On Vicky Cristina Barcelona and Other Insufferable Tosh

I posted on Twitter this morning about having watched Woody Allen's Vicky Cristina Barcelona last night, and that I hadn't disliked a movie so much in ages. There were a few comments on my Facebook wall in response, so I thought I'd elaborate here, and tie it in to another topic that's been floating around the Interwebs in recent days.

Sometimes a film is poorly made; sometimes it has a turgid script, or bad acting, or uninspiring photography, or any number of faults. I can't say Vicky Cristina Barcelona (henceforth known as VCB) had any such flaws. It was certainly a well-crafted film, as one would expect from Woody Allen. But I used the word 'dislike'. There are many movies that I think are bad, but there are few I actually dislike. Because dislike is personal. Dislike means something in the film actually bothered me. One film I dislike, for instance, is The Devil's Own. I don't dislike The Devil's Own because it's a formulaic and predictable thriller; I dislike it because it displays a shocking ignorance of, and insensitivity to, its own subject matter.

I approached VCB with a positive frame of mind. For one thing, I have visited Barcelona three times, and it is one of my favourite places on earth. For another, I generally have a lot of time for Woody Allen. And yet another, the movie has an excellent cast, and not just in terms of eye candy. Thus, I was hopeful as I inserted the Blu-Ray into my player.

I think the fingernails-on-the-chalkboard feeling began about fifteen minutes in. The problem was this: these characters meant nothing to me. The story, in a nutshell, centres on two young women summering in Barcelona. They are approached and individually seduced by a local artist, and matters are further complicated by his unstable ex-wife. All well and good. But then my inverted snob started to rear his ugly head.

The two young women had no visible means of support. One is studying for a Masters in Catalan culture (as an aside, all the Catalan characters strangely spoke Castilian Spanish, rather than Catalan, which is the dominant language of the region), while the other had just spent many months making a twelve minute film. In other words, they were trust fund kids, living off their fathers' money while arsing about in Europe. In yet other words, they were feckless young adults who had grown up with no idea of the realities of life or the issues that affect most people day to day. While they're mooning around, whinging about the pain of love and desire and commitment, real people are working their guts out and wondering if they can make the next mortgage payment. When the intrusive narrator (and that was one specifically bad part I neglected to mention) tells us how the artist, played by the excellent Javier Bardem, bought his beautiful house with its rambling rooms and gardens from another artist, he neglects to tell us how the artist paid for it. I don't know a single artist who can afford anything other than a normal standard of living, at best, let alone a life of luxury. Then along comes Penelope Cruz, playing a deranged ex-wife whose deep love for the artist drives her to violent rage while she drives us to slap her about the head and shoulders.

So, despite their good fortune in life, these four characters are not a happy bunch. I wish I could afford to be that bloody miserable. While I didn't grow up in poverty, things were tough. I know my mother often went without so that us kids could have basics like shoes or milk money for school. I grew up in a house where a can of Coca Cola was a special occasion luxury. By special occasion, I mean Christmas, or the time I nearly lost my little finger to a school gate, and I got a can of Coke for being brave as the doctors worked on my damaged hand. How can someone like me (not to mention anyone who grew up in real hardship) be expected to feel anything but contempt for a cast of characters who are so vacuous and self-absorbed as those in Vicky Cristina Barcelona? Is there a film genre specifically for those privileged few who have been cushioned from reality all their lives?

As I watched the movie, all the time resisting the urge to just press the Stop button, I couldn't help but think of recent online debates on literary versus genre fiction. There was the Esquire article, and Jason Pinter's response, and then this little gem brought to my attention by Lisa Kenney via Facebook. The argument in that second piece was basically that if the unwashed masses would only give literary fiction a chance, we might have an epiphany and forever leave the intellectual deserts of our crime and romance books, and discover the delightful oases of cerebrally challenging and important works at the higher end of the market.

Bullshit.

There is good and bad in all fiction, whatever the genre. And whatever some might like to think, literary is just another genre, a means of organising the shelves in bookstores. I have read as many works from the literary shelf as any other genre. Some of it was brilliant, some of it was tosh. But here's the problem with literary fiction versus other genres: bad literary fiction is insufferable. I simply can't endure the kind of middle-class navel gazing that bogs down the literary field. Good crime novels are just as capable of shining a light on the human condition as good literary fare. Bad thrillers may be unbelievable, shallow, or even manipulative, but bad literary novels are self-important and pretentious. And worst of all, bad literary novels, and bad art-house movies for that matter, are just plain dull.

Opportunity Knocks: How Nat Sobel Became my Agent

As promised, here's the story of how I managed to get one of the most respected literary agents in the business without sending a query. I didn't realise how long this would be when I started writing it an hour ago, but I've wanted to post about the experience for so long, you're getting a great big burp of it in one go.

Exactly a year ago I was writing the third act of THE GHOSTS OF BELFAST's first draft, then titled FOLLOWERS. If you use the menu on the left, you can even read my journal of the process, along with some other nonsense. At around the same time, I sold my first short story, and my beloved Northern Ireland formed a proper government. In the blog, I wondered if it would stick - it did.

I finished that draft the following June, and did a couple of quick revisions before sending it off to my kind beta readers (waves at Bets and McK).

While they were hacking it to pieces, the novel's protagonist Gerry Fegan kept nagging me, wanting to come out and play again. Just for a little while. As with the novel, I woke from a dream one night with the story in my head. I grabbed the PDA by my bed, started tapping away with my stylus, and knocked out a short story over the next couple of days. I called it THE LAST DANCE, and posted it over at Elektra's Crapometer (which seems sadly neglected these days). It got a mixed reception, from the negative, to "meh", to glowing praise.

I got the notes back from the critiques. A couple more revisions took until the end of August, then the dreaded synopsis needed doing. I never queried very widely on this novel - I'd say half a dozen at most. I'm not sure why. Largely, I think it was because I knew this book needed not just an agent, but exactly the right agent. You see, it's a dark, dark novel with about as troubled a protagonist as you're likely to come across. It's violent, visceral and foul-mouthed. Clearly, this wasn't going to be every agent's cup of tea, and I needed someone who knew how to sell a dark thriller.

We're often told to look up the agents who rep our influences, so because James Ellroy is one of my favourite writers, and one I know I've been shaped by, I found my way to the Sobel Weber Associates website. But I looked at that client list, and thought, woah, way out of my league.

So, still wondering who to turn to, I started other projects (I've got a hard drive full of first chapters here), including submitting a couple of the short stories I had knocking around my computer. One of those was THE LAST DANCE, which I submitted to Thuglit. Lo and behold, on my birthday (was that a portent?) I got an email from Lady Detroit telling me I'd be in the next issue. Cool. So, the story appeared at the end of February. I updated my website, got a few shout outs from other writers, felt pleased with myself, and got back to a particularly busy time at work.

On March 10th, as was normal at the time, I was working late at my office. I casually checked my personal email, and there was a message from a Nat Sobel. The name was familiar, but it didn't click just yet. I read the message, and I remember certain words popping out: "I read your story … literary agent … Followers … interested in reading the work … James Ellroy … Joseph Wambaugh."

*Nat, if you're reading this, I'd ask you to skip the next few paragraphs as I fear it might diminish the cool and professional demeanour I've presented you with so far*

I've quipped to various friends that I fell off my chair, but it's not far from the truth. I had to read the email several times to get it to sink in. I spent about an hour pacing, re-reading it, hyper-ventilating, and Googling Nat Sobel. Turns out his favourite way of finding new writers is through short story publications. He found Richard Russo and FX Toole that way. Hmm, thinks I. So much for query letters and slush piles.

So, I sent off a partial, fully expecting Nat to reject it. To my shock and delight, he expressed some reservations, but requested the full (and in record time). I duly sent it off, again fully expecting Nat to realise it was all a terrible mistake, and reply with a thanks, but no thanks. Instead, and again to my amazement, he came back in less than 48 hours and said, given some substantial revision, he would like to represent me.

At this point, I felt a mixture of excitement and terror I've never experienced before. On the one hand, here was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to snag one of the industry's best agents, and on the other, a chance to blow that opportunity. I don't mind admitting, I was scared. Thankfully, I had some great friends to turn to for support and encouragement (including talking me down from a fit of madness that almost saw me stripping out the novel's central premise), and I can't thank them enough.

So, this is the reason I dropped off the radar around mid March. The revision took the guts of two months, and throughout the process Nat was available for advice, and the occasional stern warning that the results better be good. Working under Nat's guidance has been one of the greatest learning experiences of my life, and as the local saying goes, he is a gentleman and a scholar. What's more, even as I worked on it, I could see how much better, bigger, and deeper Nat's input was making the book.

Three critiques from my blogging friends and another bit of polishing later, the manuscript was turned over to Nat. Cue exactly one sleepless night. Less than 48 hours later, I have one of the most respected publishing professionals in the world representing my book. How does that feel? Strange, and scary, but terrific.

Now things are moving fast. I already have a holding page up at www.theghostsofbelfast.com, and more revisions and general business to do, so it'll be a hectic few weeks. Once again, I want to thank all my blogging friends for your encouragement and support, not just in recent weeks, but throughout my brief writing career. I would never have gotten this far without you. And thanks to everyone who has stopped by to congratulate me, I'll be visiting you all in the coming days.

There'll be a few more blog posts in the near future, if I have time, where I will pontificate on the importance of short stories, my view on finding an agent that "fits", and how absolutely essential getting good critique is. Thanks for reading. :)

That's better! Word count 16,152 (wp) 20,000 (pr)

Now, that's more like it. This weekend, including today's holiday, I clocked up 4000 words. I think the previous slow progress was caused by a particularly difficult couple of scenes, but the last part flowed much more easily. And I'm enjoying it, too.

I am concerned about a few things, though.

Firstly, genre. It's not really horror, although there's a supernatural element and even a little bit of gore, which I normally avoid. It's not exactly a thriller, though there's lots of action and tension. And it's not exactly a political piece, even though there's a lot of politics involved. So what is it, then? Being unable to define a genre for a commercial novel is a big problem when trying to bag an agent. And is this even commercial? I mean, it's not exactly popcorn stuff. But it's certainly not literary, either. I guess the only thing I can do is write the best story I can and not worry about pigeon-holes.

In other news...

I allowed the first pages of my previous novel out into the wild over the weekend by submitting it to Elektra's Crapometer. As always I got a very useful and constructive critique, particularly from Sex Scenes at Starbucks, a blogger whose opinions I very much respect. She prefaced her comments by saying she was going for the jugular, and I quote, "because I believe you can handle it".

I took that as a compliment. Her critique, as it always is, was fair, useful, well explained and thought out. I'm grateful she took the time to do it because it shone a light on the writing that I can use in a very practical way to make it better. So, SS@S, if you read this - thanks for that.

I guess the point I'm trying to make is that critique is incredibly useful, especially if it's done well. I confess I take criticism in regards to writing much better than I do in other aspects of life, but maybe it's because I'm a novice and I know I've got a lot to learn. As an old saying round here goes, I know enough to know I know nothing.

:)

Oh, btw - I need beta readers for my last novel, Conduit. I'd be happy to return the favour if anyone has a complete novel they'd like my thoughts on (depending on genre, of course - there are some genres that I never read so couldn't provide a useful opinion on). If anyone's interested, there's a cryptic email address over at the top right corner of this page - drop me a line.