this is the safest bet. Although … if you gravitate towards present tense, a ‘find and replace’ exercise won’t change every ‘is’ into a ‘was’.

Write in the now

Perhaps the most straightforward way to write our stories is to react as if it’s unfolding now. Keep the references to lockdown light and universal. Stay out of places you know will be closed – don’t write scenes in nightclubs. Your characters can still meet in pubs or coffee shops by all means, but sit them at a table, not jostling for service at a bar. Romantic fiction suffers most here – how would two strangers overcome social distancing?

Whatever you choose, I wish you writing wonder.

How’s your lockdown going?

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Lockdown

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

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Lockdown

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.