Breaking the Rules Read online

BREAKING THE RULES

  by

  A. F. McKeating

  * * * * *

  PUBLISHED BY:

  Rules

  Copyright © 2013 by A. F. McKeating

  This free ebook may be copied, distributed, reposted, reprinted and shared, provided it appears in its entirety without alteration, and the reader is not charged to access it.

  Table of Contents

  Breaking the Rules

  About the Author

  Other Books by A. F. McKeating

  BREAKING THE RULES

  Rule 1. Start in the middle of the action

  Are you really sure you'd rather be dead? That was a very hurtful thing to say. You might want to take a few moments to reconsider. We'll be here for little while longer, so you might as well use the time productively.

  I wonder, have I grabbed your attention? Looking at the expression on your face, I'd say so. I'm sorry, I forgot to ask: is your head feeling better? That cold compress probably feels a bit lukewarm now, but never mind. We really must get on.

  Rule 2. Avoid unnecessary background

  Now, you may feel that I'm blatantly disregarding this one, but I happen to think my background is both necessary and important. And, frankly, if it's not all that interesting to you, I don't really care any more. So, I'm going to take the opportunity to backtrack a little at this point, whether you like it or not, even though it might slow down the momentum. Maybe the exercise in concentration will do you good.

  I worked in the civil service. Now, there's a way to kill a story dead, not to mention a conversation. It's a good thing you're not able to respond right now, isn't it?

  Anyway, back to the civil service. I'm not really sure how I ended up in that job. I spent a lot of my time moving information around, you could say. Monitoring activity… Risk management… Accountability… I'll stop there; I can see your eyes glazing over. But you might be surprised at how useful that skill set has proved to be. Or maybe you wouldn't.

  I was stuck down that particular rabbit hole for the best part of a decade and it had begun to tell on me somewhat. Last year, I made a New Year's resolution that I would find a way out. It's been slow and painful, but, finger nails bleeding and eyes blinking warily, I'm finally emerging into the daylight. I quite like that image, by the way. I'll make a note of it for use in another story, one that you won't get to read, I'm afraid.

  Anyhow, I've wanted to be a writer since I was very young. I won competitions when I was at school you know and I showed some early promise when I came top of my English language class at college. No, don't sneer. I was quite proud of my small achievements, but eventually they fizzled out. I made a few indifferent attempts to write a novel in my early twenties, but I got bored after the first few chapters.

  Then I discovered sex and bereavement, both in the same year. Then I did a bit of travelling; Europe, North America, the usual stuff. When I came back, I got a steady job and after that I forgot all about writing for a long time.

  Over this past year, though, I've started again. I wasn't sure where to begin. All I managed at first was the odd half-hearted flash. Then I produced my first short story and, that was it, I was up and running.

  I had some early success winning a competition in a writing magazine. They even printed it and they asked me for a short biography to go with it. Then… nothing. I thought wining the competition might open up a few avenues, just like they tell you it will, but it didn't. Not that it mattered all that much, because I was hooked again and soon I was spending every evening locked away in my bedroom tapping on the computer. I did some thorough research on the publications to approach with my stories, making a note of the ones that were "in", even if they weren't all quite to my taste.

  I'm sure I've told you before, but my next step was to join a writers circle. One of those groups where people get together once a month and pretend to listen to each other's stories – and, maybe, if they're feeling generous, they pretend to like them, too. I didn't find it very helpful. I like to think that I'm quite broad-minded, but all those tales of sex and existential angst made me feel a bit, well, ordinary. In the end, I decided to leave the group. It pains me to say it, but I think they were as relieved as I was when I said I wouldn't be going back.

  After that, I decided it was time to take myself more seriously as an author. I adopted a new approach. I went to a few writers' conventions, studied the market, "got myself out there" just as everyone says you should. It was so much harder than I had thought it would be, though. I guess I'm just not "out there" enough. Anyway, that's when I thought about joining a creative writing class.

  Rule 3. Have well rounded central characters.

  This is a difficult one. I confess that my current obsession may work against my following this rule, but a lot of this is your fault, as you must surely see. It was your rewriting of the guidelines that tipped the balance, after all. But I digress.

  I thought that the writing class would be the turning point, and I wasn't wrong, was I? You were one of the main reasons I signed up for it in the first place. I've followed you and your magazine for a while now and when I saw your name listed as the course tutor, I was pleased to see that you were local. I just knew it was a sign things might be looking up for me.

  When I first saw you in the flesh, I was surprised to see how young you were. I hadn't expected that somehow and I tried not to hold it against you. You must be at least ten years younger than me, I had thought. Now I could see you up close, it looked more like twenty.

  Do you remember the first time we met? I came over to introduce myself before the class got started. I held out my hand and you just looked at it for a second as though I was offering you a dead frog. You muttered something about not being so formal, but you shook my hand in the end when I held it out for long enough. Yours was a bit cold and soft, and I noticed how long your fingers were. Poet's fingers.

  We've got to know each a little better since that first session and, you know, I'm still not sure what to make of you. When I first read your blog, you seemed like quite a sympathetic person, someone I could like. Your writing had a touch of humour and just a little self-deprecation, which appealed to me. But who knows, maybe you got someone else to write it for you.

  Even though I was a bit overawed by you at first, I tried to talk to you about the magazine, but you never seemed all that keen to discuss it with me. I thought you were trying not to show any favouritism. That's what I told myself when you took me to one side and told me that I might a little out of step with the other students. They all seemed so much younger than me, it's true. I heard a couple of them laughing once when I complained about the unnecessary use of foul language in their work, just for effect. You didn't seem to mind, though. You even laughed at some of it, which I found a little disappointing.

  Even so, I found that I wanted to impress you, to show you the real me. I wanted you to see that I wasn't just some middle-aged sad case who thought she could write. I knew I could write and I wanted you to see that too.

  I reread some recent back copies of the magazine and thought, not for the first time, that I could do better. I still think that in fact. Since you seemed to prefer keeping your distance, I thought it best to contact you via the website, as one professional to another. That first email you sent back was polite, if a little cold: "I suggest you try approaching a women's magazine. You might find your style is more suited to them." When I queried what this meant, you actually responded: "Less demanding for the reader than the content of Modern Flux." I have to admit, I was a little put out by this, but at least you had responded personally. I was grateful for that and it encouraged me, w
hich I assumed was your intention.

  I emailed you again, addressing you by your first name this time instead of "Dear Mr Bateman". I sent you two new stories plus a rewrite. I was impressed that you emailed straight back, even though you turned me down again. I emailed to remind you that your guidelines asked for "the romance of the everyday". Eventually you replied, saying that you "didn't mean that kind of romance".

  "I'm exploring the relationships and complexities of life. What other kind of romance is there, I wonder?" I asked you, but it was a week before you responded this time. You were a little terse, saying that, "we are seeking 'romance' in a wider sense. Perhaps it's a matter of taste. Please use the online submission system next time."

  You refused to discuss my submissions in class, saying it would be "unprofessional" of you and, when I pressed you further, you began to look angry and even a little scared. I couldn't understand why you were treating me like this.

  Rule 4. Aim for realistic dialogue

  Admittedly, that might be a little difficult for us, given your present circumstances. No, that's quite all right, you don't need to make an effort on my account. I'll speak for both of