I recently shared an extract from my next novel, Underneath, in which a little boy is dancing with his mother to Cliff Richard’s Living Doll. The words are taken all too literally by the child who becomes the man who keeps a woman imprisoned in a cellar but I knew, from the very first draft of this novel, to be wary of quoting song lyrics. Yet, in the version I sent my publisher, I’d retained six words that furnished a neat link between past and present, while demonstrating the narrator’s disturbed and disturbing state of mind. But as publishing becomes a (still fairly distant) reality, I thought I’d better get some advice from the Society of Authors on copyright law. Based on what I was told – and this is only my interpretation – I’ve decided to paraphrase instead of quoting: I don’t want to risk having lawyers on my back; nor do I want to renege on my own personal vow never to pay to be published (it’s the author’s, not the publisher’s, responsibility to seek out and pay for permissions).
I think it’s a shame that record companies are, or have the reputation of being, so (over) protective of their rights. Isn’t quoting song lyrics a form of advertising, more likely to enhance sales? It seems to me very different to purloining a couple of lines of poetry without permission, but what do I know? I’ve decided not to take the risk of finding out.
Of course plagiarism is one of publishing’s deadliest sins, and no writer worth her salt would want to go down that route. Yet we all, consciously or unconsciously, feed off each other’s language and ideas. Part of the reason I read so much is to improve my own writing, hoping the talents of others will rub off on me. And I’m so delighted when it works the other way round – when my writing inspires another’s – evidenced by the fact that I’ve hung onto this tweet for two whole years in the hope I’d eventually find a home for it. (If you want to read the story that inspired it, it’s here.)
Of course plagiarism is one of publishing’s deadliest sins, and no writer worth her salt would want to go down that route. Yet we all, consciously or unconsciously, feed off each other’s language and ideas. Part of the reason I read so much is to improve my own writing, hoping the talents of others will rub off on me. And I’m so delighted when it works the other way round – when my writing inspires another’s – evidenced by the fact that I’ve hung onto this tweet for two whole years in the hope I’d eventually find a home for it. (If you want to read the story that inspired it, it’s here.)
@Annecdotist Your story Peace and Quiet Pancake really touched me & inspired me to write a story in which the parent realizes their mistake
— AnnMarie (@annmariehurtado) December 9, 2013
One downside of the digital revolution is the ease of pirating books. Although I write to be read rather than for the paltry payback, I do think readers should play fair. It’s one thing reading a borrowed paperback – although not ideal – but it’s theft to download from a pirate site, even if such readers aren’t the demographic that would ever buy a book.
Over on the Carrot Ranch, lead buckaroo Charli Mills is encouraging us to feed on each other’s words with her weekly flash fiction prompts. It’s the latest, on pirates and piracy, that has inspired these musings but I was at a loss, at first, as to how I would corral them into a 99-word story – or, indeed, any story at all. But, although I have cried off at times when I haven’t had the headspace for something well out of my comfort zone, these challenges wouldn’t be challenges if we didn’t push ourselves to write about things we didn’t think we could. So let me introduce my pirate; I think he’s rather fun!
With swashbuckling charm, he sails through the pages, brandishing his hook. Despite the patch across one eye, his vision is acute: legend claims he can see through safes and chests to the treasures within. Strings of pearls and rubies hang from his neck, he indicates the golden nuggets, too heavy to shift, to the parrot on his shoulder who’ll repeat them later when he’s back at his desk. Sea storming in his head, a tot of rum at his side, he’ll tap his stolen jewels into his computer. “Aye, aye,” says his agent. “Another John Silver bestseller coming soon.”
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