I had* a problem, where the two main places I write were incompatible. That is, the software I prefer to write with - Dropbox and yWriter, wouldn't run at one of the places I write at, due to the particular system configuration. So I'd resolved to write the novel at home, and write shorts and other things at the incompatible place.

Which was working - this morning, before my colleague's assistance, I wrote the start of what I thought was a short story that had been kicking around. It went pretty well - I liked the voice, I liked the concept, I even liked my opening page, which probably means it was rubbish. It got my attention, it flowed well, it felt lively.

What it didn't feel like was the start of a short story. It was punchy, but took its time. You knew what was going on, where the plot would be going, but nothing was actually happening, so much for that first page or so. And as I was writing, notions crept in - that while the concept was simple, its ramifications weren't, or shouldn't be. That, as a story, it was a bit of a trick-piece, but as a novel it might have more depth. Some character and humanity.

Which is mildly problematic, as I'm already writing a novel, but manageable. I like to multitask. But it posed an interesting question to me - how do you know if the idea you're toying with is novel-sized or short-sized? Obviously we do know, most of the time. But how? What is it about a story that makes you feel there's a whole novel in there, or that there couldn't be? And how implicitly do you trust that initial assessment - how easily will you consider turning a short into a novel, or ripping the heart out of your book to make a short?

*Until about half an hour ago, when a colleague showed me Dropbox's command-line install (thanks, Austin!). Now I'm golden, as soon as I get dropbox up and running under wine.

There seems to be a growing conviction in both comments on the blogosphere and in the real world that one needs a degree in Being A Writer - specifically, an MFA or other degree in creative writing. That agents, editors and even readers will roundly dismiss any upstart daring enough to query, write or publish without such an esteemed qualification.

Bollocks. I should know: I have one. Hell, technically I have two.

Honestly, I blame this misconception largely on the glut of creative writing degrees and courses that began not too long ago, and the marketing that accompanied them. With so many universities claiming their degree teaches you how to hone your fiction and characters and learn what it takes to create a good piece of writing, it's somewhat inevitable that would-be writers form the impression this is the only way to learn to hone your fiction and characters. But a degree isn't always helpful to a budding writer. Sometimes they can do more harm than good.

 

Grief's an odd thing, especially for writing. It's not an everyday kind of emotion like anger, hatred, love, jealousy, or any of the other standards in the character playbox. In fact, I'd argue that it isn't even an emotion, but a mental state, like depression or mania or delusion.

As writers, grief is a difficult thing to communicate subtly. Where emotions have easily recognised shorthands - the clenched muscles of anger, the narrow-eyed petty sniping of jealousy - grief is not a cookie-cutter feeling. Each person journeys through a process entirely unique, based on their own personal baggage and their experience with the person, creature or thing they have lost. Some people cry. Some scream. Some turn to alcohol for numbness, others are numb in their own right.

Even the process we're given - the five stages of death, or five stages of grieving - are not one-size-fits all. Not everyone goes through all five stages - some may not travel through any, but instead opt for a far less recognisable way of dealing. 

 

Picked this up while on a small spree a few months ago, largely to see what all the fuss was about. Crime isn't my usual genre, but Larsson's books seem far more 'general fiction that happens to be about crime' than crime novels in themselves, which is perhaps some of the basis for their broad appeal.

The back copy makes the book sound positively pedestrian, sprinkling adjectives like candy around the character descriptions of CEO, journalist and security specialist.  Lisbeth Salander - our girl with the dragon tattoo - is an extremely socially awkward but highly intelligent hacker and investigator assisting Mikael Blomkvist, super-moral but convicted-of-libel financial journalist, in investigating a supposed murder for Henrik Vanger - friendly but manipulative head of a giant (and failing) corporation. There's a fair whack about business and secret accounts in the Cayman Islands, more family members that you can possibly keep track of, and the odd gruesomely violent scene.

 With a book this popular, I feel I have to either love it or hate it. But I'm rather ambivalent. It's not a bad book - Larsson certainly puts enough twists in the story that the reveal of The Big Bad People is a surprise, and the plot itself is fairly strong. But it suffers from the translation - the voice of the novel is clunky and uneven, and the pace is far too slow.