These are a few of our favourite things

by Carlotta Eden - Editor
@1chae

Editors are mothers. They cradle words in their ink-stained hands and rock them gently until they hiccup and burp and sleep without fidgeting. Sometimes they have to be strict, and tell words that they can’t play with that other word because that other word isn’t good for them. Sometimes they have to say no because that’s how stories get better. But mostly they love words and just want to see them grow into great, great stories that others point at and go, heck, I wish I’d written that.

So we’ve decided to write about what we like and what we don’t like in our submissions. And if you don’t like what we do like, then that’s fine. Maybe it’s just not meant to be. It’s important to remember that your submission absolutely doesn’t have to be perfect. We’re not expecting Shakespeare. If you bring us something that makes us coo we’ll tell you it makes us coo, and we’ll work with you to turn that extra o into an r so it makes us go corr.

We like poetry that howls from the rooftops. We don’t like poetry that shouts into a microphone. One commands, the other imposes rudely. We like modest poetry, poetry that tells us, actually, it’s pretty terrifying being human but y’know what? Here’s a puddle. Look at its rainbow.

We’re not particularly drawn to poetry that laments, or mourns, or talks about how much it misses its boyfriend. We don’t like poetry that feels sorry for itself.

We like poetry that talks to us like we’re humans, sometimes even friends, and poetry that goes bungee jumping and, if it’s not feeling up to it, puts its feet up and flicks through crappy TV channels. Not because it can’t be bothered, but because it’s honest. It doesn’t try hard. 

We like short stories that come to bed with you and kiss you somewhere you didn’t know you liked. We don’t like short stories that preach, or teach us a lesson, or politicise or talk about David Cameron, unless it’s about someone who performs plastic surgery on himself to make him look like David Cameron because, wow, what? We like short stories that make us go wow, what?

We like short stories that tease and don’t necessarily give us what we want. If there’s a word in your story that you have to think twice about, get rid of it. Get in and get out. We don’t like stodgy prose or long-winded narratives. We can tell if you’ve tried to be Mary Shelley. We really, really can.

We like short stories that say hey, babe, take a walk on the wide side. We like stories that take us on a Greyhound bus to Baton Rouge. We like stories that have been gunned down to the ground and come back fighting. We like short stories that question the minority that are questioning the majority without asking a direct question. We like short stories that are the beginnings of a knock knock joke but not the end. We don’t like sob stories, but we do like stories that whisper, I had to write this.

And if you still want to know what we like, we like Ian McEwan, Miranda Kerr, Adam Marek, Alice Munro, Kurt Vonnegut, Denis Johnson, Ben Brooks, Tobias Wolff and James Frey.

We like it even more when you read our submission guidelines. Please stick to our theme; we simply cannot accept your submission otherwise, no matter how wonderful. We only have a limited amount of space to design in the magazine, so submissions must stick to word limits. We just want to make your page look magnificent.

Editor's Endeavour: The early stages

Our editor, Annabelle Carvell has embarked on a new journey in her own writing. Be part of this journey with her, and follow her updates on the Synaesthesia Blog! @AnnabelleCsyn

#2 The early stages

Discipline has not been my forte when it comes to writing. As I have mentioned previously, I have a very rigid writing style, and normally, if the time isn't right then it's not time to write.

Writing the novella has been a little different though. I've discovered that if I don't keep up my momentum, I could easily start to lose the direction of my story. 

I've found that recently to be honest - up until starting these blog posts, in fact. I had a good, strong stint of writing frequently, where I was making time to write, and was committed to my story. But, as we all know too well, life can get in the way - or so we tell ourselves... Often, I find that that is just my own excuse for being scared to be committed to my story. Before I knew it, my novella hadn't been updated in over a month. 

Writing the novella has been very different from writing a short story for me. With the short story, I have the whole nutshell encapsulated in my mind before I even have chance to blink, so when it comes to writing it, I can keep momentum. 

The novella is different. It isn't over in the space of a blink of an eye. It's drawn out. It teases memories out of the air as slowly as threading a needle. It takes time, and patience.

What helps is to exercise your mind weekly if you can - not necessarily on your novella itself - but by writing something every week, you'll find you'll stimulate your story and leave work desperate for the commute to hurry and pass so that you can get back at your keyboard.

Take a look at this nifty little inspirational diagram below:

There are some really important points to take on board here - these are what I am now trying to do daily:

• Write on your commute to work. Describe the people you see; the morning you've had; the breakfast you ate; the dream that woke you up; the mistake you made at work yesterday
• Record your memories. Write down your childhood memories. Memories are a goldmine. Writing what you know really does make your story more authentic. 
• Learn about something new. Wallpaper making; Aristotle; the history of the tudors. Learning not only stimulates your mind, but also really helps to add depth to your characters' interests, to places - little details that make your story so much more convincing. 

The main tip I'd stress is to write every week. It doesn't need to be everyday - sometimes life really does get in the way (I swear!) but keep your momentum. 

It'll help you in the early stages. It'll help you to maintain faith in your story. 

Editor's Endeavour: Where do you even start?

Our editor, Annabelle Carvell has embarked on a new journey in her own writing. Be part of this journey with her, and follow her updates on the Synaesthesia Blog! @AnnabelleCsyn

#1 Where do you even start?

I was lucky that I had an idea for a story before I had the idea of writing it as a novella. My advice for where to start is this; find your idea (it needn't be a fully fledged idea) and then work out the arc of your story.

Right now, my novella has a shape. I know the beginning. I know the middle. I know the end.

I was sitting in a cafe in my home town with a friend from work fairly recently (she’s also a writer) for the first writing workshop I had done on my own writing in a very long time. I had sent her roughly three scenes of my story – these were the beginning, the middle, and a hint at the end... although, at this point, I didn’t know that this was the case.

We talked for hours (quite literally) about what I had written so far, and it was only through conversation with another writer that it clicked that I had the arc of my story right in front of me. It seems primitive, I know, to follow primary school teachings of how to write fiction, but really, finding your beginning, middle and end is what makes the process so much easier (at least it seems to be working for me so far).

I don’t want to get technical on you, but this diagram is literally how I envisaged my story once my friend and I had this revelation:

As soon as I realised I had a beginning, middle and end, my arc appeared instantly in my mind. Your arc will possibly look different from mine. Let me stress that this ‘middle’ is not the same as the climax for my arc. What is most interesting about this structure is that the ‘middle’ section instantly signified change. The rising action in my arc leads to the ‘middle’ where we reach the turning point, but not the climax. A diagram for climax in my tale would look much different, and probably not the smooth curve that you can see.

This arc shows me the pivotal moment where something changes in the tale to determine the direction of the rest of the story. For me, this is usually where the characters make a decision, or don’t make a decision – something that creates tension, that lets the reader know that something is going to happen, and has them tempted to flick through the pages to discover what that might be. My advice here would be to personalise the shape of your arc – it might be skewed to one side – but whatever it is, it has to make sense to you.

Most importantly, this arc signifies movement. That I have a story waiting to expand and develop. 

Editors' Note - CITIES

Ah, cities: home to beach fronts and boardwalks, multi-storey car parks and huge, huge green parks. There’s something about cities that we like... no, we need, to write about. There’s something about being able to turn onto a street corner and flit between art galleries and bookshops and cinemas and banks. There’s something about lairy pubs and the people that go into them, and there’s something about walking onto a train platform and meeting a loved one in between crowds of others that is so very, very powerful.

Some of the stories in this issue have cracks in the pavement, others are noisy and bustley and a few are like quiet, abandoned streets that just need another soul to love them. Our Venetian short story, ‘Volare’ by Amanda Oosthuizen, on page 93, is a trickling, smokey canal, with cats sidling along the walls and water slapping against stone: “And then, blood orange accordion music bounces between the buildings...” that's sure to sail you along with it.

Some of our poems are sky-high complexes that try not to look down, and some are busy jazz cafes that clap and sing. Robert Klein Engler leaves trails of broken city scenes throughout the magazine, each one reaching the edge of the universe and turning left back down Anonymous Avenue and taking another look around. Julie Kim Shavin’s poems dance between urban worlds and Jo Davey’s ‘Atlas’ flashes blue, blue, blue.

But we don’t ever just hand you words, and then leave. This issue is one big neon sign, demanding your attention with mind-blowing photography from an abandoned island in the Nagasaki Prefecture to sepia-toned markets in Vietnam. 

And for the first time ever, we’re introducing music. Whenever you see a ‘play’ button, hit it. The page will come alive with glittering piano notes or ghostly voices  - and if you’ve had enough, just press ‘stop’. But we’re pretty sure you’ll want to hear it out.

It’s our biggest issue yet, and we’re so excited to present you treats for the eyes and the ears. We wouldn’t exist without our contributors though, so we’re dedicating this issue to each and every one of our writers and artists who were willing to share their creativity with us. And, of course, to our readers. You’re all the best.

Annabelle and Carlotta
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What's in a name?

by Harry Harris

 @CmonHarris 

Set yourself a challenge – think of your favourite novel, one you know like the back of your hand, one that maybe you’ve read a couple of times, have picked apart and put back together. One that you would give to someone important and go: “Read this.” Got one? Okay, try and imagine it with a different title. A nigh-on impossible task, but fascinating nonetheless. How does a title of a piece of writing impact how you interpret that piece of writing?

Titles seem rather innocuous at first. As a writer, they’re often the launch pad, a match to a keg of gunpowder that explodes into devilish prose and immersive dialogue. For the longest time I carried an idea with me, a song loosely based on an old Welsh bloke I used to work with who told me stories of when he worked at Graceland and owned Elvis bars all over the world. That was the germ of an idea that took many forms, but it wasn’t until I came up with the title 'The Day I Met The King' that the story of the song began to take shape. Conversely I wrote a song not too long ago that I think is okay, and I think is finished, but the only title I can think of at the moment is 'Letters', which just kinda blows. It won’t see the light of day until that’s remedied.

A nice way to imagine titles are as frames – in that, they instruct you how to look at something. Herman Melville named the greatest novel in the English Language Moby Dick; or, The Whale, and yet the titular character is very much present by his absence in the novel itself, the narrative instead focusing on the narrator Ishmael, the psychotic Captain Ahab, the deliriously entertaining Queequeg. Yet, despite the whale never appearing until deep into the book, the title literally hangs over every page, mirroring the struggle within the narrative. Similarly, the balance of the title is directly reflective of the way Melville will occasionally move away from the narrative entirely to just describe the behaviour of whales – some of the most beautiful passages of prose in the book. So, with that title, Melville is pointing us in two different directions, setting the course for the novel without us even opening the page.

Then there are the titles that are perhaps more elusive, more puzzling, ones that don’t seem to directly reference anything in the novel, the ones that make you keep your eyes peeled for something hiding between the lines. Carson McCullers is wonderful in this regard – I’m currently reading her short novel Reflections In A Golden Eye, which so far is a typically melancholy, intimate story of the goings on within an army barracks. There’s a beautiful passage in which McCullers talks of a man falling asleep imagining a great bird coming to land on his chest, the golden eye of the title being the eye of the bird, so, the title line is never said, but in that moment the reader gains a new sense of clarity, and it informs the way in which we view that character and indeed the rest of the story.

Without getting all “death of the author” on you, what a good title can really do is empower the reader to interpret the story in his or her own way, which is the most wonderful thing about writing any kind of story. Nothing belongs to you. Once it’s out there, it’s out there, and you’ve got to let it do its own thing, sometimes it comes back to you in a way that you never expected. But that doesn’t mean you can’t point people in the direction you want them to go in. Next time you finish a story, or a poem, or a song, think about what you want people to get out of the story, the character you think is most interesting or the tone you want to strike. Give it three titles. Give those three stories to three different people and see how their reactions differ. Which reaction most chimes with what you wanted? Call it that.

The Art of Storytelling

by Victoria Galvin

@v_ff_g

I’ve always loved a good story. But then, that’s hardly unusual. Everybody does; from the story your best friend is telling you about their latest disastrous dating experience, to the best-selling story that famous author wrote, which that famous director brought to film, with an inspired soundtrack written by that famous singer/songwriter. Society is built on the way we interact with one another – and one of the most basic ways of doing that is through the telling of stories.

But where did it all start? 

My enduring fascination with this question was a big part of my decision to study Classical Studies at university, because it took me right back to the beginning of things – to the origins of Western culture. What’s stuck with me the most is the aetiology of literature. The basic genres and storylines we all know and love today were already being created by a civilisation that goes so far back into the mists of time, it hadn’t even discovered writing yet.

At this point I realise I’m starting to sound a bit like the beardy guy from Jurassic Park, but a little context never hurt anybody. Incidentally, if Romeo had been given a little more context concerning Juliet’s “death”, then their love story probably wouldn’t have ended up a tragedy. Then again, Shakespeare might never have found the inspiration for Romeo and Juliet if it hadn’t been for the influence of Greek tragedy (and comedy) from the 5^th Century BC.

Anyway, back to the slightly more recent past. After graduating last year, I went on to study a Masters in Radio. I’d had a great time being involved in student radio during my undergrad degree, and, harbouring an irrational fear of “The Real World” (reinforced by the comparatively sheltered university lifestyle), I decided I’d like the chance to focus my career path a little more before surrendering myself to the cold dark of Unemployment (that one’s inspired by Gandalf).

And I’m so glad I did. Radio is, of course, at one of its most basic levels, just another medium for storytelling; and that is exactly why I love it. It’s the sheer pervasiveness of storytelling – through societies, through generations, through time – that I find amazing. And it’s something to which I have attempted to do justice in my own radio work.

For our final creative radio production this year, we were given the task of making a fifteen minute feature on absolutely anything we wanted. We were of course strongly advised to keep a few ideas floating about in our minds, just in case plan A didn’t work out – we might not have been able to get all the interviews we wanted, or it might turn out that the idea just wouldn’t translate well for a radio piece. That’s exactly what had happened to me for one of my previous creative pieces (a word of advice – just because somebody has fantastic facial hair does not mean they have a story to tell). But this time I had no plan B, because this time I was going to do a feature on storytelling – and what could possibly go wrong with that?

The truth is, a lot could have gone wrong. Luck plays a big part and, well, luckily I was lucky. What I wanted to do was convey the beauty of storytelling in all its different forms. I interviewed four very talented storytellers, all of whom tell their stories in very different ways. The feature is by no means an all-encompassing expression of every single type of storytelling there is; I’d need closer to fifteen hours rather than fifteen minutes for that – but it’s a start. Storytelling is all about inspiration, influence, imagination. I myself was inspired by these four artists to make this feature – my own sort of story, about storytelling.

I hope that, in some way, it inspires you too.