The Audio Book Experience

What is it like to hear someone read your writing aloud? I don't think I'd ever had that experience before. Not really; not reading whole chapters of text. Maybe that's why I was so nervous. Or maybe it was because the recording studio was in the basement cells of an old Victorian penitentiary in Clerkenwell, and as you descend the stairs you can't help thinking of the generations of convicts who made the same descent, never again to see the sun. Or maybe it was because I was about to meet the great Adjoa Andoh - who lest we should forget - appeared in Doctor Who and starred alongside Morgan Freeman in Invictus. Adjoa would be reading my book. My book! This is the actress who read all the First Ladies Detective Agency audio books. Nervous doesn’t begin to cover it …

But you can’t be nervous for long in a recording studio. The whole place projects calm. The walls are padded and people talk in hushed voices. (And there’s enough technology to fly a starship. But that’s by-the-by … )



The Brilliant Adjoa Andoh reading 'The Coincidence Authority'

‘I’m so pleased you’re here,’ Adjoa said, once we’d been introduced. ‘You can answer a question. What kind of accent would John Hall have?’ I was a little taken aback by this. John Hall is a supporting character in The Coincidence Authority. He doesn’t have a great deal of dialogue. ‘I don’t suppose it matters too much,’ I said. ‘Although I suppose, strictly speaking, he’s a Manxman.’ ‘That’s great,’ said Adjoa, and she looked over at Jenny, the producer. ‘Let’s re-record that last chapter and give him a Manx accent. He only has one line.’ ‘No, no, it’s okay,’ I protested. But Jenny and Adjoa had already made up their minds. Back they went through the pages. ‘She needs a bloody doctor, not a baptism,’ Adjoa read. In a Manx accent. I felt a sudden thrill. Those were my words. Spoken exactly as they were meant to be. If I’d had any reason to worry that they might not take my book very seriously, those worries had now been soundly spiked.

I knew Adjoa would be good. But I wasn’t expecting her voices to be so amazing. She gave Marion Yves a beautifully Manx – almost Liverpuddlian – twang. Thomas is a rather dusty, slightly hesitant, academic. Azalea is engaging and clever. And Clementine Bielszowska emerged perfectly as the inscrutable intellectual Eastern European that she is. The way that Adjoa supplies the voices you really don’t need my descriptions. You can close your eyes and see the characters, exactly as they were meant to be. And Adjoa does this reading a conversation that bounces back and forth between several voices. That, Ladies and Gentlemen, is a rare and remarkable talent.

There was more evidence to come of the thoroughness, and the amount of detail that goes into a good audio book. At one point the novel introduces the Biblical name ‘Shaphan.’ The context is rather oblique. It appears in a quick exploration of the origin of the name, ‘Azaliah,’ and this is because Azaliah (who becomes Azalea) is a central character in the story. In the Bible, we learn, Shaphan was the son of Azaliah. But how should ‘Shaphan’ be pronounced? All recording came to a halt while researches were done. ‘I really don’t think it matters,’ I said, anxious that this minor problem shouldn't hold everything up. ‘After all, who would know?’  But again my protests were ignored. Jenny consulted a book on biblical pronunciation (yes – there is such a thing); then a website; then another. Opinion varied. Shap-han suggested one; Shay-fan another. A debate ensued. In the end we went with the majority of academic opinion, and Shay-fan it now is. We’d spent several minutes on the single appearance of one name. Bear that in mind when you listen to the audio book.

It is a unique experience hearing your words read aloud, especially by as accomplished a reader as Adjoa Andoh. As a writer you have a voice in your head that speaks the lines in one particular way; an actor comes to the same lines with their own pace and delivery. The emphasis isn’t quite what you’d imagined. The rhythm subtly changes. It unsettles you at first. You have to relax and let it happen. But within just a few lines you’re sold. And the surprising thing (for me at least) is how much better a good actor is at reading your lines than your own internal reader is. Not just a little better – waaay better. This, I suppose, is why they do their job. When Adjoa read the story of the seagull I found myself transported into the scene even more vividly than I had been when I wrote it. And that is a rather spooky sensation for a writer.

I can’t wait to hear the full audio book of The Coincidence Authority. I sat in for four chapters and then I left them to it. There was nothing I could add. To be honest, I suspect I’d become a distraction. Still, I couldn’t have been happier than I was when I left. A very big Thank You to Orion Books and Strathmore – and to Pandora and Jenny and Adjoa. And thank you Adjoa for the anecdotes about Morgan Freeman and Clint Eastwood. It was an unforgettable experience.  




 

Lost in translation ...

A couple of weeks ago I received three books through the post. The parcel came as a surprise. It's 'Maximilian Ponderin Muteber Benyi' - the Turkish translation of 'The Notable Brain of Maximilian Ponder.' I knew that this was out and about in Turkey because of the generous tweets and messages I've received from readers, but it was still a huge pleasure to have copies to put on my shelf. I rather like the shredded paper on the cover; I know it bears no relation whatsoever to the contents of the book, but in a curiously existential way it manages to evoke the shredding of memories, which is ultimately what happens to Max. I look forward to the day (highly unlikely, alas) when we welcome Turkish visitors to our home, and I can pull them down a copy. Maybe they could translate some of it back to me.

It's an odd feeling seeing your book in translation. I'm sure that the translator (whom I don't know) has done an excellent job. I should love to meet him (or her) so that I could shake his (or her) hand and say thank you. It is odd to think that someone, whom I never met, spent weeks in the close company of Maximilian Ponder. I hope they grew to like him. Although, after translating 120,000 words, perhaps they hated him. 

I've tried copying an extract quoted on a Turkish website into 'Google Translate.' Here is Google's version of what the paragraph says:

In a way, I'm sure Max used to say, do not start in the middle. Only the Big Bang, the laws of nature emerged rastlantılarıyla awesome, non-stop expanding universe, the planets and the universe cooled in the atmospheres and conditions of primordial soup and, ultimately, as a result of natural selection does not mind you coming presence, I opened and closed walnuts on the table, and there's probably dead, lying dead Max Ponder as well. Here's the story, it did not bother him etmezmiş detail as if Max would say. Whereas was. Head broke the details.

That's probably better than my original. I shouldn't complain!

I don't understand a word of Turkish (to my shame), and  I've only ever visited the country twice - both times for dull business meetings. So if anyone from Turkey wants to visit us here in Market Drayton, we should be delighted to see you. I may even have an interesting book for you to read. (Even better, please invite us to Turkey and I'll bring the book along.)

The last I heard, 'The Coincidence Authority' is to be translated into French and German. 'Would the French enjoy a novel with a very English hero?' I asked my editor. 'They love the philosophy,' she told me

 

 

January and Editing Editing Editing.

January brings the snow, makes your feet and fingers glow. That's according to Flanders and Swan. But here in Shropshire it has bought cold slushy rain, following swiftly on the heels of a whole year of rain, and the little hamlet of Colehurst is awash with mud. Seriously though, don't you feel that January is always ... I don't know ... a little anti-climactic? We cheer the month in with a load of fireworks and communal singing, and then, well, it's back to work and the mornings are still dark and we're all spent out of cash.

Max Ponder is out in paperback. That cheered me up. I love the cover, and I do have to say that, for an author, walking into WHSmith's and seeing your book on the chart wall is a very guilty pleasure. Even if it is only at number 76. The Costa First Novel Award went to The Innocents by Francesca Segal. It is thoroughly well deserved for a beautifully written book. I've read all the shortlisted books, and quite frankly, I'd have been pushed to choose between them. Snake Ropes by Jessica Richards is delightfully quirky with a deliciously original voice, and The Bellwether Revivals by Benjamin Wood is a sinister and very erudite story of a damaged personality. I'm looking forward to meeting all three authors (I hope) at the awards bash on 29th Jan. I'll be cheering on Francesca. Of course. But if it has to be Hilary Mantel ... well I love Bring up the Bodies too.

I'm deep into edits for The Coincidence Authority right now. This is a humbling task. I can't believe the  number of elementary mistakes that my very brilliant editor, Kirsty, has spotted, and I groan as I turn each page to face a host of embarrassing bloopers on the next, every one clearly marked in black pen.  The writer Heinrich Heine wrote that, 'no author is a man of genius to his publisher.' Isn't that the truth. Still, you learn a lot about your bad writing habits in the editing process. I've discovered that I make far too much use of the dash - like that, and even, oddly ... the elipse. Most of these get converted to commas by my editor. She's right of course.  I'm addicted to unnecessary detail ('this isn't Max Ponder,' my editor writes in the margin, 'you don't need all this.' Right again.) And I'm blind to my own repetitions.  Worst of all, I tend to let my prose run away. It gets baggy. 'Tighten this!' Kirsty writes. 'Tighten' is now my mantra. It often seems that the passages my editor wants to strike out are the very ones that I was proudest of; I delete them with a heavy heart. 'These are only suggestions,' she has told me. 'Ignore them if you want.'  So sometimes I do. But there is an unexpected catharsis to taking editorial advice. I re-read each page with the changes complete, and damnit, the whole thing really does sound better. Now how did that happen?  Editors, I have decided, are the great unsung heroes (and heroines) of literature. I am lucky to have such a good one. But I still wish the process wasn't so painful.