My Geri Halliwell Story

Lots of people have tales of celebrity encounters. They bring them out at dinner parties and evenings down the pub. They tweet them, and post photos on Instagram and Facebook. 

I’ve even had a few of my own… 

Hollywood movie star Rod Steiger across the aisle on a Spanish plane

The wonderfully iconic Rutger Hauer in Tiffany’s

Eddie Izzard racing through Pret-a-Manger

Paul Weller in a different Pret-a-Manger buying lunch for his children

And (yes, he is that cool) rock star Nick Cave and some Bad Seeds by the luggage carousel at Heathrow.

But…

My Geri Halliwell story isn’t like those. Not only was Geri Halliwell not a celebrity at the time, but there was a significance to the encounter that struck me years later and turned it into quite a defining moment. 

If you’re wondering why I’m writing about it now, frankly, it’s because whenever I mention it to anyone new, unless I am completely unaccompanied by friends or family, I can guarantee someone around me will groan.  

And I happen to think it’s too important to lose.

So, here we go.

Again.

Living the Dream

I’ve played in bands most of my life, and in the early nineties it was in a group called Watchmaker, plying its trade in original ‘melodic rock’ (according to one pub flyer) across the lesser-known music venues of southern England. On a rare journey north, playing a wedding in Hull, a young woman in a black dress came up to us, told us how good we were, and asked if we needed a backing singer. We chatted to her for a while, said we didn’t, and took her number.

This was Geri Halliwell.

A few months later, one evening when our singer wasn’t available, and still wrestling with the idea that it might be useful, we invited her along to our rehearsal studio. We’d never auditioned anyone before, but figured we’d do that whole what do you know, what do we know thing and land somewhere in the middle.

But she simply said, ‘Shall I sing?’

‘Sure,’ we said, unsure what to expect. 

And she started singing. Just like that. No accompaniment. A bit like Marilyn Monroe’s ‘Happy Birthday Mr President’. 

It was fine. Not great. But certainly good enough to give us reason to carry on. So, having failed to find any covers we both knew, we taught her our latest original song, a relatively dour ballad I’d written called ‘Gathering Dust’, and proceeded to have lots of fun, mostly involving us coping with the fact that Geri had never sung with a band before so hadn’t quite got the hang of stopping and starting, or the need to wait for anyone else if you did. At times, it was like being in a car trying to follow someone who keeps slamming on the brakes and accelerating for no obvious reason.

Throughout the evening, she told us a bit about herself, how she was working as a game show hostess on Turkish TV, and then, when the session came to the end, she said again how good she thought we were, how much she loved the song, and left. 

In short, she was lovely. She hadn’t changed our view that we didn’t need a backing singer. But we had a great time working with her, all the same.

Tell Me What You Want, What You Really, Really Want

Fast forward a year, as The Spice Girls exploded onto the stage, complete with ballsy attitude, all we could do was stare at TV screens, stunned at how this girl from Watford with an average voice, who was probably the least talented musician in the room when we auditioned her, was now one of the most iconic singers in the country.

And I don’t mind admitting, it took me a while to come to terms with that, as The Spice Girls went from strength to strength, and Watchmaker… went from obscurity to extinction.

The Talent to Make the Most of the Talent you Have

Since then, although I still write songs, play and record music, my attention has increasingly focused on novels, attracting a literary agent some years back, though frustratingly still trying to crack the commercial code of traditional publishing.

I became a dad. Twice. And as I watched my daughters grow, and continued to witness the literary efforts of my writing friends go unrewarded time and time again, the lesson of Geri Halliwell, what I chose to take from the encounter at least, lodged itself in me as one of the most important revelations of my life.

You don’t need to be the best singer, keyboard player, guitarist, mathematician, chemist, or indeed writer. You need to be good. That’s a given. And Geri Halliwell was good. Just not that good. But what Geri had, more than the rest of Watchmaker combined, was the talent to make the most of the talent she had. And the hunger to keep at it. To keep growing, chasing, learning. To put herself in the way of opportunity and know how to make the most of it when she did.

Over the years I’ve heard wannabe (see what I did there ;-)) writers deride the fortunes of celebrity authors or best-sellers like E.L.James, whose success seemed to have little to do with the quality of their writing. And I have found myself defending them. If you want to be praised for the quality of your prose, fair enough, set that bar and hold yourself to it. But never under-estimate the importance of knowing what you’re good at and working it for all you can.

If you want to have a writing career, or any kind of career, you need to start somewhere. And that somewhere comes from who you are, not who you wish you were, or think you might be one day. That will come. And, if you’ll pardon the liberty, it comes from knowing what you want, what you really, really want, and finding ways to make it work for you.

Of course, if you don’t see it that way, if you can’t sign up to that kind of thinking… all I can say is, you might as well stop.

Right now.

The Wonderful Thing About Writers

I have recently decided that writers, much like Tiggers (and three day weekends), are wonderful things. And while their tops might not be made of rubber, nor their bottoms of springs, they are generally a fun, fun, fun bunch.

Not only that, they are also enormously generous. And before you think, hang on a sec’, that’s rich coming from a writer, in my defence, the point I’m making is about writers as a collective, rather than specific individuals.

You see, I’ve just come back from the annual Festival of Writing at York University, and I couldn’t help but notice a couple of things.

Run by the Writers' Workshop, the Festival of Writing is in its 10th year, and is basically a lot of writers, agents, editors and book doctors getting together for a few days to talk about the art and business of writing. It’s a great event and has been hugely useful to me in my own writing journey.

This was my 5th time, and a very different trip it proved to be.

In the past, I’ve had specific goals; to meet with particular agents or editors, receive constructive comments about my writing, and ultimately hope for some spark of commercial interest. But this year wasn’t like that. I now have an agent, who I first met at a previous Festival of Writing, and my book is out on submission with editors, so I had no obvious goal other than to soak up the collective wisdom and spirit of the event, and generally have some fun.

As a result, I spent a lot of time thinking, and the more I thought, the more I realised what an unusual thing this writing lark is.

We are constantly being told, for example in our rejections from agents and editors, just how competitive the market is, and that, even if you’ve created the most wonderful prose, there’s every chance you won’t be picked up; the publishing industry is on the hunt for the next big thing, and will settle for nothing less.

We accept this, as a group, and press on, polishing our writing and learning our art. We hang out at writing events, learning what we can, schmoozing our socks off, and, along the way, we celebrate the victories of our newly found (and, as yet, unpublished) friends. I had lots of conversations like that this year, giving and receiving such warm praise and support, that I came away filled to the brim with the sense that writers, per the title, are truly wonderful.

Because if you think about it, reconciling these two things shouldn’t come naturally; namely, writing is hugely competitive, and these people you’re congratulating are part of the reason! Even if your writing is ‘good enough’, chances are you still won't get published. Because maybe the agent you'd hoped for has a full list. Or the editor your agent submits it to already has something similar on her list. Or perhaps you're not quite as amazing as a book they've seen recently and been hoping for something similar to come along.

Whatever the reason, someone has pipped you to the post, moved the goalpost, raised the bar...

You get the idea.

But the chances of it being the very same person you’ve just celebrated with are pretty slim. And I think that’s what sets us apart. We are participating in a brutally competitive industry, and yet we can be as genuinely supportive as we are simply because there are so many of us, and the likelihood of you being my nemesis is tiny, almost to the point of non-existence. And hence, we see ourselves as competing against, well, ourselves (and, of course, this amorphous thing we call the market).

And, at events like the Festival of Writing, or even just in the comfort of my regular writing group, it’s all quite wonderfully refreshing.

Will the continued rise of self-publishing change this, as we accept full responsibility for marketing our ‘products’, and become still more painfully aware of the noise of self-promotion filling up Twitter, for example? Who knows? But for now, I’m going to savour the warmth of my writing peers, basking in the joy of that weekend in York, and feel grateful that I am part of a wonderful community.

Dead Ends and Secret Doorways

It's been a tough few weeks for my novel and me. We hit a bit of a rough patch, as we ground our way through a mid-point crisis. It's not been helped by some back story elements that needed adding, causing me to go routing through existing (and no doubt perfectly balanced and happy in their own skin) chapters. And as exciting as they might be (and I actually think they are - which helps) it's not made for good momentum.

So, I've been languishing around the 50,000 word mark and losing faith.

Last night, though, I felt we'd turned a corner. I was feeling better about the whole thing. The back story pieces were in and making friends with the rest of the gang. It felt like we were getting along again.

And then it went and did this.

I say 'it', because it certainly wasn't me. I admit, I was there, I might even have been holding the smoking gun… but I would never have written...

'To Billy, should he outlive me, I leave my <insert something interesting here – collection of books or magazines maybe?>. He’ll understand why.’

Clearly, it's someone, my main character, reading a will. And clearly he's just read that one of the other characters has been left something of significance - something personal from their mutual past that will not be immediately obvious to the protagonist, the reader… or, indeed, the writer.I sat there looking at it, wondering what on earth this was telling me. And then I sent an email out to the group, explaining enough of the context and asking for suggestions (silly or sane) as to what this item might be. And they were great. I got suggestions that immediately helped me understand what the novel had meant by it, what the item might actually be, and where it fitted into the various plot threads.

So, it seems we're still okay, the novel and me, and I wasn't being shown down some dark, dead-end alleyway to be bumped off so it could run off to the city to be a high concept thriller beneath someone else's pen, but instead was showing me a secluded doorway to a private garden I'd not seen before.

The moral of the tale - trust in your instincts, and trust in the group, no matter how much you feel the answer can only come from you. A little sharing goes a long, long way.    

Festival of Writing 2012: Reflections on second albums, real people and flip-flops

I went to York University last weekend for the Writers' Workshop annual Festival of Writing. And, to be honest, I went with a heavy heart - nervous and unsure about why I was going and what I expected to find when I got there.

You see, this was my second time, and last year was brilliant.

This year had all the potential of being the difficult second album or the after-ten-years-in-the-wilderness comeback tour; you shell out good money for it, really want to enjoy it, but somehow, eventually, end up admitting to yourself that it's actually not very good. You wish you hadn't bothered. But it's too late; the damage is done, and the memory of the original is tarnished. You get the idea. Repeat holidays are the same. So are school reunions and re-runs of 80's TV shows.

Part of the reason for the nerves lay in where I was with my writing, working on a difficult scene that has ended up feeling like the shabby hallway I want to rush my visitors through on the way to a beautiful lounge, hoping they don't look sideways and notice the patchwork walls and bare woodwork. Put another way, as I near the end of a third rewrite, I wasn't feeling good about the prospect of mixing with the great and the good of the industry.

Another reason for the uncertainty was the doubt I was feeling about the industry itself. I've seen what it's meant to a number of my friends to become 'published writers', as some reach great success and others wonder why they've put themselves on what feels like the most painful of treadmills, juggling tight publishing deadlines with a life already full to the brim. Coming along to a conference that felt so geared towards traditional publishing seemed to be missing at least some of the point.

But, cutting to the chase, from the moment I arrived, on a sunny Friday afternoon, to the sights and sounds of ducks and geese and writers and agents and publishers and book doctors, I knew it was going to be okay. And so it turned out to be.

The second album was certainly different to the first. More assured. More self-aware. But filled with just as many great tunes and moments of soul searching as the first, and definitely just as much fun.

A few of the many highlights for me ...

• The Friday workshop with David Gaughran and Talli Roland - an independent perspective that gave great balance to what followed, and prompted some lively (and mostly open-minded) discussion about everybody's role in the writing business

• Pretty much everything about Friday evening in the bar, doing the whole 'what do you write?' thing with fellow writers, and meeting numerous agents, who, by the end of evening, had become real people and not industry targets to be pitched to and feared... people I felt actually wanted a partnership with their writers, and with whom I felt I wanted a partnership

• David Gaughran in flip-flops at the gala dinner

• Julie Cohen's 'Character' workshop, conjuring 'real people' (though on this occasion not agents) out of 2 pieces of paper, a coin and a few simple questions

• Coming away from one-on-ones with self-belief restored

All in all, I arrived home inspired, ready to write, ready to dig deep and get the book finished and sent off... and ready to sign up for next year's appropriately named festival of writing.

I'm Done With Fine

I was out in the US last week with work and had the chance to go to a local music bar one evening.  We went to Antone's, something of a legend in Austin, where a couple of bands were playing, the second of which was fronted by an old Muddy Waters cohort. We stood there, having paid our $15, listening to some fine blues, drinking our Lone Star lager, watching this virtuoso blues guitarist with a rich gravelly voice deliver note-perfect song after song.

And then my friend, the local who'd suggested the venue, asked me what I thought.

I wrestled with my conscience for a few moments, nodding appreciatively as I sought the right response, and then told him they were actually causing me to question whether I still liked blues as much as I'd always thought, since they were clearly a very good band. He smiled and suggested we go see what was happening at the Continental Club.

My immediate reaction was to think of the $15 we'd already paid to get in, and the half drunk can of Lone Star that was slowly warming in my hand, not to mention the fact it was a 'school night' and going somewhere else meant at least another couple of hours 'investment'.

But we went, and it was great. 

The band, fronted by fiddle man, Warren Hood, was in full swing (and Bluegrass) and suddenly I was alive. The style of music was irrelevant; just like at Antone's, these were performers at the top of their game in a small venue, but unlike the sterile set we'd just walked away from, these guys were clearly loving what they were doing - and their personalities shone large on the small stage and made for an infectious evening.

I called out 'thank you' to my friend, for rescuing our mediocre evening, and said, "The other place was fine.  But, you know what, I think I'm done with 'fine'."

And if you're wondering why I'm writing this in a Wordwatchers blog, it's because I'm currently on draft 3 of The Stationary Half of Goodbye, and with the words of a few good people lingering in my ears, telling me that draft 2 was fine and that I should be sending it to more agents, I can't help thinking I have a much better answer for them now.