Category Archives: Writing

Is everything copy? Women in Journalism discuss.

photo-1455904254851-58c6069237f7.jpegThere’s one comfort that keeps writers going when everything is going to hell and there’s no handcart in sight. ‘I’ll write about this one day,’ we mutter, surveying the wreckage of our lives.

But should we? Is everything really copy, or are there limits that we can and should set to protect ourselves or other people? Women In Journalism staged a debate on Tuesday in the St Bride’s Institute off Fleet Street, featuring four doyennes of personal journalism: Louise Chunn, Bryony Gordon, Kathryn Flett and Rebecca Armstrong. These women have regaled the world with tales of infidelity, marriage breakdown, mental health problems, serious illness and funny things kids say – whether from their own experience or as editors, encouraging others to ‘spill their guts’.

Louise Chunn, who as Guardian women’s page editor published the story of Jilly Cooper’s husband’s lover’s account of their affair (as well as an article I wrote on smear tests that I still get emails about), says that she’s changed her views over the years, not least because ‘everything lives forever online’. ‘I have had times when it’s really blown up in my face,’ she says. ‘Telling stories really does help other people, but sometimes people doing the writing are not as careful with themselves as they might be,’ she said.

Kathryn Flett talked of how a travel piece, to Bruges on Valentine’s Day, became her first ‘confessional’ piece when her husband announced he was leaving her, the day before they went. The resulting piece, which she wrote in one  draft and entitled “By Waterloo Station I sat down and wept,” made her name. She went on to write a blow-by-blow account of the end of the marriage, and says she felt no need to protect her husband: ‘You married a writer: deal with it’. Spouses of writers, beware.

Bryony Gordon, the daughter of a journalist who wrote about her kids, now ‘gets her own back’ on her mum Jayne in a two-part column they write for the Telegraph. She shared memories of posing for a photoshoot at her mother’s request as a teenager, only for it to appear under the strapline: “Is this the worst teenager in Britain?” Now a mother herself, she says she’s conscious that ‘I don’t want it to hurt anyone else.’ She defends personal journalism (she hates the ‘confessional’ tag), saying it takes bravery and strength to share your life honestly. ‘Men do it, and it’s art.’

The last panellist, Rebecca Armstrong, began writing about her life with her husband Nick after a terrible accident left him in a coma. She said she talked to his parents and his ex-wife before deciding to start writing about him, as she couldn’t ask Nick himself – although she spoke to him all the time. He’s now out of the coma and, she says, is thrilled that she writes a column, and sometimes contributes a few words to it. However, she said, she does hold back on some details, to protect his dignity.

The evening was thought-provoking, raising questions of where to draw the line to protect oneself, while sharing experiences that might just help someone else. It’s tempting to put it all out there – but do you want any future children or employers to read all about it?

Image: Tran Mau Tri Tam, via Unsplash.

Leave a comment

Filed under Literary London, Writing

Stories-On-Sea: our writing retreat

What’s better than two days of writing by the seaside, with glorious views, good food, drinking gin, plenty of chances to swim, walk or run? Nothing much – except perhaps doing all of the above with friends.

This was the third year that my writing group convened by the sea for our annual writing retreat. We’re seasoned retreaters now, and the programme’s been honed to a fine edge. We arrive, have lunch, then get down to a quick warm-up exercise. This year we used photos and postcards as prompts for a 20-minute writing sprint. The vignettes produced were by turn funny, angry and poignant.

The second exercise is always the long one. We’d each brought along a ‘mystery object’ to pick out of a bag, with the instruction to tell the story of the object. You’re not allowed to pick your own, and ideally you shouldn’t know who donated the object, either. We spent longer on this one, sharing work in progress after an hour then returning to work on it in our own time, before and after our traditional fish-and-chip dinner.

I was pleased with my lucky dip; an old-fashioned black leather purse with clasp that closed with a satisfying click. Purses and the secrets they contain are massively evocative. I smelled the leather, explored the pockets and felt the weight of it in my hand. ‘The purse snapped shut,’ I wrote, imagining the woman who might have held it. I was away.

For me, the absolute joy of a writing retreat is the magic of conjuring stories out of (almost) nothing. No matter how blank your mind is at the start of the session, at the end there’s always something; maybe just the nub of an idea of a story, or an amusing sketch, but something. Sharing these raw beginnings can be daunting, but among this familiar group of friends I always feel supported. Comments are always thoughtful, praise generous and criticism well-founded. My purse story has joined my ‘work in progress’ stories file, and I’m considering working it up for a submission.

On Sunday morning we shared work in progress from our ongoing projects. This session showed the variety of our work, with a tear-jerking short story, a fascinating memoir and a comic novella all up for discussion. Our final exercise of the weekend was to pick a short news item from the local and riff on it. I found us a story about the success of a Deal curry house, and was amazed how differently our resulting fictional stories turned out.

It wasn’t all hard work. We talked hard too, laughed even harder. The joy of sharing stories isn’t confined to the written word. The weekend left me brimful of confidence, excited about the possibilities of my writing, and grateful for my witty, wise and wonderful writing friends. Thank you Julie Bull, Angie Macdonald and Yang May Ooi.


Leave a comment

Filed under Out of Town, Writing

That difficult second novel

Ernest Hemingway

Hemingway: don’t read the first draft.

Halfway through writing my first novel, I wondered why I was doing this. I wondered why anyone did this, and I vowed I wouldn’t do it again. In fact, I couldn’t imagine ever being able to write another novel, even if I managed to finish this one. I’d be like Harper Lee (only not as good, obviously). People would say: ‘Whatever happened to Anna Sayburn Lane? Did she never write another book?’ And I’d say: ‘Why on earth would I do that?’

I’m within a gnat’s crotchet of finishing the first draft of my second novel. I’m pleased about this for two reasons:

1: It gives me something to focus on while waiting (again) to hear from publishers/agents about novel one.

2: I actually can write another novel.

I also know, however, that a first draft is not a novel. In Hemingway’s words, all first drafts are shit. I prefer to think of it as a preparatory sketch. It’s how I work out what I want to write, who the characters (probably) are, roughly what happens, the general story arc, the tone. What happens next is like translating a sketch into an oil painting. Some details will be added, some deleted, some changed completely now that I can see the overall effect.

So it’s not even close to finished. But a story exists, and didn’t exist back in November. It’s nothing like novel one, which will annoy publishers/agents no end if I tell them. It’s much shorter, and (I hope) funny. It was inspired by my favourite comic novels, Cold Comfort Farm and the Jeeves and Wooster series, which may be setting the bar a touch high. It needs at least one complete re-write, more jokes, and a title. I don’t know if it’ll ever get published, or if it’ll amuse anyone other than myself. It will be finished, though, one day, and knowing that gives me a quiet satisfaction that nothing else can match.


Leave a comment

Filed under Writing

Best and worst of freelance life

Today's workspace

Today’s workspace

When I left my staff job and became a freelance journalist, almost two years’ ago, I worried I wouldn’t get enough work, would find it hard to discipline myself and would go a little bit odd, sitting on my own all day. Two years on and I find it hard to imagine going back to full time employment. Here are some of my favourite (and least favourite) things about freelance life.


  • When I’m working, I’m really working. I’m not sitting in someone else’s meeting, wondering why I’m here, surreptitiously reading emails on my phone.
  • I can organise my time to make room for the things that are important to me (writing fiction, researching, gardening, cooking, reading, seeing friends and family).
  • I can work where I am, or where I feel like going. Usually it’s my shared office space, or my study at home. Sometimes it’s the British Library, the Wellcome Collection Reading Room, a train carriage, even the garden.
  • When I’m busy, I can crack on with work, no interruptions, until it’s done. When I’m not busy, I can go for a walk, get the shopping, see an exhibition. These times balance out.
  • The work itself. Reading, writing, researching, interviewing interesting people. No office politics. What’s not to like?
  • My money each month directly represents how hard I’ve worked.


  • When I intend to down tools, then carry on reading the entire internet for another two hours with no-one to stop me or ask when I’m going home.
  • When there’s either so much work I’m scared I can’t do it all, or so little I’m terrified I’ll never work again. (I can, and I will.)
  • Working from home, I’m the neighbourhood receiver of parcels, enquiries from delivery people, fielder of election canvassers and religious missionaries.
  • I’m rubbish at going out to pitch for commissions. Luckily lots of people I’ve worked with before come to me.
  • Tax returns.


Filed under London Life, Writing

Warning: bad language


Hot stuff: does spicy language matter?

I remember clearly the day I first experimented with the f word, which I had recently learned at school from a boy called Guy. I was at home with Mum, aged about eight, and dropped a piece of toast on the floor. ‘Oh, fucking hell,’ I exclaimed brightly.

It was a swift lesson in the power of language, involving shock, awe and deployment of wooden spoon across knuckles. As a tactic, it worked well. I didn’t swear in front of my parents for many years. And I learned to use the words sparingly, to reserve their power for when it was truly required. I still remember the single heart-stopping moment my father lost his temper sufficiently to use the word ‘bloody’ – as in ‘you bloody kids’ – the only time I ever recall him swearing.

When I started writing, I realised the language a character uses tells you a lot about them. Some people simply don’t swear, no matter what the provocation. Others use fucking swear words as fucking punctu-fucking-ation. I have a fondness for the pseudo-swearing that ladies of my mother’s generation and class go in for. ‘Hells bells,’ they exclaim. ‘Oh, Gordon Bennett.’ A phrase like that gives me an immediate picture of the well-dressed lady uttering it.

As a kid, I was fascinated by the seemingly arbitrary limits between acceptable and unacceptable. The priests on Father Ted could use the word ‘feck’ without anyone lunging for a wooden spoon. Grange Hill pupils cried ‘Flippin’ heck, Tucker!’ with impunity. ‘Cor blimey,’ which I’d assumed was pretty tame, was according to my aunt a contraction of ‘God blind me,’ and not to be uttered lightly.

When I came to write my novel, I began by avoiding profanity. My heroine didn’t seem a sweary type. Nor did two of her antagonists. But then the violent thug who was out to get her – I couldn’t imagine him shouting: ‘Goodness gracious, you blooming woman!’ And one of my characters was a reporter for a local newspaper. I’ve worked in news rooms. They’re not noted for their gentility.

So, what to do about the swearing? The only answer was to go with what seemed natural for the character. When I came to show the finished manuscript to my parents, I asked my mother if she wanted a bowlderised version. She bravely agreed to read the original, with its unexpurgated use of the c word. She made no comment on the language.

But maybe I should cut loose a bit more. Does some literature actually improve with use of profanity? I’ve been experimenting with some famous lines. Do let me know what you think.

Literature Improved by Swearing

  • Mrs Dalloway said she would buy the fucking flowers herself.

  • “Christmas won’t be Christmas without any fucking presents,” grumbled Jo, lying on the fucking rug.

  • It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a fucking good fortune, must be in want of a wife.

  • All happy families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own fucking way.

  • Fucking call me Ishmael.

  • Reader, I fucking married him.



Leave a comment

Filed under Writing