Chris Stanley's Bazaar

It's becoming a bit of a feature on this blog that I spend most of the first half of each new entry apologising for my tardiness in coming up with a new blog post. This wouldn't normally be a problem, but after my last entry, which read pretty much like a suicide note, I did get some people advising me to take a holiday, or failing that, treat myself to a KitKat Chunky with peanut butter. In the event, I did both. I feel much better for it, but as we know, these things can't last forever. I can destroy a KitKat in less than four seconds. So as I'm coming to the end of my jollies, what's new in the world of Stan? It's been a productive break. The Sad Club is well into draft two, which is a place I'd never imagined it would be, and on my off days, I've been working on another project which I'll keep secret for now. It's another novel, a much shorter one which I'm looking to have 1500 words a chapter. It's vaguely plotted in my head, but ...

It's been a while since I blogged, mainly because writing has been going pretty well for me over the last few months. My major work, which is my novel , has been first-drafted, sat on, re-read and annotated with a fine-tooth comb in preparation for a major re-edit. There were times in the last twelve months that I didn't expect to be able to say anything other than "I'm writing a book", so to have one should be excellent news. But it isn't any more. Because I've had another piece of work rejected. You may recall in my podcast and from an earlier blog post that my and my friend Tom, who runs the Thank Book For initiative, wrote a spec script of a sitcom years ago. Well, BBC Writersroom had open submissions for sitcoms back in April, so we spruced it up, crossed our fingers, and waited. And waited. And now, after four months of our work being 'in progress', it's dead in the water. No matter how much we told ourselves it would never get pick...

He Says...   By Chris Stanley  Put your black mark in the box he says We'll give you whatever you need It's the only way to be sure he says Of protecting the rights of our creed I'm a very reasonable man he says As he shows off his suit cut so fine All I want is what's best he says So I can banish these terrible crimes I knew we could do it together he says I'm glad you believed every word Now let's get us back to the top he says As he marks those he doesn't prefer We're taking a few extra coins he says To cover the blots of the past You'll get it back soon as we can he says While they wonder how long it'll last It's clear that the problem's not us he says As he speaks with a reasonable voice I know we're a generous people he says So I think we should all get a choice It's not good to see such disturbance he says When I've done all I can to be fair The people like us are all welcome he says ...

You can call off the search party, folks. I'd heard that people were so distraught that my blog was on hiatus that calls to the Samaritans trebled. I'm not one to blow my own trumpet, but I've had emails from both the Leave and Remain campaigns, bricking it in case we go into the EU Referendum without a word from me regarding overuse of adjectives or whatever. Well, I'm sorry, but it was for a good reason. I'm a week late with this news, but close friends and people who like to hack random social media accounts will know that I've now finished the first draft of my novel! I don't think I needed the exclamation, but I've put it there to tell you when to clap. So do it now. I'll wait. You didn't do it, did you? I'm not surprised. You've always been a disappointment to people. Now that the dust has begun to settle on a project that has taken me (from first knockings to last orders) about seven years, 215,000 words, two laptops, ...

I have to admit I’m not one for savouring the moment. My partner complains that I snaffle treats down so quickly I never actually enjoy them, whereas she can drag out a packet of biscuits over the course of your average season of Downton Abbey . It’s not my fault; my late grandmother’s treat cupboard contained more chocolate than a tuckshop run by Errol Brown. I’m not used to moderation. But you know, I know when to slow down and enjoy the quiet moments. Just because I’m on intimate terms with e-numbers it doesn’t mean I wanted Constable to paint a gang of lads playing headers and volleys in front of the Haywain. The best moments in drama, and sometimes in comedy too, happen when they’re part of a slow release; a dawning realisation that you didn’t see coming. This blog post is about momentum, and the things I’m going to have to tinker with when it comes time for me to redraft The Sad Club . Momentum is tightly bound up with plot, one element of the Holy Trinity of writing (th...

Keen readers of this blog will be aware that this is my first post in a few weeks. Because of the Easter break, I've been writing an awful lot because the job I do allows me two solid weeks of time, so personal circumstances notwithstanding, that's what I've done. So all told, I've managed sixteen thousand words on my novel, three or four solid days on another project, and nine hundred cups of PG Tips. Unfortunately, my chocolate egg eating record is still waiting to be smashed, but you can't have everything. I'm on the home stretch of  The Sad Club  now, with about nine chapters to go. That sounds like a lot but it really isn't; many writers will tell you that when they're on it, they could write another hundred thousand words before their morning cornflakes. I've done a very basic plan of what I feel has to happen before I call time and I intend to stick to it.  So when I'm on such a prolific streak, why would I want to share that t...

"Thirty-five years and what do I get? Another year older and deeper in debt…" Apologies to Tennessee Ernie Ford for massacring his song 'Sixteen Tons', but as it was my birthday yesterday, I wanted to mark the occasion by being both curmudgeonly and over-dramatic. Thus achieved, I can get on with life with the minimum of fuss. To those of you that wished me many happy returns, thanks very much. To those that didn’t, why are you reading my blog? The internet is full of nudes, for God’s sake. Ostensibly, at age thirty-five, I am officially middle aged. Medicine being what it is, I can expect to target a number far beyond three score and ten, so I don’t think it’s all cardigans and tartan booties for me yet. When a colleague asked me today if I felt old now, I replied, ‘I have a thirty-five year old body, a seventy-five year old’s knees, an undergraduate’s urgency and an eighteen year old’s sense.’ I didn’t really, I thought of most of it later, when I was p...