Mo Fanning - British writer and comic

Toast of Brighton

The art of doing two things at once

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If I could choose a superpower, it would be multitasking. I can do two (or even three) things at roughly the same time, but I won’t pretend I’m doing anything other than dividing my focus. Each task gets a slice of my brain, nothing gets the whole twisted deal.

When I tried my hand at stand-up, I set goals. I would see if I had it in me to tell jokes in front of two hundred people and make them laugh. I’d also find new ways to sharpen my writing.

I performed in front of 200 people last December.

Since then, I’ve continued the quest to write better material, and believe I’ve made headway. But it’s come at a price. My next novel stalled.

Back to the edit

This week, I blew the digital dust off my latest draft and set to work editing. After an enjoyable hour or two of writing new life into the opening scenes, I sat back satisfied and rediscovered the happy vibe of an author who’s totally nailed his story.

With comedy class a day or two away, I put my story to one side and set about writing something new to try out in front of fellow comics. Once more, things went well and the words flowed.

I was multitasking.

The next day, I tried to edit my story some more, except I wasn’t feeling it.

Fair enough, it’s been a while.

I switched back into stand-up mode. An hour brainstorming ideas that would become jokes that might make it through the ruthless edit of class is still time well spent.

Except I wasn’t feeling it.

Multitasking fail

My novel needs my full attention. There are threads to juggle, characters to shape, dialogue to shave, elaborately familiar pictures to write. Stand-up demands choppy delivery. Sketches drawn in five words or fewer. Specific personal attitude. These two different styles of writing don’t fit with multitasking.

I spent a day back in my Amsterdam home town this week. Along the way, I talked to old friends about writing, and what I heard was me admitting something has to change.

I’ve enjoyed the comedy classes. They’ve taught me how to write sharper jokes, but right now, I need to tell stories. And that’s forbidden in the style of comedy advocated by my current mentor.

In July, I’ll take my final stand-up bow (for the time being) and return all focus to writing ‘The Toast of Brighton’. When the nights grow long and I’m itching for validation once more, who can say. Perhaps I’ll find some other comedy class with a different focus. Perhaps I’ll find a different distraction.

Until then, here comes the summer.

Have I created too many characters?

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Mo Fanning - The Toast of Brighton
Coming soon – you’d be mad to miss it!

There’s a big bright light at the end of my writing tunnel. I’m nearing the end of what feels like a cohesive draft of my next book. It’s far from the first draft. It’s far from the tenth. But it’s the first time I know it hangs together as a story. And I like the characters.

All that stands in my way is a party. As I prepare for it, I’ve noticed my worst habit is far from cured.

Six years sober Evie’s perfect life fell to pieces 80,000 words earlier. Since then, I’ve let her stumble through mangled dreams and dangled temptation supported by loyal friends. Sometimes she’s found solutions. Often not.

The big shiny party scene pulls together threads and distils ‘The Toast of Brighton’ into one key message.

The guest list

Back to the party. It’s a big event. Too big. The guest list is too long.

My worst writing habit is the need to create minor characters that serve no real purpose. They appear once or twice, but fail to drive the story.

I’m struggling to remember the name of Evie’s sister’s boyfriend. I’m certain her best friend Izzy’s mother had a name at one point, but I’ve used it so rarely, it could be anything. And then there’s the hair product-obsessed estate agent trying to sell the Beachcomber Cafe from under everyone. Did he need a line? Should he be there? Ever?

The struggle for me lies in showing the same economy of story I’ve learned to show with words. I could wrap this baby in 1000 words and move onto the final scenes that drag me across the finishing line. But that means culling the bit part actors.

The final edit

Most writers struggle to let go of their work. Even when we reach the point of hating our stories and characters, we know things could be better with a polish.

I’m ready for my closeup. My final edit.

Scattered story cushions will enjoy a decent plump. I will polish the underwritten scenes.

But it’s also time for an axe to fall.

And sadly, Evie’s sister will have to stay single. Izzy’s mother will be mute, and the little lad with hair gel … he can phone it in.

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(I'm no trouble. You'll hardly know I'm there).

That was the year that was

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Around about this time last year, I decided to scratch a personal itch – and that does indeed sound like something best discussed with a doctor.

2018 was to be different. It would be my year of saying yes.

How to check for Testicular Cancer
How to check for Testicular Cancer

I reckoned without my Valentine’s Day discovery. Chances are, I’m not the first to find something untoward about a scrotum whilst in the Premier Inn, Warrington. It kicked off a roller-coaster month confirming how important it is to defend the NHS. Two weeks after calling my GP and trying to describe my malformed testes, someone wheeled me into an operating theatre. Three weeks later, I experienced my first session of chemotherapy. Nine months later, I’m in recovery. And – frankly – boring the arse off anyone who’ll listen about how important it is to self examine. Be it breasts or balls, you’ll save yourself an awful lot of nastiness by spending a few minutes every few weeks checking for lumps, bumps and unwelcome hardness.

I reckoned without finding myself unable to write another word of a book I hoped to see on many a Christmas wish list by now. I’d managed a first draft – enough to elicit a decent structural edit, but that was where I stopped. Three or four attempts to resurrect the flow failed, but I know I’m not done with the story. The focus has changed. It feels darker and that calls for a different approach. 2019 will be my year of writing. ‘The Toast of Brighton’ will appear.

Jill Edwards Course Mates
Jill Edwards Course Mates

I reckoned without Jill Edwards and a bunch of people I now consider friends. Twelve stand-up comedy classes opened my eyes to a whole new world. Standing on stage in front of over 200 people was a rush. When they laughed … and even clapped … it felt incredible to talk about Stourbridge, my mother and feeling like the wide-headed square peg in a hipster round hole. After much hesitation, I signed up up for Jill’s ‘advanced workshops’. I’ve met some wonderful people. If you ever think of doing this, don’t think twice.

I reckoned without falling back in love with New York. After years of doing a job that involved too much travel, I decided to avoid airports. The odd trip home to Amsterdam, sure, but that would be it. And then this year, Mr Fanning suggested we bite the bullet and fly to New York. I’d forgotten how much I love the place. How the atmosphere is so very different to that in any European city. People don’t stare only at smart phones. They walk and talk. The streets are dirty enough to feel real. It makes no concession to tourists. Even in these troubled times of Trump, New York radiates hope. Ten years ago, I’d pack a bag and move there.

Chemo brain and writing

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Mo Fanning - The Toast of BrightonI’m supposed to be editing. Or as I like to call it deleting six months hard work to write a totally different story. Call it chemo-brain or call it the fact I realised just a tiny bit too late I’d written the wrong story, but ‘The Toast of Brighton’ is going down to the wire when it comes to hitting deadlines.

Does everyone do this? I seem to remember Victoria Wood once claimed she wrote about ten times what she ever needed so she could edit out the crud. Not that I’m comparing myself, but I’m pretty close this particular book has long passed the million word mark. Now at least I have a tight storyline, and 40,000 words that I’m fairly content to send to my editor anyway, so chances are I’ll make the deadline. But as with everything, you can never be sure.

The day I had chemotherapy, I was cocksure it wouldn’t hit me like it hits everyone else. In fact, I sat there, tapping away at my laptop, doing paid work, writing sales proposals, drafting emails and correcting other people’s words. The day after – the one the doctor told me would feel like a hangover – I felt even better. Steroids kicked in and I ironed every shirt in the house. If Mr Fanning hadn’t unplugged me, I’d have knocked next door to see if they had any little jobs to tackle. All in all, it was a weekend of little sleep, but lots of action. I even wrote a little, which everyone had warned me off, saying no matter how much you feel you’re doing good things, you won’t be.

Should have listened. It’s weird reading the words now, they feel like someone else had control. I recognise the characters and the situation, but the words they speak don’t come from me.

I hit low water on the Wednesday – almost a week after my treatment. Woke at six, hungry for a horse. Created something vaguely egg-based, wolfed it down, told Mr fanning, I felt fabulous and opted for a power nap. That lasted until 6.30pm, when I stumbled zombie-like and crabby as heck from my bed, swigged most of a carton of orange juice, swore at the dog for barking (he didn’t) and stumbled back under the duvet.

It’s nearly two weeks later and I feel like I’m back. I’ve returned to my regular paying job, and it feels so good to be using my brain again. I sat down first thing, rewrote my storyline and know what needs to happen with ‘The Toast of Brighton’. It has an end now. And it’s the end it always had. The one I wanted it to have. I’m back on track.

And for now, that’s me done with boring you about cancer. Check your balls, breasts and anything else that might turn green and drop off. Please.

This is the bit where I start to feel better, right?

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So, the big day arrived. Delayed by six weeks thanks to a scan that showed ‘something‘ on my lungs. Dr Savage explained it thus: ‘it’s like taking a photo of a moving car. We know it’s there, we know it’s moving. But how fast?’ He needed a second photo to be sure. I’d have rather not had any car in any picture, but it was one of those no choice moments that cancer likes to spring on you. For me, it was the first real moment of frustration. Up until this point, I’d coped. Mostly on account of being a total control freak – tell me what happens next, when and why, I’m yours. Throw me a curve ball and it’s like you’ve tried to snatch biscuits from a baby. This curve ball left me in the foetal position. I do know I should ring and say sorry to the courier service who felt the full force when they failed to deliver some poncy face cream that was going to change my complexion and life two days running.

But, I digress.

This six-week delay should have had me climbing every kind of wall, and yet my brain did what it always does. Once I reorganised my schedule to add in this new step. I put it out of my mind. I forgot I had cancer. It was only when others asked after my health that I had to remember. And if you’re reading this and thinking you did bad by asking, you didn’t. I love you all the more for caring. But when I spoke or typed my answers, it felt like I was talking to someone else. Cancer went on hold.

Second scan

And so, six weeks after that first CT scan, I lay down, endured the nauseating contrast dye injection and rolled in and out of an oversize loo seat obeying prerecorded instruction to breathe in/breathe. If you’re old enough to remember those government-sponsored impending nuclear attack warnings, it was the same bloke, I swear. (If not, listen to Frankie Goes to Hollywood’s Two Tribes* and you’ll get it). It wasn’t exactly comforting. I’d like to suggest they get Joanna Lumley to redo these orders.

A few days later, I was back with Dr Savage. I listened as he went into numbers mode. Cancer, is all about the percentages. The risk of this, the chances of that. It works for me. I need to understand how likely it is that something might happen. If you’re a detail hound, I have a 4% chance of the lung thing developing into a cancer within the next four years. That seems fair. And I dare say everyone has about the same. Certainly anyone who virtually ate two daily packs of Camel Lights for twenty years. As for the now surgically-removed testicular thing, that was clear. Nothing lymphatic (which is a good sign) but with my age and the size of the tumour, I had a 30-40% chance of it recurring – and losing the other ball and possibly growing breasts and a chintz fetish. One course of magical carboplatin chemotherapy and I’d cut this ten-fold. So lung and balls would become equal.

As no brainers go, it was a simple choice.

What’s chemotherapy like?

Cancer chemo handA nurse talked me through the side effects. After each horrific potential scenario, she made eye contact, and waited for a nod of consent. I drifted away and stopped listening, hoping Mr Fanning was taking it all in. That’s the thing with cancer, there’s so MUCH information, it’s hard to pick and choose what matters most. Nearly all of these side effects would be very unlikely, she said. They tend to come with cumulative chemotherapy and not with the single dose. But still there was likely to be much gippy tummy – and so anti-sickness meds feature large. A big scientific-looking tablet, some more to take home and a 30-minute infusion.

I wasn’t sure what the Plan B might be if I flat out refused to counter any given side-effect. What if I was finewith the hair loss, constipation/diarrhea and extreme fatigue, but drew every kind of line at tinnitus? But then she sweetened the pot with steroids – ‘they’ll make you alert’. A three-day supply. Sponsored speed. Enough to do all those niggling household chores, and maybe get a sprint on with the editorial draft of ‘Toast of Brighton‘.

There was much fuss around getting a line in for the infusion of (what amounts to) poison. Two wrists stabs down, a second nurse appeared. I’m bruised.

On the plus side, I was treated to one of the best bacon, chicken and spinach sandwiches going. Mr Fanning feasted on egg and cress. It’s detail like this that so many medical blogs leave out. They shouldn’t.

Afterwards with cancer?

Flowers from Bloomen
Fabulous flowers – click to buy something very similar and get a free vase

I initially felt no different. Mr Fanning and I minced around a  supermarket. Him constantly asking if I felt OK. Me saying yes, even though I wasn’t sure what OK would feel like right then. Because I didn’t feel sick. There was no tinnitus and (sadly) no speedy elation. What there was inside my head was the start of a deep, dark anger. One I didn’t dare show. Why didn’t I find this sooner? What was that something on my lungs? Why did it take three goes to get the canola in? How come those percentages can’t be zero? Why am I going to feel speedy for three days then crash hard?

And nobody mentioned the chemo hiccups that have temporarily drained all joy from coffee.

But I’m still going and the anger has faded. Mostly helped by the fabulous flowers Mr Fanning ordered from the ever marvelous Bloomen. Plug time, click that link and you’ll get a free fancy vase with your first order and they last for two or three weeks.

Thanks for all the love and support here, on Facebook and Twitter and in real life. I promise you I’ll finish that bloody book soon and get it to the editor by the middle of June. One day it might even be available to buy. Talking of which, watch out for a freebie on the Armchair Bride coming in June, for those who (ridiculously) have yet to discover my obvious genius.

* Or Breathing by Kate Bush if you’re a bit more arty