The Importance of Deadlines

Working in production has taught me the value of deadlines.

I’ve always been a deadline enthusiast – I am, by nature, a procrastinator and need structure to make sure I finish project on time – but when you’re publishing weekly and monthly magazines (plus a load of supplements), deadlines take on a whole other meaning.

Each magazine has multiple deadlines – sales, editorial, design, subbing, printing, and shipping – and it is my job to ensure that every single one is met.

What I’ve found, though, is that each department isn’t really aware of how anyone else works. They argue and wheedle to get more time, without considering the knock-on effects.

When one person delays, everything is delayed, and since I’m the final gateway, that means I bear the pressure to get the magazine out on time.

So what does this have to do with writing?

As an indie, it is YOU who must set the deadlines.

If you want to make books happen, set deadlines. If you struggle to finish stories, set deadlines.

How? Here’s how I do it.

Decide when you want to publish the book.
Consider what time of year might suit its subject matter best (Halloween, Christmas, Valentine’s Day) and also when it’s likely to get noticed. August, for example, tends to be a fairly dead month.
Count back one-two months
Yes, MONTHS. You’re going to need 1-2 months prior to release in order to do your marketing prep, send out advance copies to reviewers, etc. Build up the buzz so your book’s launch doesn’t go unnoticed. If you’re releasing a print edition, you can use this time to get the copy prepped and ready for distribution, so that the ebook and print versions launch together.
Count back one-two weeks
This is the time to typeset/design/lay out the book and review the finished product, catching as many of those last minute typos as possible.
Count back another month
Give yourself a month for edits and revisions. Ideally, you’ll hire someone in to work through your manuscript with you.

Can you finish your manuscript in time to meet that first deadline and have your manuscript ready to be edited? If not, you’ll need to rethink your timings, considering carefully how long each step of the process will take and — most of all — allowing time for delays.

Confused? Here’s the schedule in practice:

March 31: Manuscript finished.
April 1-30: Liaise with editor and make final revisions.
May 1-7: Lay out the book, final proofing.
May-June: Prep the print edition, do your marketing work, etc.
July: Launch!

That’s how my ideal schedule works, at least.

Teaser Excerpt: FTSB

Every door in the village was barred shut, every window sealed from entry. The red dirt of the main street was baked dry and clouds of dust stirred with their footsteps. If it weren’t for the scent of the people hiding behind closed doors and the sound of their heartbeats—fast and frightened, like hummingbirds—Fang would have thought they had wandered into a ghost town.

He looked over at his companion Jake, who was weary and covered with dirt but still handsome somehow, and felt a stab of guilt. It was his fault they were in this state, his fault they were fleeing further and further away from Jake’s home.

“This is the third village like this,” Jake remarked grimly, untying the sweat-soaked bandana from around his neck. “Where’s a werewolf going to get a shower and a drink these days?”

“Perhaps the next village will be better,” Fang said. The skin between his shoulder blades was crawling with the weight of the villager’s stares. They knew what he was; Fang was sure of it. “We should keep moving.”

“Fuck that. I’m tired, I’m thirsty, and I’m all out of cigarettes.” Jake continued down the road, hunting for an inn. When he spotted a likely door he strode up to it and knocked. “We know you’re in there,” he called. “We’d like a room for the night.”

Silence. Fang hung back, alert for trouble.

“We’ve got cash,” Jake added.

Now there were murmurs from behind the door. The summer drought was at its peak, and judging by the fine dust permeating the air this village had been hit worse than most. There wasn’t a hint of green as far as the eye could see—even the weeds growing in the shelter of the house were twisted and yellow.

“Step back,” a woman finally said.

Jake backed a few steps away from the door, keeping his hands slightly away from his sides to show he wasn’t armed. The door opened a crack.

“Turn around.”

Jake turned on the spot, looking amused. There was no place to conceal a weapon in his baggy trousers or vest top, but he had no need for weapons. Even without shifting to wolf form he was stronger than the average human. They both were. Fang put on a smile and did his best to look harmless.

The inn door opened fully. A girl barred the doorway, human by the smell of her. Her dark brown hair was tied up in a bun and she was wearing tight trousers under a loose shirt. In her hands was a long broom, held before her like a weapon. Her breathing quickened as they looked at her but she stood firm, and there was something about the way she lifted her chin that reminded Fang of his little sister. His heart twisted painfully in his chest and it took all his focus to keep on smiling.

“Hello,” Jake said, his voice sinking that little bit lower as he smiled at the girl. She flushed under his attention and Fang suppressed a flash of jealousy. “Could we stay the night at your lovely establishment?”

* * *

An except from my current WIP, which is set in the Above Ground universe. I’m aiming for novella length and am having good fun with these characters.

5 Reasons Why Not To Write A Sequel

Now that the initial flurry of publishing Above Ground has died down (and the subsequent post-publication I-hate-my-writing stage has passed) my thoughts have turned to writing the sequel.

Ideas keep bubbling. The excitement is returning. What can I do to the characters THIS time? How can I raise the stakes? How can I give the readers who’ve enjoyed Above Ground more of what they love?

And yet…

Even though I’ve jotted down every idea and drafted a rough outline, I cannot bring myself to sit down and begin writing.

It took me over three years to write Above Ground. In that time, I’ve learned where I went wrong. I’ve learned how to write better and faster. I’ve learned that I CAN write a novel.

But what I haven’t yet learned is if I can write ANOTHER novel. A sequel doesn’t count: it’s the same characters I love, the same stories, the same threads.

Can I write something unrelated? Can I build a new world and fall in love with a new cast of characters?

The idea of starting afresh terrifies me.

And yet…

5 Reasons Why Not To Write A Sequel

Only people who like Above Ground will want to read the sequel.
Diversifying my offerings will introduce my work to new readers.
Creating a new world, plot and cast will improve my skills.
It will prove that I can write unrelated novels.
Most importantly, because it terrifies me.

Yes, those waiting for the sequel will most likely throw rocks at me. But I believe that a writer who only sticks to writing what they find comfortable will never grow. And I want to be the best writer I can be.

And when I do go back to write the sequel to Above Ground, the story will be all the better for it.

THE TRUE HISTORY

A common werewolf children’s story, as told to Howl by Fang. The origins of this story are unknown.

Back when the stein hadn’t emerged from the caverns, and the ewtes trembled and hid underwater, the werekin roamed wild and free over all the lands. And of all the werekin, it was the wolves that were the most feared and respected.

Amongst those wolves were many heroes, such as Wawa the Wise, James the Just, and Eric Ironside. But I’m not going to tell you a story about our heroes. This is the story of a wolf led astray by the guiles of a fox.

It is the story of Barke the Betrayer.

Barke’s birth was foretold by our ancestors, whose spirits appeared to his mother and made her promise to consecrate her son to them. In return, Barke was blessed with extraordinary powers—strength, speed, and dominance—and was destined to become one of the greatest alphas, guiding the pack to glory.

And so it was that with every passing year, Barke grew faster and stronger, moving up the pack ranks until he was beta. All of the pack respected him, and it was clear that, when it was time, Barke would take over as alpha.

Now, Barke had a deep, dark secret: he was terrified. All of these high expectations everyone had for his future frightened him immensely, and instead of letting his wolf side take responsibility, he indulged in his human weaknesses. He worried about being a bad alpha and about letting his pack down. Barke told no one of his fears, and it was this fact that ultimately led to his downfall.

One bright summer afternoon, Barke was so weighted by fear that he went alone to a hidden field, so that he could cry without anybody seeing him. He lay in the thick grass, head on his paws, and wept.

“What should I do?” he said to himself. “I wish someone would help me.”

In that moment, the spirits appeared to Barke, for they had been waiting to answer his summons. “Believe in yourself,” they said. “Believe in the pack. You are not alone.”

But Barke didn’t believe them. “I am alone!” he said. “You have made me so. I know what was foretold; I am to lead the pack.”

“You are not alone,” they repeated. “An alpha is never alone.”

Unwilling to listen, Barke changed to human form so the spirits could not reach him. “I’m alone now,” he said angrily, feeling a dark thrill of satisfaction.

But he wasn’t alone. Barke all of a sudden became aware of a faint humming, the soft melody of a mother’s lullaby. He followed that trail of music through to the other side of the field, where there was a small stream.

By the side of that stream was a beautiful female in human form, with the brightest red hair he had ever seen. Her face was narrow and delicate, and when she lifted her head to look at the sky he noticed that the skin of her neck was pale and smooth.

She was surrounded by picked flowers and was taking them one by one and stringing them together to form a long chain. Soon, she was finished, and she wrapped the chain around her neck, laughing prettily as she examined her reflection in the stream.

Barke was captivated. She was the first non-pack female he had seen, and he could not help but feel a stirring in his loins at the sight of her. He followed her, careful to stay hidden, ducking into every shadow. He followed her down a trail leading into a dark part of the woods, far away from his pack. He could tell she used this route often, for the scent of her was thick in the air, a musky sweet smell that was not quite wolf, but similar.

Finally, she stopped by a small den, and sat on the ground amongst the fallen leaves. From the bones in the clearing he could tell this was her home. But where was her pack? He took a step closer, and stepped on a twig.

The snap of the twig frightened the woman. She leapt up, changing to her animal form. She had wiry red fur, small, study legs and a short snout. She was a werefox, and she was looking right at him.

Barke stepped out from behind the tree, hands in the air, and apologised for startling her. “I am just curious,” he said. “I mean you no harm.”

The fox changed back to her human form so they could talk, and he learnt that her name was Delia, and that she lived alone. Barke couldn’t help but feel sorry for her, unable to fathom a life without family. And her voice was so sweet and tender; she clearly wasn’t a loner by choice.

Every day, Barke returned to that small clearing, and he would speak to Delia for hours, about his fears and misgivings, things that he had told no one else. Delia listened, did her utmost to cheer him up, often distracting him into playing games of chase. As time passed Barke grew more and more attached to Delia. If only there was someone like her in the pack, maybe he wouldn’t be so frightened about becoming alpha.

One evening, on his way back to the pack after spending three entire days with Delia, Barke was approached by his alpha. The alpha expressed concern over Barke and Delia’s relationship, and his words instantly sent Barke into a fury. He lashed out.

The alpha had no choice. His heart heavy with the sorrow he had to cause his pack mate, he ordered Barke to avoid Delia.

Barke was furious. He struggled under the weight of the alpha’s orders, trying to force his legs to cooperate so that he could run away and meet Delia. It was no use. There was no way he could disobey his alpha and remain part of the pack. And no wolf in their right mind would abandon the pack, for the pack was family.

But Delia, the wily cunning Delia, snuck over to Barke in the middle of the night and whispered to him lovingly, convincing Barke that he didn’t need the pack. He only needed her.

So Barke renounced the pack and became a loner. He lost the protection and companionship of his family, to marry Delia.

For a time, they were happy.

But soon Barke missed the companionship of his pack and began to pine for his old home. When Delia found him spying on his old pack, she did her utmost to hide her jealousy and fear.

“You don’t need them,” she said. “They abandoned you, remember?” For in her web of lies, Delia had convinced Barke that it was the pack who had rejected him, and not the other way around.

“Yes, yes, you’re right.” Barke turned away and followed Delia back to their den, but she could sense that his heart was still heavy with longing.

“We’ll start our own pack,” Delia said, although she knew it was taboo. She so desperately wanted to keep Barke by her side, that she was willing to risk it all.

Barke was initially reluctant, but he had been lonely for too long, and with a little bit of pressuring he agreed.

Soon Delia’s stomach swelled with the first bloom of motherhood, and then, a few months later, she gave birth.

When the pups were born, they were neither wolf nor fox. They were halfers, failed weres who never managed to gain control of their change. Ashamed of their condition, they quelled their animal side and passed themselves for human.

Desperate, Barke and Delia continued to have children, and their children had children, and their children had children. By then their blood was so diluted they didn’t have the energy to change. And so, over time, they forgot who they were, and came to think that they were simply human.

But in their veins, a trace of were blood remains, a spark of energy begging for release. A great-great-great-grandson of Barke and Delia realised, quite by accident, that if he focused his attention just so, he could use that energy to cast a spell.

And that is how the first witches came to be.

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