LARDING IT OVER OTHERS (For Anti-Plagiarism Day)

They castrate the books of other men in order that with the fat of their works they may lard their own lean volumes - Jovius


I am not very good at most things: opening jars, riding bicycles, changing lightbulbs. There is a faulty mechanism in the ‘practical’ section of my brain. But I DO words and I even have been known to form them into pleasing and resonant sentences. Stories have always been my friends. At seven, I would write twelve pages when asked for one, escaping into wondrous or terrible worlds. Then when I learnt to shape them properly, those stories got published, even won prizes. My writing made me happy, more than my practical incompetence made me miserable.

So my words are precious. The ideas behind them, which are kept secret until I can form them into something coherent, more so. Because they are original to me, caused by synapses crackling in my mind that make strange connections. Creating peculiar and I hope, interesting characters. I am also often entrusted with other writers’ ideas and their stories in the raw. I can admire, or criticize, or be envious of their skill. But I have never been tempted to take from them. Ever. If someone produces something brilliant, that is their baby. You wouldn’t steal someone else’s child. Would you?

It has taken me a while to realise that not everyone thinks I should be the sole owner of my ideas. In fact, that no-one actually owns their ideas. Is there anything worse than the creep who cribs your answers at an exam? The one who can’t be bothered to revise themselves. The lazy, unethical ones who feel that cheating is OK. When it is down on the paper, it’s theirs – however it got there. The plagiarist who steals ideas, plots or words is this type of cheat.

It is true that ideas cannot be copyrighted. But if a writer steals from others because they have nothing of their own, this is lowest point at which they can sink. If they do it frequently and compulsively, it is an admission of madness, illness or desperation. It doesn’t matter what they do with this stolen property, whether they dress it up and make it beautiful. It’s still linked to someone else and it will never truly be theirs. It carries another writer’s unique scent.

In their hands though, it will always smell rotten.

So instead, let's celebrate the freshness of an original idea, the uniqueness that makes us the writers we are....

Plenty of stimulating aspects in my writing ‘career’ at the moment, not least that I am actually using the word career. In fact, I am feeling as if there is a path of sorts emerging that might lead somewhere, rather than just wandering in a forest, looking for the occasional gingerbread house on which to nibble.

The BBC want to workshop the writers from the Penguin anthology The Map of Me – perhaps to transform the book into a radio play or somesuch. This should be informative, interesting, hopefully productive.

I am still excited about a short film being made of a flash I wrote during a timed session at The Fiction Workhouse. An hour’s work from twenty prompts – sweat forming – now all scripted and ready to be cast. A lovely young film director has taken it on and is also shouldering the stressful job of finding finance for it.

I am due to go on a weekend writing retreat in August with some other much respected writers. Chuffed to fluffy pillows.

I entered the Bridport. Not with a shrug or defeatist forgetfulness but a real: ‘Stands a chance of something, doesn’t it?’ – entering a reworked story that was shortlisted for this year’s Asham Award. The confidence given by being shortlisted makes writers walk taller and trust their talents more. It’s not false pride; it’s proper pride in a job well done.

I went to a swanky party recently. I don’t generally do swanky, as I am more and more a country girl in green wellies, listening happily to a tiny wren’s enormous song in the garden. But I enjoyed, despite myself, dressing up and standing in a room with J K Rowling and Tim Burton. Talking to another very down to earth film director, David Yates (The Way we Live Now, State of Play) about his passion and respect for the talent swimming everywhere in the British Film Industry: set directors, designers, prop makers. Not schmoozing, just watching the madness, the vanity and the people who buzz around the famous, trying to ‘catch’ some of their success. Failing to see that they have to get up off their arses and work hard.

Last of all, I nursed a chicken back to life after a serious illness. A vet called it miraculous and I felt great that I could do something else other than write stories. Something practical and caring. Something that qualifies as miraculous. I have also further developed a lovely friendship with a feisty elderly lady of 86. We have political discussions and she rings me to tell me how much she values my friendship. She’s a tall woman, quite intimidating, very brusque. Takes no prisoners. Writes letters to complain and tells doctors’ receptionists that they are ‘frightfully inefficient.’ I think that she’s fabulous.