Lissa Oliver's Blog

The True-Life Adventures Of An Imaginative Skoda

Last Saturday our car took us on an amazing, magical journey.
For me it was a journey to Coolmore Stud in Tipperary, always a magical trip. It was a well-trodden path and we had no need of the built-in sat nav. Which was just as well.
Our car opted for the less well-trodden path and appeared to be off road for much of the early part of the ninety-minute trip. Having apparently watched all of the repeats of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang over the Christmas period, it was intent on a magical adventure of its own.
For the most part, it wandered at speed through farmland or bogland, with not a road in sight. We paid scant attention, until I noticed it was going the wrong way up a motorway. It survived, but was now full of mischief and very soon was approaching the M4. For those unfamiliar with Irish roads, a motorway somewhere else in the country, more or less in the opposite direction to that in which we were driving.
It certainly was approaching the M4, at great speed, with no intention of slowing or stopping.
“No! No! No! Don’t do it!” we advised.
But it did it.
Straight across the M4 from one side to the other; miraculously without mishap.
By now our car’s magical mystery journey was far more entertaining than our own. I was glued to the screen and delighted when a familiar place name appeared. Now we knew where it was – Ballina!
Pretty soon the coast appeared. How lovely to be at the sea.
“I think it’s heading for the sea,” I pointed out, wondering if it might turn away at the last moment.
But it didn’t.
There it was, taking us out away from the coastline, leaving us wondering where it might next hit land. America?
Killala.
It dried off for a bit before plunging out into the Atlantic again, turning back at once and continuing inland, through townships unfamiliar to us.
It was almost a pity to pull into Coolmore. Almost. There can’t really be a finer end destination; but it was a great pity we never found out our car’s end destination.
Wherever it ended up for a couple of hours, awaiting our return, I hope there were happy people singing songs about how much they loved their Skoda Octavia. And a delightful Baron and Baroness to bring a smile to its bumper.
It fetched us home the normal route.
You can only have one magical mystery tour in a day.

May I invite you to think back to a time before you started seriously writing and were just an avid reader. Did you ever think about the author’s craftsmanship? When you were asked about the book you had just read, did you talk about the style or the skills? Or did you enthuse about the characters and story?
I’m guessing it was the latter.
We read to escape, to meet new people within new worlds and to explore and experience new places and adventures within the pages. The author isn’t there. The world and its population created by the author are the only things we see.
I mention this, because I had the pleasure of mixing in the company of a great many writers over the weekend, including a group of yet-to-be-published writers who were discussing their feeling of not yet being ready to start a project. I made a simple remark that sent visible shockwaves through the group. And I do mean visible – I saw them shrink back into their chairs and freeze in utter horror mid-stir of coffee.
“Your writing doesn’t improve,” I said.
But then I continued, “your confidence and ideas grow stronger.”
We have all read debut novels by authors we’ve loved. What was their second book like? Did you personally enjoy it as much? Or more? How did you feel about their third book, or sixth? Agatha Christie was fairly prolific, and Stephen King and Sidney Sheldon, to name but three. Did we see their writing improve or do they have a consistent Voice throughout their collection?
The chances are, you will have to re-read their debut novel to answer, as you can only remember the plots and characters and your favourite story. Because, newsflash, readers don’t actually care about our craft! When we read, we don’t care about Rising Tension, Low Point and Character Arc. Most readers don’t even know what they are! Readers care about a good story, not the ingredients that made it good, and you can’t be a good writer without being a keen reader. We have only to read a book to learn our craft, without even being aware of our classroom.
We can get too caught up in the craft of writing that we don’t take that first step into actually writing something. If we’re well read, our storytelling skills will come naturally. Structure is ingrained. The craft of writing is not rocket science or brain surgery upon which life and death depends. We should be writing for sheer pleasure, and fear ought not to be a part of the process at all.
There have been very rare occasions when I’ve really noticed the quality of writing, the tight style, the choice of deliberate punctuation, the “negative space” of what’s left unsaid that tells me more than any words could have done. Sometimes those skills have been absent in the subsequent novels. Sometimes still there, but I no longer notice. I no longer notice because I’m busy reading a good story and I’m already used to the author’s Voice.
Maybe if the nuts and bolts of the writing itself grabs our attention then the story and characters have not been enough to hold it.
My advice? Relax, stop thinking about the tools needed for your project. Just let the story have life and allow it out into the world. You might find your craftsmanship was better than you thought…

Books are currently on my mind. My own had once been carefully gathered in wall-to-wall-floor-to-ceiling bookcases, but the addition of some long-overdue home improvements saw them less carefully stacked precariously floor-to-mid-wall around every available floorspace of our small home. The arrival of new bookcases saw them regathered and stacked randomly in total disarray on every available floor, chair and table space in the living room. It took two full days to lovingly rehouse them.

Now they are back where they belong, in perfect order, authors together for binge-reading, friends next to friends, rivals kept apart, jockey autobiographies in chronological order from early Victorian to current, reference books in order of when printed, music books in order of genres and band members once again alongside each other. You get the picture – like most booklovers, I’m a might fussy and obsessive.

There’s nothing wrong with that. In fact, a missing band member autobiography alerted me to what I imagined to be four or five missing books. Having tracked them down to a forgotten shelf in a wardrobe, I found that there were actually 20 or 30 books temporarily housed there during renovations and my work wasn’t as nearly finished as I’d thought. Had I opted for my non-reader husband’s “just stick them up there” approach, they might have languished in a wardrobe for months to come.

Hopefully everyone here in the Goodreads community will readily identify with the painstaking placement of books on a shelf, whether you be a genre, size or alphabetically-based arranger. And how many of you happen to have more than one copy of a single title?

It's easily done. My first copy of a Penguin paperback of Wuthering Heights eventually suffered a broken spine from over-reading and has been joined by a beautiful red leather hardback edition. They sit side-by-side, because how could I ever part with that much-loved and worn-out first copy?

Similarly, there are four copies, no less, of John Hislop’s The Brigadier. My first bargain-bucket paperback fell apart from over-reading. It was joined – not replaced, of course – by a hardback edition, whose cover disintegrated. I’ve been told by book collectors that’s a trait of the second edition. The cover was removed and placed lovingly within the pages, for preservation. Which is why there is a first edition covered copy alongside it. The family was later completed when a friend bequeathed a less-loved-and-read pristine paperback copy. A nice little nuclear group of Mummy, Daddy and two small “Brigadiers”; probably going a little bit too far when it comes to duplicate copies. If ever I run out of shelf space, the uncovered hardback might have to be rehomed.

We tend not to keep the less enjoyed books. When we have the misfortune to waste a few hours on a bad book, we can at least pinpoint the errors and avoid them in the future. That said, what is a bad book? It’s out there in the bookshop world and someone is enjoying it enough to see it published and sold. There is no such thing as a bad book; merely a book you did not enjoy.

Challenge 11 – Your character is having a hard time with life. What's their go-to way to comfort themselves and/or get into a better mood?
Sitting in a stable, in the far corner, nestled in the banked-up straw or wood shavings, the horse standing over me or just ignoring me, and no one else knows I’m there. Just the sound of hay being crunched, the smell of horseflesh and bedding and manure and the sweet smell of hay and no other world beyond exists. A minute seems like an hour. Sanctuary.
Pete from Gala Day

Challenge 10 – what scares your character the most?
Baling twine. Seriously. It just gives me the shudders. As a kid I was always told to twist it into a knot and dispose of it safely, backed up by all sorts of horror stories about it not breaking and cutting through horses' legs. Urgh. Gave me the willies.
So says Pete Allen, from Gala Day

As you know by now, Pete Allen from the fictional thriller Gala Day has entered a fun challenge between novel protagonists and today it's time for him to get serious and take off the shades!
Challenge 9 – What is the one action that your character would rather die than do?
OK, I’m taking off the shades now, because this has just got serious. And it goes no further than ourselves, right. I would have said a load of things; and then, when you think about it – die? There’s nothing I’d actually rather die for, right? But I’d die for Sophie, if I thought it would help. There’s nothing I wouldn’t risk for her. And then, really, this whole mess I’m caught up in is just because I really would rather die than lose my licence to ride, to give up being a jockey. If you sat me down and said death or no licence, I’m never going to choose death, obviously. But you don’t get to sit down and choose, you just get faced with the risk of losing your licence; and all the other risks in fighting to keep it just don’t seem as important. You never really think you’re risking your life; not until there you are, seriously risking your life and it’s already way too late to change your mind. All you can do is fight for your life. So, in answer? I wouldn’t rather die, but I’d rather risk my life than give up my career. And, you know, that’s not actually a question you can ever answer until you’ve been there.

Seeing as Pete from Gala Day gave the same answer for each challenge, I may as well group them here!

Challenge 6 – favourite item of wardrobe
My shades! Designer sunglasses for rain or shine, indoors or out!

Challenge 7 – significant item or object of sentimental value
And again, my shades! Designer sunglasses for rain or shine, indoors or out!

Challenge 8 – Can your character wield magic?
Do the shades count? You should see the magic when I lower them and shoot a flirty look at a girl! I won't wink (best save that for the Weapon of Mass Destruction round!)

Challenge 5 – characters sitting down to eat together
The morning brought with it no repercussions from the late night activities. Western cursed heartily from the kitchen, bemoaning the limited breakfast options. The phone rang persistently, trainers looking to book Pete and enquire after his health. His health, battered as it was by nerves and lack of sleep, would see him back in the saddle – Jockey Club medical officer willing – within the week. Satisfied, the phone calls petered out. Western’s abuse did not.
‘For all its faults, The Golden Lion makes this place seem like the Black Hole of Calcutta,’ he complained, staring into the fridge as though will power alone would magically stock it.
‘There’s toast, cereals, eggs…’ Pete suggested.
‘Cornflakes! And what shall I put on them – this watered down excuse for milk…’ he picked up the small wax carton, the lack of weight a reasonable indication of its content, ‘…or some Lanson? It’ll have to be the bubbly, won’t it – seeing as how you haven’t even got enough milk for a decent cup of tea!’
‘Porridge,’ Pete offered, deliberately winding him up, ‘you make it with water.’
‘No, you make it with water. The rest of us use milk.’ He closed the door disdainfully. ‘Fuck, I can’t believe I’m even having this conversation! Who eats porridge anyway? Horses eat oats – we eat sausages and bacon and fried eggs.’ He delved back into the fridge and retrieved a couple of eggs and some tomatoes. ‘Have you even got a frying pan?’
‘That drawer, under the cooker.’
He bent down and found salvation. ‘Want some?’
‘I’d kill for some, but I’ll probably be riding Monday.’
Western gave him a sideways glance. ‘You would, as well – I’ve seen you in action. No one fucks with Pete Allen!’
The kitchen was soon filled with the aroma of frying bread, eggs and tomatoes.
‘Ever been to Istanbul for the Turkish Derby?’ Pete asked Western, sitting at the table with well-buttered toast; Monday still just far enough off.
‘Christ, yeah. It wouldn’t kill them to use a frying pan in the morning, either! Cucumber for breakfast! You lot would have been in your element.’
‘I won it, you know. I’ve ridden three Derby winners.’
‘Turkish, German and Italian?’
‘Turkish, Norwegian and Italian.’
‘Not exactly Epsom.’
‘No, not exactly. Life’s a bitch, eh?’
Western buttered a slice of bread, mopping up the remains on his breakfast plate. ‘Yours is. When exactly did you decide to flush it down the pan?’ He ate the bread, his stare fixed firmly on Pete. ‘Come on, the low-down, now – fast cars, fast women and a betting account, when did they hook you? Is it the price of fame and wealth?’
‘The price of fame and wealth!’ Pete laughed. ‘You sound like a tabloid headline. Are you scratching for a story?’
‘I’m always scratching for a story. And I’m interested. You really don’t seem like the flash bugger we always took you for.’
‘Cheers, mate. You’re every bit the fat gutter pressman we always took you for. Just less of a bastard.’
‘Can I quote you on that?!’
‘Quote me on anything you like!’
Western laughed and sat back, sipping a nearly-black tea distastefully. ‘I believed you, you know – the other evening at York when you protested your innocence. No one’s ever deliberately stopped a horse, even though we chase the myth every day of the week. It would be the scoop of the century. But why did your career nosedive and how come you’re topping the current most wanted?’
Pete smiled. ‘You see – that’s the journalist in you. You know it’s a myth but you still dig for that connection.’
‘Is there one?’
Pete shrugged. ‘I suppose so. If I hadn’t blown it in the big league I wouldn’t have needed to start gambling. And If I hadn’t started gambling I wouldn’t have got my name linked with bookies and players.’
‘Did you blow it by selling info’?’
‘Piss off, Westy! I didn’t blow it at all. It was your lot, and the TV crowd. Too young for the responsibility. Wouldn’t be a match for the top riders without the apprentice’s allowance. Too inexperienced for such a big retainer. The usual hysteria. If the Marchant horses had been firing on all cylinders, the headlines would have come to nothing; I’d have gone from Champion Apprentice to Champion Jockey in a single season. Every jockey who rides for Nick Marchant wins the Championship.’
‘Except you.’
Gala Day

Challenge 5 – characters sitting down to eat together
The morning brought with it no repercussions from the late night activities. Western cursed heartily from the kitchen, bemoaning the limited breakfast options. The phone rang persistently, trainers looking to book Pete and enquire after his health. His health, battered as it was by nerves and lack of sleep, would see him back in the saddle – Jockey Club medical officer willing – within the week. Satisfied, the phone calls petered out. Western’s abuse did not.
‘For all its faults, The Golden Lion makes this place seem like the Black Hole of Calcutta,’ he complained, staring into the fridge as though will power alone would magically stock it.
‘There’s toast, cereals, eggs…’ Pete suggested.
‘Cornflakes! And what shall I put on them – this watered down excuse for milk…’ he picked up the small wax carton, the lack of weight a reasonable indication of its content, ‘…or some Lanson? It’ll have to be the bubbly, won’t it – seeing as how you haven’t even got enough milk for a decent cup of tea!’
‘Porridge,’ Pete offered, deliberately winding him up, ‘you make it with water.’
‘No, you make it with water. The rest of us use milk.’ He closed the door disdainfully. ‘Fuck, I can’t believe I’m even having this conversation! Who eats porridge anyway? Horses eat oats – we eat sausages and bacon and fried eggs.’ He delved back into the fridge and retrieved a couple of eggs and some tomatoes. ‘Have you even got a frying pan?’
‘That drawer, under the cooker.’
He bent down and found salvation. ‘Want some?’
‘I’d kill for some, but I’ll probably be riding Monday.’
Western gave him a sideways glance. ‘You would, as well – I’ve seen you in action. No one fucks with Pete Allen!’
The kitchen was soon filled with the aroma of frying bread, eggs and tomatoes.
‘Ever been to Istanbul for the Turkish Derby?’ Pete asked Western, sitting at the table with well-buttered toast; Monday still just far enough off.
‘Christ, yeah. It wouldn’t kill them to use a frying pan in the morning, either! Cucumber for breakfast! You lot would have been in your element.’
‘I won it, you know. I’ve ridden three Derby winners.’
‘Turkish, German and Italian?’
‘Turkish, Norwegian and Italian.’
‘Not exactly Epsom.’
‘No, not exactly. Life’s a bitch, eh?’
Western buttered a slice of bread, mopping up the remains on his breakfast plate. ‘Yours is. When exactly did you decide to flush it down the pan?’ He ate the bread, his stare fixed firmly on Pete. ‘Come on, the low-down, now – fast cars, fast women and a betting account, when did they hook you? Is it the price of fame and wealth?’
‘The price of fame and wealth!’ Pete laughed. ‘You sound like a tabloid headline. Are you scratching for a story?’
‘I’m always scratching for a story. And I’m interested. You really don’t seem like the flash bugger we always took you for.’
‘Cheers, mate. You’re every bit the fat gutter pressman we always took you for. Just less of a bastard.’
‘Can I quote you on that?!’
‘Quote me on anything you like!’
Western laughed and sat back, sipping a nearly-black tea distastefully. ‘I believed you, you know – the other evening at York when you protested your innocence. No one’s ever deliberately stopped a horse, even though we chase the myth every day of the week. It would be the scoop of the century. But why did your career nosedive and how come you’re topping the current most wanted?’
Pete smiled. ‘You see – that’s the journalist in you. You know it’s a myth but you still dig for that connection.’
‘Is there one?’
Pete shrugged. ‘I suppose so. If I hadn’t blown it in the big league I wouldn’t have needed to start gambling. And If I hadn’t started gambling I wouldn’t have got my name linked with bookies and players.’
‘Did you blow it by selling info’?’
‘Piss off, Westy! I didn’t blow it at all. It was your lot, and the TV crowd. Too young for the responsibility. Wouldn’t be a match for the top riders without the apprentice’s allowance. Too inexperienced for such a big retainer. The usual hysteria. If the Marchant horses had been firing on all cylinders, the headlines would have come to nothing; I’d have gone from Champion Apprentice to Champion Jockey in a single season. Every jockey who rides for Nick Marchant wins the Championship.’
‘Except you.’
Gala Day

Pete Allen, Gala Day, Challenge 4 – any big reveals?
Well now, lads, you already twisted my arm for that one! Finally winning the girl was one big reveal! It was for me, anyway! But what with trying to keep clear of a bunch of heavies who wanted me to fix horseraces and trying to hold on to my new job as a retained jockey to a leading stable, I ended up revealing a bit more than I would have liked. I guess you could say I haven’t always been squeaky clean. Having a gambling habit did kind of throw me into the lap of the heavies. When I was young and flavour of the month I got used to the lifestyle. When the accolades dried up, so did my bank account. I wasn’t going to let the Porsche go, though. And I had to put fuel in the tank somehow. The rumours probably weren’t that far off, if I had to be really honest. But my big reveal? I’m not actually that bad boy my image suggests. I just kind of got swept along. I didn’t think I could be a hero and protect Sophie. But when push comes to shove, you just do it.