Lessons from the Daily Mail

What are the best newspapers in Britain? Arguably The Sun and the Daily Mail.

I’m not joking. They might not be everyone’s cup of tea – and their editors would probably argue that they don’t want to be – but they are consistently the best written of the national titles of all stripes.

And we can all – professional communicators or not – learn from them.

Say what you like about the Mail and Sun, but they know their readers inside out. And they don’t just understand their readers, but consistently give them what they want.

We can all learn from this audience-centric approach. Yet too frequently we focus on our own objectives, be they personal or organisational, even when we know that our audience don’t give two hoots about what we want.

The other reason these newspapers are so popular is because of the language they use. Particularly in The Sun’s case it’s simple, unambiguous, easy to understand. You could argue it’s dumbed-down, I prefer to call it demographic.

I’m not arguing for a lowering of standards, I’m not about to call for a ban on long words. However I do believe that there’s a strong case for using clearer, more direct language, and less waffle, fewer obscure technical terms.

I have a real bugbear about saying purchase when buy would work just as well. Or of using twenty words when you could do the same job with ten. Yes, I realise that our audiences aren’t daft, but there’s no reason why we should bore them with our showing off of how many fancy terms we know.

I recognise that this is a controversial view, but I can live with that. Because the other thing The Sun and the Daily Mail can teach us is that you can’t please everyone all of the time.

University of Falmouth MA Professional Writing: The Verdict

Did you see Rachel Cusk’s piece in The Guardian on 19 January about creative writing courses? I read it with a glass of wine as I was cooking that evening’s dinner, having finished my Masters coursework that afternoon. I meant to go online and post a comment, but I ended up responding on Twitter instead, so I thought that it would be worth writing about my experience of studying for a writing Masters here while it was still fresh in my mind.

I studied Professional Writing with the University of Falmouth (formerly University College Falmouth). As far as I’m aware, it’s the only Professional – as opposed to Creative – Writing Masters in the UK.

Since my only experience of studying creative writing was as an undergraduate concentrating on poetry – on the University of Oregon’s Kidd Program and at the University of East Anglia – I don’t know how the course content differed from that of a traditional creative writing Masters. I can, however, tell you what I think made this course stand out.

The clue’s in the name. This is a course about working as a writer – whether that’s ghost-writing memoirs or drafting copy for a loo roll ad. It’s about more than crafting perfect prose or understanding how to build suspense in a plot; it’s about understanding markets and learning how to sell yourself too. Over the past two years I’ve learnt how to build a website and approach an agent, analysed the demand for travel memoirs, reacquainted myself with how to give and take constructive criticism and tried to work out what my USP is. I could have also learnt how to write press releases, features and ad copy, but that was too like my day job. Given that PR and commercial writing pay far better than most ‘creative’ writing jobs, this was a popular – if unromantic – option for many of my fellow students.

Instead, after doing the obligatory bit-of-everything introductory courses, I focused on non-fiction, rewriting the opening chapters of a travel memoir I started eight years ago in Italy, and a new narrative nonfiction book about Cardiff Bay.

Two things strike me as I write this. The first is that – 15,000 word Masters project aside – I didn’t actually write that much after the introductory classes. Or rather I wrote blurbs and market analyses and research plans and synopses, but not much of the stuff that I’d thought I’d write. Secondly, although I experimented with styles and genres – I was quite taken with chick-lit – when it came to producing my final piece of work I went back to writing in the voice I’d always used. I’d like to think that my writing has become more zingy as a consequence of what I’ve learned, but I’m not sure.

Let’s backtrack a moment, though. If I am completely honest this isn’t why I did the course.

I found out about it messing around online in summer 2010. That spring I’d finished a temporary work contract. I’d planned on doing freelance work while completing a professional diploma; because there wasn’t much work around I ended up taking a full-time job. I was desperate to find a challenge, though. I had vague ideas of freelancing again but I didn’t have a huge plan. The course was more about staving off boredom than helping me in my career.

And on those grounds, it’s been a success. I haven’t had time to be bored these past two years. For a while after I’d taken a new, more demanding job, I wondered whether I’d be able to find the time or the mental energy to continue, but I’ve got used to making myself a coffee and writing for two hours after work, and of making the most of those days you wake up early and can’t get back to sleep, or need distracting from a cramped train carriage. Even so, it’s hard sitting in front of a computer for work all day, then trying to squeeze out the last drops of creative energy as you do the same at home. I’ve fantasised about having a completely different day job – like being one of those people that maintain the municipal flower beds, or anything really that doesn’t involve computer screens and word counts. There have also been all those times I’ve felt violently jealous of the lucky few fellow students who didn’t have to juggle studying with a full-time job, or worked freelance. (I ignored the fact that they had to fit writing around looking after a family, whereas I have no such responsibilities.)

I studied part-time over two years, on the distance learning option. I was surprised how much of a sense of a community developed among a bunch of people sat in front of their computers, some of them in different countries. There was a real feeling that we were all in this together, and that there was always someone to moan to about writers’ block or struggles with the workload. I wonder how different the experience would have been had I studied full-time on campus for a year. But while part of me wishes that I’d had the chance to spend time in a classroom and give over my life to writing for a year, on balance I think mine was the better choice – and far more representative of most writers’ lives. Still, one of the clear highlights of the two years was meeting other students and tutors at the London Book Fair.

The downside? Well, the course fees for a start, particularly when you consider that over the two years they pretty much equate to the average writer’s annual earnings from writing alone. But my feeling is that if you’re looking for a better salary do an MBA or go to medical school, do a writing course because you can’t imagine not doing it.

There are, of course the stories about graduates who’ve signed book deals and gone on to big things. I’m too realistic to believe that the course will automatically lead to publication, or of even being able to make a career out of writing books.

While I’m concentrating on the downside, I might as well talk about parts of the course which I was disappointed about. I suppose my main gripe is the fact that I expected more focus on career-planning, perhaps more interaction with agents and publishers. Again, it’s all down to expectations, and perhaps in this respect mine were a little high.

On a positive note, though, I learned a lot. And more importantly I enjoyed myself. I discovered that I’m much better at giving and receiving constructive criticism than I’d imagined, and that deadlines are something to savour, not dread. I found out that I can write plot and dialogue and much more besides. And I realised that while I’m not the world’s best writer, I’m possibly not the worst. Plus, the course tutors were – without exception – excellent, and I’m grateful to have had the chance to learn from them.

If you’re knee deep in a project you’re passionate about, a course such as this may not be for you. It’s too easy to use the coursework as an excuse for not writing too much else. But if – like me – you need the focus, the deadlines, to kick you down a route you’ve been nosying around for years, then the £6,000ish course fees will be money well spent.

So has the course changed my life? It’s far too early to say. I’d like to say I’ll keep writing, but who knows how I’ll feel in a few months? I do, however, feel rather lost and tearful that a fantastic two years has come to end. So, if you were to ask me whether I’d recommend the course I’d say yes, go for it.

Home truths

We bought a new house at the start of June. It’s small but bright with a balcony over a tiny garden which leads into a communal garden like a modern version of one of those West London garden squares. When it’s breezy the whistle of boat rigging wafts in the window; at dusk bats race circuits among the wisteria and limes.

I painted the whole of the downstairs pale green before we moved in and I’ve just finished doing the stairs yellow. The smell of emulsion mixes with the sofa’s still-new leather tang.

The garden’s half-filled with a new shed, the smallest model we could find. We’ll paint it green – if there’s ever another dry day – to match the new raised bed where I’ll grow spinach and salad onions and the border for which I’ve already bought a date palm, oleander and fig.

Outside the kitchen door the primary-coloured terracotta pots will soon be full of nasturtiums, lavender, oregano and rosemary, while I’ve got used to leaping out into the rain to tear fistfuls of basil to add to a garlicky homemade pesto.

After years of apartment life it’s wonderful to come home on a mild evening and fling the doors and windows open and sit outside with a glass of wine. I’ve even come to love vacuuming and mopping the kitchen floor. I fear that having this house, though, will provide me with far too many new excuses for doing just about anything except writing.

Do you have a story to tell?

Do you live, work or play around Cardiff Bay? Would you be willing to be interviewed for a new book project?

I am writing a book about Cardiff Bay and the people who make the area their home. I want to talk to anyone with a story to tell, and to start with I am particularly looking for people in Butetown and South Grangetown.

You don’t need to be an expert or to have led a particularly eventful life – I’m looking for ordinary people who want to share their life stories, their experiences of living in the area, or just simply an interesting tale they’ve always wanted to tell.

If you’re interested in taking part or would like more information please leave a comment on this post or email me at the address on the About Me page.

Thank you

Luisa

Writing – A Moving Business

We’ve been moving house. I’ve scrubbed floors, painted walls, winced over heavy boxes of books, got frustrate over flat-pack furniture. Then, because we have a house of our own rather than the rented flats which have been our home since we relocated three years ago, been overtaken by a wave of house-pride and wiped worktops, planted herbs, found partners for lonely socks and tackled the ironing on Sunday afternoon rather than each morning before work.

The broadband was connected this evening so I’m writing at the kitchen table while I sautee green veg to serve with fusilli pasta. It’s not as if I have much choice – the sofa doesn’t arrive until later in the week.

The laptop and note book have stayed shut; I’ve been too exhausted to do anything when I flop down each night. But far from feeling creatively numb, this flurry of physicality has given me a real creative boost.

There’s something wonderful about daydreaming over the dishes, about writing sentences in your head as you tackle the weeds in the raised beds. I’ve been fantasising about becoming a house-painter, a cleaner or even a plain old house-wife, just for the thinking space these would afford.

You know what it’s like – you sit hunched over your keyboard, the blank page glares at you, you know that you can’t live up to its hopes. Yet – for me at least – doing something different, something physically demanding, is the best way of getting the creativity to flow. It’s why I try to walk home from the office each day, why I garden and cook and clean and mend. And though I have deadlines aplenty in the coming months and really need to crack on, it’s why I feel thankful rather than guilty about my little writing break.

Writing about weather

The past few days have been warm and cloudless, with sticky nights and hazy dawns. Packing for a house-move has taken a back seat as I’ve done all I can to stay outside.

If you’re reading this in California or the Mediterranean, or any of those many other lucky places where hot summers just happen like that and only foreigners stay out in the midday sun, you’re unlikely to understand. But when weather is something unpredictable, not to be trusted, you do everything you can to make the most of it.

In Italy in summer, life continues just like it does the rest of the year. You wear a jacket to the office to ward off the chill of the air-con, you stick to the shady side of the street and avoid walking on tarmac in heels, but there’s not that sense of overwhelming joy, of ‘aren’t we lucky’ that you get on sunny days here.

My office is old and there’s no air-conditioning and with the windows open on Friday it was still close to thirty degrees. A hot grimy breeze carried dust and spiders through the open windows, together with the screech of a concrete cutter, car radio bass and fried-chicken fumes from the take-away a few doors down the street. Tourists with fluorescent flesh or sensible hats and walking poles crowded by the waterfront; I waited for half an hour in my usual lunch place for a toasted sandwich. A colleague came back into the office in the early afternoon with ice-creams for everyone.

I know it’s not the done thing to start a novel with weather talk – even though Silvia Plath in The Bell Jar does just that – and that banging on about the weather all the time does not apparently a great writer make. But why is it so wrong to write about the weather when it clearly has such an impact on everyone?

I love deadlines

A week before an important deadline my old computer broke down. Then I mislaid notebook, my printer’s ink ran dry, and I ended up scrabbling around to find enough paper. The deadline came and went a week ago; though I was on the last minute – as always – I made it – as I always do.

Now I’m deadline-free for a while which, given that I have a fulltime job and am moving house in two weeks, should be a blessing. But I’m bored, fidgety, frustrated, annoyed, I don’t know what to do with myself. I’m not used to empty evenings where I can choose to read, to write nonsense, to watch TV. And I realise that I’ve not even blogged for an age, but well, without deadlines, I’m all kind of lost.

Call me unprofessional, call me lazy, say I’m not a real writer if you want. I’m willing to admit it, though; I need deadlines more than I imagined.

Why I write about food when I want to feed my creativity

Every family has its own recipes, be they for roast chicken or lamingtons or beans and rice. Recipe probably isn’t the right word, given that these food stories are rarely written down.

Growing up in the 1970s and ‘80s, I ate plate pies made with tinned steak, fish fingers, garden peas and those six inch pizzas you cooked under the grill. I haven’t eaten any of them since I left home, but there are two dishes from my childhood which I still love.

There’s no name for my family’s pasta sauce recipe, and you can count the ingredients on one hand. It’s basically passata or tinned tomatoes cooked for the whole day, with onion, herbs and meat if you want. It’s not difficult to make, but ever so difficult to get wrong. And it’s one of only two pasta recipes which we ate regularly when I was small.

The other was pasta e fagioli or simply pastafagioli as we called it in our house. Just a thick soup of beans and pasta, with celery and a little tomato puree. It’s one of those dishes you get all over Italy, with a thousand variations or more. I’ve tried to make it so many times myself, but I never get it anywhere near as good as that made by Mum or Dad.

I love writing about food almost as much as I love eating it. It’s a comfort, something simple to come back to, even on those days when I have writers’ block and I can’t write more than three or four words.

I used to write a food blog about cooking, gardening, eating out. I wrote about seeing Sean Penn at an amazing vegan place in San Francisco, about how caterpillars munched all my cabbages, about bulgar wheat and roasting vegetables and Blacksticks Blue cheese, harvesting purple potatoes, and a dirt-cheap wine bar on a street called Lark Lane. I gave it up after a while – I had a new job and the blog was threatening to take over my life – but I’ve often regretted it, simply for the huge pleasure it brought me.

Then last year I had an urgent deadline and I couldn’t think of a thing to write. I sat down on the couch and starting writing about food, simply to get some words out. Even though I say so myself, it was a great piece. And it made me realise that it’s important sometimes to write what you want.

Which is why when I don’t feel like writing, when I’ve writers’ block and the words won’t come, I just sit and write about growing, cooking or eating, and something always comes out.

Book fair blues

I’m sat in the lounge of a hotel in Bayswater wondering what to do for breakfast. I’ve bug eyes from poor sleep because there was no sound-proofing in my room, my hair’s wet as the hairdryer didn’t work. I’ve got a cheap(er) ticket for the train which means that I’m not leaving until three o’clock. I’m wearing the same underwear as yesterday as my packing seemed to go wrong. There’s no free wi-fi. And it’s raining & I’ve forgetten my umbrella…

I spent yesterday afternoon and evening listening to people talking about their books. Everyone was so passionate, so interested, so committed, that I really felt put to shame. Then someone with whom I’d spoken at last year’s book fair, told me again that he thought I should be focusing on fiction, not non-fiction.

So my first thought today was to take myself off shopping – though don’t get me wrong, I’ve got nothing to spend. But I don’t fancy wandering down Westbourne Grove looking all bedraggled, so I suppose it’s back to the book fair instead, to be put to shame by everyone else’s enthusiasm.

For the moment, though, I’m enjoying people-watching; the Mediterranean guys on slim-fitting jackets, a man with hair like a scrubbing brush, a Chinese girl off to the book fair, a party of Italian teenagers. After all, books are all about people and observing ordinary folk is just as important as networking.

Face your (writing) fears

For five years in my early twenties, every time I went near a plane something went wrong. There was the time with the terrible turbulence over Baffin Island, the other day when we were delayed while they inspected a dent on the plane, another trip when the airport was closed because a plane had burst a tyre, yet another when the pilot announced that we shouldn’t worry about one wing nearly skimming the water because he’d straighten up before we got to the runway. It all culminated in a near-disaster en route from the UK to Hawaii.

It was Christmas so the flights were expensive and I was still a student so I wasn’t exactly rich. But I still had some money left over from a poetry scholarship I’d won the previous year and I thought I might as well use it to go and visit a boyfriend who lived out there. Anyway, like I said it was Christmas, so I was keen to get the cheapest flight I could, which meant me flying via Toronto and Vancouver in a journey which took longer than a day.

To cut a long story short there were problems with the plane’s automatic landing equipment, and the weather in Toronto was too bad to land by sight. We got diverted to Mirabelle in Montreal, where the weather was almost as bad. The cabin crew were walking around telling us about the brace position, but somehow we landed heavily but intact. By the time we arrived in Toronto I’d missed my connecting flight, and I ended up on a direct flight – through an electrical storm.

So for a while Ihad a real fear of flying, was convinced that every plane I got on was bound to crash. It only disappeared when I took a night flight on Cuba’s national carrier – which according to everything I read – had a worrying safety record.

I panicked about the flight for weeks, and when I saw the plane I panicked more. It still had its old Yugoslav Airlines livery, half the seats just weren’t there. Midflight the lights went off, and there was a strong draft coming from the emergency door.

Of course it cured my fear of flying in an instant – if I can cope with that I can cope with anything, right?

There’s no reason for telling you this story except that I was thinking about it in bed last night. But I suppose it’s got a moral for writing – that to get over your hang-ups (self-promotion, writing dialogue, whatever) you’ve got to confront them.

On another note, I’ll be tweeting from London Book Fair tomorrow (17 April). Follow all the action here and do get in touch if you’re at the show too.