WRITING

I like to start big.

One sentence on its own. Sometimes followed by a second paragraph with just two lines to emphasise the opening point.

The third paragraph then addresses why I’m writing about that particular subject be it football, Victorian murders or mental health. Today I’m talking about writing or, more accurately, the process in which I write an article.

And, before you start, I’m more than aware that this smacks of the worst type of navel-gazing contemplation, but here we are. I like to write about things which are in my head.

So who the hell am I to tell you how to do anything?  A fair question.

Well, my credentials aren’t much to write home about, but I’ve got a bit of history with the written word. It came later than most.  At school I was nothing like academic. I was in the bottom stream in English at the age of 14 and missed gaining the ‘O’ Level by the longest possible distance. I’m not a natural at any of this.

What I did like to do though was read. And it wasn’t just Roy of the Rovers and Match Weekly.  It was often the big stuff which drew my attention. By the age of 15 I could quote huge chunks of my favourite book Nineteen Eighty-Four and could bang on about the themes of Orwell’s masterpiece to anyone at any time. It’s just a shame that I was supposed to be studying the poems of Charles Causley.

My first stab at football writing came in 1993 when I wrote my first LFC fanzine letter. It was published too though that wasn’t too surprising. Fanzines didn’t care about your qualifications or the quality of your grammar. If you made sense and they had the space they’d give you a chance. As it happened, the editor, Steven Kelly, had room and stuck my name was on the page. Fresh from this debut victory I didn’t trouble him again for the next eleven years. In 2004, there being no public outcry at my continued silence, I plucked up the courage to piece together a retrospective piece on Patrik Berger. It was alright too. Nothing like outstanding, but a decent start.

A few months after that my friend David told me that his Dad worked alongside Patrik during his time at Portsmouth and would see if he could get it signed for me. I duly agreed and sent it off. It came back a week later with an autographed squiggle across the pages.  I beamed with pride for a couple of hours. That ended when I remembered that I spent a couple of paragraphs telling the readers what a good-looking bastard he was.

Ah.

I kept at it anyway and appeared in pretty much every edition of Through the Wind and Rain until its day came to a close. A few years later I contacted The Anfield Wrap and they too let me in. I’m not sure if they knew me from TTW&R, but as most fanzine writers wrote for pretty much everyone, they might have done.

I can barely look at those old fanzine pieces now. I’ve no doubt that they’re clunky and lack anything even resembling subtlety.  I thought they were pretty good at the time, but, suffice to say, I think I’ve done better work since. I just wanted to get better.

I’ve written a couple of novels since then as well as a football book edited by myself and Sachin Nakrani. I still blush at the word ‘writer’ when used next to my name, but I suppose there’s no other word to be used. ‘Amateur writer’ maybe?

I’m often asked about writing and my ‘style’ for want of a better word, so here are a few things I’ve picked up since the days of handwritten letters to editors.  I know this reeks of arrogance, but you don’t have to read on so you’re equally to blame. Anyway, let’s go.

HOW DO I BECOME A WRITER?

Someone asked Kevin Sampson and I that question on Twitter a few years ago. I had a paragraph or two ready by way of response, but Kev is a fan of brevity and did the work for me. He replied with a single word:

‘Start.’

He’s right.  Start. Just pick up a pen or open your laptop and get busy. Even if you’ve no idea what you’re going to say, just get into the habit. After all, no one ever climbed off for the couch, put on a pair of running shoes for the first time and expected to win the London Marathon. You need to get going.

An opinion piece is easier as you have something in mind that you can more or less sneeze it onto the page. You can edit and shape it later. If you’re writing fiction and don’t know where it ends simply write a description of the main character.  Introduce them to a second character and you have a dialogue. Throw in some jeopardy and you’ve got yourself a story.

There you go. You’re a writer. Simple, eh?

I’ll say this though.

It’ll be awful.

And not just awful. I mean, buttock-clenchingly atrocious. You won’t be able to read it without blushing when you revisit it in a few years, but that’s half the fun.  Writing is just a process.  Look at that marathon runner again. Brendan Foster is hardly going to say ‘And so New Runner streaks across the line in record time to win the London Marathon – a far cry from the time that he/she could barely cross the traffic lights at the top of Hesketh St.’

Don’t be perturbed by this. We’ve all written dross at times—even your favourite writers. I’m certainly capable of it.  No one is going to expect ‘Moby Dick’ at the first attempt.

Next up: The other side of writing.

WRITING IS READING PLUS DEDICATION

Writers are readers. Every single one of them and there’s no short cuts allowed when it comes to putting the reading hours in. This doesn’t mean that you absolutely read Shakespeare, Austen, Wilde etc., before you sit down at a desk (though it can’t hurt), but you have to get through something  of interest. As scribbling is a craft to be mastered it’s always wise to see how the others do it.

And it can be anything. One book which sticks in my memory is Home Truths by the author and critic David Lodge. It concerns an author called Adrian and his wife Eleanor who read that their somewhat smug (and successful) friend Sam has been savaged in a literary review by a journalist. Sam is on his way over to their retirement cottage that very morning and they plot revenge.

Not the worst plot. Revenge is always interesting and you can sense that not all will go well. (Note: If the author tells you what should happen, it usually means that human error, stupidity or fate will take over. But …)

I really like David Lodge and his novel Nice Work is one of my favourites. It’s just that, well, Home Truths is the worst book I’ve ever read.  Seriously. Nothing comes close.  The characters are flat and uninspiring, the jeopardy is twee and the saccharin ending honestly made me howl like a banshee.  To this day, it’s the only book I’ve thrown in the bin. Not given away or passed to a chariot shop (as my friend Fi calls them). Just thrown into a bin at a bus stop.

But it taught me a lot. So much so in fact that I might as well have had Grahame Green sat by my side, pointing out its failings into my ear. It told me what I didn’t want to write.

David Lodge is and will always be a better writer than me. Always. He just wrote a dog egg of a book once. I’m so grateful.

Read read read. Do it every day if you can. Not just so you can see how other people do it, but because there may be a particular style you like and may want to explore. Speaking of which …

LET YOUR OWN STYLE TAKE THE STRAIN.

You can call style your ‘voice’ too if you like though I may have to punch you in the throat should you do it in my hearing.

Every writer has a style even though they think they don’t. That includes you.

Let’s look at David Peace- the champion of the scaled down book. His Red Riding trilogy is written in short sentences with lots of ‘he said/she said’ attached. Red Riding reads like a shopping list with a story attached. He may throw in the odd adjective or adverb, but you can tell he fought long and hard to take them out.

Of course, this is done on purpose. He wants to show how bleak the setting is rather than telling you. Telling and showing being two completely different things.  You can feel the bitter wind, visualise the appalling housing and practically taste the rank odour of cheap fags. No hearts and flowers there.  I wish I could write like that.

Other writers prefer to be descriptive, but keep the dialogue to a minimum.  Look at this from Around the World in Eighty Days by Jules Verne.

“Yes,” returned Phileas Fogg. “We are going round the world.”

 

Passepartout opened wide his eyes, raised his eyebrows, held up his hands, and seemed about to collapse, so overcome was he with stupefied astonishment.

 

“Round the world!” he murmured.

 

“In eighty days,” responded Mr. Fogg. “So we haven’t a moment to lose.”

 

“But the trunks?” gasped Passepartout, unconsciously swaying his head from right to left.

 “We’ll have no trunks; only a carpet–bag, with two shirts and three pairs of stockings for me, and the same for you. We’ll buy our clothes on the way. Bring down my mackintosh and traveling–cloak, and some stout shoes, though we shall do little walking. Make haste!”

 That last sentence of Fogg’s is remarkable as it’s his longest in the book. He barely gets into double figures after that.

Note how everything utterance he makes is cut down to the bare minimum while poor old Passepartout sounds flustered throughout. That’s language doing the work for the author. It’s also magnificent characterisation. One man in control, the other barely hanging on.

 

The opposite—the overuse of language or deliberately ‘overwriting’—is just as great if done well. This next is a bit of a cheat as Stephen Fry referenced it recently, but it’s perfect for demonstrating the joy of expansive language.

 

In The Importance of Being Earnest, Oscar Wilde has Algernon say to his intended sweetheart:

 

‘I hope, Cecily, I shall not offend you if I state quite frankly and openly that you seem to me to be in every way the visible personification of absolute perfection.’

 

I mean.

I mean.

Just read that back. It’s beautiful.  And hilarious.

Imagine having that control of language and the art to channel like it that.

No “‘I like you,’ said Algernon” here. Just the crushing genius of ‘you seem to be in every way the visible personification of absolute perfection.’ Oh, it’s showing off, yes, but it’s a mastery of hyperbole.

PG Wodehouse, aka ‘The Master’, isn’t averse to this too. Here he wishes to expose the pomposity   of a superannuated magistrate while fining a friend of Bertie Wooster’s for the crime of knocking off a policeman’s helmet on Boat Race night.

‘I am aware that on the night following the annual aquatic contest between the Universities of Oxford and Cambridge, a certain licence is traditionally granted by the authorities, but aggravated acts of ruffianly hooliganism like that of the prisoner Trotzky cannot be overlooked or palliated.’

Since I read that line I’ve been unable to refer to the Boat Race in any other form save for ‘the annual aquatic contest between the Universities of Oxford and Cambridge.’

Imagine that turning up in a David Peace novel.

Both approaches are valid and brilliant when used correctly and I’d slay anyone to be able to have the ability to do either.

That’s not to say that style is there to be copied. It’s something a reader will appreciate.  If you write long enough your own will soon emerge.

TONE

Hmm.

This is an awkward topic as anything can be written in any mood. I’m approaching this from my own preferences in a niche genre so I’ll limit it to football writing. Actually, let’s cut it down further to football fan writing as match reporting is a different skill altogether. I’ll praise a few people here, but won’t name those who make me shout at my laptop or phone in frustration. That seems only fair.

Christ.

One thing I can’t abide is being told an opinion.

No, that’s not right. All articles are about that.  What I mean is that I can’t get on with shouting.

Let’s be clear. Shouting is different from passion. I love passionate writing and if I had the energy I’d write nothing else rather than analytical pieces on the game’s minutiae.  When done well passionate writing should have you shouting in an empty room or make you stand up without noticing it. Look at this from The Anfield Wrap’s Neil Atkinson this week.

“These lads are our lads. That manager is our manager. And they will do for us. Winning 1-3 in the gaff of the side who has made six of the last seven semis should tell you that.

 

Belief is everything; belief they can win this competition. Belief they can win this league. Belief they should fucking bounce into Fulham. Belief that anyone else’s crowd are from now till the bitter end only half a football team compared to the boys in red.

 

Our boys. Our belief. Our competition. Look at who is left. Look at who won in Munich.

 

Liverpool Football Club. European royalty. I whisper things; the continent sings them back to you.

 

Scenes.”

 

Wonderful.

 

Wonderful because it’s something easily felt at a time, but much harder to express when questioned. It’s great oratory squeezed into words and style.

 

Note the use of small sentences too. I’m a big fan of that. Big fan.

 

I’m not blowing my trumpet here, but I’m okay at the passionate stuff being more of a ‘shout at a pitch’ man more than a cold interpreter of stats. Maybe that’s why I like this so much.

 

Earlier today I told Neil that I was certain the best line there (‘I whisper things, the continent sings them back to you’) suddenly came to him while he was typing. He confirmed that it was just arrived unbidden into his head. It’s incredible just how often that happens when you’re in mid-flow.

 

Neil’s appealed to the everyman. He’s not telling you what to think. He’s using his words as a conduit to sharing his feelings with yours. What he’s NOT doing is shouting a view at you.

 

It’s this latter approach which gets into my ribs and twists repeatedly.

 

No one likes being told what to do, what to think.  The purpose of good writing is to encourage a view, not scream it in your reader’s face. For example, if I wanted to tell you that I think Sadio Mane was the better of Liverpool’s three front men it might be deemed a contentious point (if you’re interested). If I were to explain that view with some examples and left you to it then it would be fine. However, if I started a piece like this …

 

I can’t bear it, you know.

 

Those people who say that Salah is the best forward. They really do my head in. Any idiot can see that it’s all about Sadio and anyone who says otherwise is seriously missing the point of how this 2019 side works.

 

I’ve been watching this team for years. Mane outstrips the work and impact of the Egyptian more than anyone else. Oh, the press and super-fans will tell you something different but what do they know?

 

Well, you’d stop reading there and then, wouldn’t you? Unless you were keen on what Jeeves calls ‘assessing the psychology of the individual’ and calling in anger management experts.

 

The above has no interest in persuasion—only telling. It tells the reader that they are wrong to believe anything other than their own view. It then elevates him to some sort of expert. They’re better than you. They know more.

 

Let’s try a more conciliatory style.

 

Last season Mo Salah scored goals for fun for Liverpool.  It’s fair to say that his final return will likely be fewer this season, but that’s been compensated in other areas. Mo Salah has merely become more team player than talisman. A slight change in setup has allowed the Egyptian to allow his left-sided counterpart to step up and enjoy more of the limelight.

 

Sadio Mane has been a revelation …

 

That makes the same point, but a) doesn’t seem to have it in for Mo and b) offers a view rather than a done deal. A seduction rather than mugging by keyboard.

 

Good football writing should come with an arm around the shoulder. A ‘what do you think of this’ rather than ‘Listen up, dickheads’ (though that too has its place). As there are few absolute rights and wrongs about football opinions it’s not the place of the writer to announce that they alone have all the answers. ‘This is my truth; now tell me yours’ and all that.

 

Anyway, what’s next?

 

MURDER YOUR DARLINGS THROUGH EDITING

 

When writing a novel it’s advisable to have two or three ‘beta readers’. These are fellow writers whom you respect and trust sufficiently to tell you if your latest work is the worst thing in the world. I’ve stepped in a couple of times and read other people’s work when asked. On one occasion I told a friend that his idea was bright and engaging, but it was also the script of Inglourious Basterds.

 

During the writing of my second book I asked four people to run an eye over it. Three of them said it was great and advised only slight changes.  The fourth—a former editor of mine and a man never unsure of his own mind—sent me a one line email.

 

‘We need to have the ‘too many words’ conversation again, don’t we?’

 

It sounded harsh, but he was right.  The book was flabby.  Oh, the story was fine, but I was exercising my usual failure of taking a long run up to make a basic point.

 

Cut, cut and cut again.

 

If there’s one line you like and it doesn’t serve the thing you’re writing then it must go regardless of its quality. Murder your darlings.

 

Again, football writing is a bit different. You don’t have too much time to play around. There’s no A and B plots or flashbacks or third person narrative. It’s just you, an idea and 850—1,000 words.

 

That said, the principle is still the same. If I sent Josh Sexton, the editor of The Anfield Wrap and the man I have to convince to run my stuff, a piece on say, Alberto Moreno,  and opened with 300 words on an amusing anecdote about something which had nothing to do with Spanish left back, he’d send it back before I’d left my laptop. Everything serves the argument.

 

BUT

 

At the same time, you can’t just vomit thoughts onto a page.  Well, you can but a bit of skill is required.

 

You have to make a piece breathe. You can’t just write …

 

Paragraph 1 – intro – I don’t like Moreno

Paragraph 2 – Look, he did this

Paragraph 3 – He did this too

Paragraph 4 – And don’t get me started on that time he …

Paragraph 5 – And he did this too

Final paragraph – I don’t like him

 

I mean, that’s fine, but it needs to be a bit more subtle if you want to make it any good. Not everything has to build and build. Sometimes you need to let a piece breathe. Pauses are your friend and so are paragraphs.

 

As I said about introductions, a single line can work wonders. Let’s look at Paragraph 4 there. If it’s another eight to twelve line rant about Moreno it’s just thrown in with the rest of the piece. However, if the paragraph marks a change of pace and a bit of a breather, it can work wonders. For example.

 

(Para 3) … with his increasing propensity to launch into a tackle like he’s finishing off the Long Jump while looking  around confused at the ref when he brandishes the inevitable card. The man has liability written all over him. And probably through him. Like a stick of rock.

 

(Para 4) And don’t get me started on those tattoos.

 

(Para 5) Then there’s the Arsenal game in 2014 …

 

That little pause breaks it up before jumping back in. It also ceases the shouting for a brief second.

 

Again, that comes with experience. It can be picked up by reading what you’ve written out-loud. If you stop listening as you talk you probably need a bit of a gap in there while you bring your reader onto the right path again.

 

FINISH

 

There’s no hard and fast rule about the final act—the edit. I like to write, edit once, read again out-loud, edit, read again, polish and then leave it alone for a while. Then I read it again and edit if necessary. Then I fight with Josh about his preferred use of ‘OK’ to my ‘okay’ and frown at the times I’ve opened a sentence with ‘And’ as I don’t like that. Incidentally, I’m also not overly pleased with that ‘I duly agreed’ earlier or the odd very long sentences, but it’s late and I’m tired.

 

Anyway, that’s 3,500 words and I can hear a man telling me that the next instalment of the ‘too many words’ conversation is fast approaching.

 

If you take one thing from this, my stupefying arrogance in writing this thing aside, it’s that you can’t do a thing until you start writing. That’s the hardest step, but it can lead you into some marvellous places.

 

Get busy.