I've had a couple of interesting conversations over the past week which have caused me to sit back and think. The first was at the VWC end of year party. I was asked to explain what my WIP was about, having answered the inevitable (when amongst a group of writers) question,
'What are you writing at the moment?'
I said I was editing and redrafting a novel I had started some time before, in an attempt to make a silk purse out of what might or might not be a sow's ear. A few sage nods and sympathetic glances that conveyed that this particular journey was going to take me down a well-travelled path, led onto the next question.
'What's it about?'
Once again I stumbled. I thought I'd got it sussed. Other than a stuttering,
'Well, essentially it's a love story, but it's coming from a different angle.'
I fumbled and blustered and realised that I really didn't know what, if anything, I was trying to say with this book. I made the comment,
'I'm trying to work out if putting together these unlikely viewpoints is making an interesting contrast or if they're just not sitting together.'
I also said something about trying to marry up smoked salmon and marmalade. Hmm.
The voice of the old writing is different from the voice of the new. I can't get them to gel. That is probably because the original was written before I learned any technique or crafting. It's like looking at a 16-year old donning make up and high heels in order to hit the town with a group of 20-year olds. The gaucheness bellows through the slap and the outfit. I think if I'm ever going to tell this particular story, I would need to scrap the lot and start again. One of the first things you learn as a writer - you have to kill your darlings. There are some great bits of dialogue in the old version. I love them, but they're written by an author who doesn't exist any more. No-one is ever likely to read the context around:
'You don't read, Alex. You buy Heat magazine and look at the pictures,' or
'Can I interest you in two female children? Both only slightly soiled.'
Sigh. I really liked those lines. They're going back in the drawer from whence they came. A sow's ear indeed.
When one door closes, however, you often find you have the key to another clasped in your hot little hand. I have had the idea for something new bubbling away for a few months now. I wrote a brief character outline for the four main protagonists this week, one of whom is going to be an unreliable narrator. It's a brilliant technique if it's done well. I thought I would need to study a few UNs to see how it's done. Gillespie & I by Jane Harris is a great example, but I read that for entertainment and therefore was sort of ignoring the scaffolding. I'd have to read it again with a different hat on. I wasn't sure I'd be able to pull it off. I then had a (very lovely) catch up with Paula, who I've known since we were very small children. In amongst the lamentations on the effects of ageing and weight gain on the body (the wind-creating effects of one particular diet's snack bars had the other coffee drinkers staring at us as we laughed in a very unrestrained manner), Paula made a remark that I've since realised was an absolute godsend. I was describing a family member and their view of how their life had panned out. I had already expressed the opinion that they were in denial over their own responsibility in a number of situations, but that I thought it was true that someone else had certainly had a significant influence. Paula looked at me quizzically and raised her eyebrows. She's done that before and said she remembers a situation differently.
'That's not how you saw it, is it?'
She gave me her version and I realised, I don't have to read up on UNs. I have one clasped close in the bosom of my own family. And I have to say, they are a master practitioner.
I then started thinking that, in our own way, we are all UNs. It goes along with my theory that there is never one truth in any situation, because every participant and observer will remember the situation through the filter of their own strengths and weaknesses and life experience and for the after effects on their own life. There is an unreliable narrator in all of us. Maybe if we recognised that, we might start to understand one another better.
Thursday, 19 July 2012
Sunday, 1 July 2012
Glancing Askance Whilst Dancing
I've been dithering. I've been aware of this fact for a few weeks now, but have put it down to life taking over: sudden decision to move house; head-hunted for a new job - that's another story, the upshot of which is that I'm staying put for now, although changing working hours; children returning from University and up-ending my daily routine - think I've mentioned previously the effect of the return of the students; various birthday celebrations; acquisition of kitten who is a great time waster and last but not least mother having knee op. Yes, yes, life goes on and some of those really can't be held as reasonable excuses for not writing, but it all boils down to the fact that I'm dancing around re-drafting the second half of the novel not actually writing it. I've even started a third edit on the first half, so as to avoid the re-write of the second.
It occurred to me this morning, as I carried on avoiding the second half re-write, even though it was lurking in the corner of my mind jeering at me that I just wasn't writer enough to tackle it, that this is because I think it's turning my hero into someone I don't want him to be. He's softer in the first version. And making him more emotionally shut down and stand-offish goes against his occupation, which requires him to be open and caring and empathetic. It therefore leaves me with the same problem that I had before, which is needing to create a bigger crisis. I need more of a Nemesis or Oblivion, less of a local fun-fair tea cups ride.
That said, it does still mean that the second half needs serious re-writing, just not the complete jettisoning of the original. So, back to the drawing board, then.
Anyone who says that writing a book is easy obviously hasn't tried it.
It occurred to me this morning, as I carried on avoiding the second half re-write, even though it was lurking in the corner of my mind jeering at me that I just wasn't writer enough to tackle it, that this is because I think it's turning my hero into someone I don't want him to be. He's softer in the first version. And making him more emotionally shut down and stand-offish goes against his occupation, which requires him to be open and caring and empathetic. It therefore leaves me with the same problem that I had before, which is needing to create a bigger crisis. I need more of a Nemesis or Oblivion, less of a local fun-fair tea cups ride.
That said, it does still mean that the second half needs serious re-writing, just not the complete jettisoning of the original. So, back to the drawing board, then.
Anyone who says that writing a book is easy obviously hasn't tried it.
Thursday, 3 May 2012
The Power of Feedback
One of the first things I learned from my creative writing course was how essential it was to get feedback on your work. Seclusion in a garret with just an ink pot and a cat for company is all very romantic, but makes the business of coming up with a decent piece of writing much more difficult - in fact I'd go as far as saying that any writer worth his or her salt would never dream of writing in complete isolation. I'm a member of a couple of writing groups, two on-line and one in St Albans (ra ra Verulam Writers' Circle!), none of which I manage to give as much time to as I would like (I won't go into the 10-hr shifts at work 4 days a week, barely conscious by 8.30pm spiel), but I couldn't do without them. They have moulded me into the writer that I am and will, hopefully, keep moulding me into the writer I would like to be.
The most essential writing tool I have, however, is one-person shaped (she's also now a close and highly valued friend). Marie Henderson-Brennan (keep an eye out for that name because one day you'll see her plays on West End stages) and I sat in a pub last night with the intention of going to the VWC meeting at 8.00. We usually meet up early so that we can have a catch up and talk writing before we wander over to St Michael's. We discussed the play she's writing for her final OU exam and thrashed out some character motivations and plot twists, by which time it was just after 7.30. We were gearing ourselves up to leave when she said,
'Oh, by the way, I read the first couple of chapters of your book ...'
I knew she was up to her eyeballs in reading and writing with both her courses zooming towards final exam pieces, so hadn't expected her to have had the time to look. Let's just say that when we next checked the time it was 8.45 and we had missed most of the VWC meeting (felt so guilty about that that we crept out of the pub by 10 so that we wouldn't bump into any of the VWCers coming in to the pub for their usual post meeting chat).
Marie's feedback and the subsequent throwing around of ideas and re-hashing of plots, fleshing out of characters has made the world of difference. It means that most of the last half of the book needs to be chucked and re-written, but to be able to sit and have a conversation where I could say, no, she wouldn't ever do that because and his motivation is less this and more that, has solidified in my mind what I'm writing. I didn't realise I know my characters as well as I do. All I have to do is sit and write it (which I'm not doing while I'm writing this, so I'm going now).
So, to round up, should I ever be so lucky as to get into print, the first name on the acknowledgements page will be Marie's. Couldn't do it without you, kid! Thank you for being my writing buddy.
And to VWC - I'm there in spirit, if not in body, every Wednesday.
Saturday, 21 April 2012
Mother Love
I love my daughters. I would willingly sacrifice anything and all that I have for them. This is without question and not simply a biological imperative. My daughters are bright, funny, kind, beautiful and good company. They are what gives my life meaning. If I leave behind nothing else when I move from this dimension to the next, producing them will have been enough to have made my time on the planet of benefit to humanity.
They also, occasionally, read my blog, so girls, if you are reading this and wondering where it is leading, don't take my next statement the wrong way.
They have been home for about three weeks now for the Easter holidays and I can't wait for them to leave.
I have made passing reference in previous posts to the student habit of disgorging their possessions when they come home for a visit of whatever length. Clothing draped and heaped on the backs of chairs and sofas and floors; shoes and handbags at the bottom of the stairs or the middle of the living room floor; hairbands and necklaces abandoned wherever in the house the girls were when said items were removed from their bodies; laptops, phones and cables in every available plug socket (which are always left switched on. It's not just about the electricity bill - have they not heard of global warming? Aren't we, their parents, bending over backwards switching things off and recycling to make sure they have a planet to live on after we are dead?). And if it's not enough that the things they've brought with them are scattered hither and thither, an X-Box, games and control has moved from a bedroom into the living room; no matter how often I take them into the kitchen and wash them up, half-drunk glasses of juice are constantly appearing on tables and the mantelpiece; the kitchen worktops are littered with crumbs and bits of used cutlery and the sink is never empty. My home seems to have contracted in size.
And, for me, maybe the worst thing of all ... THE NOISE!! There is a constant droning hum of the TV: Friends (still! Jeez don't they know every word of every script by now?), Family Guy, Three and a Half Men, The Big Bang Theory. All that canned laughter (are Americans really so dim that they have to be told when to laugh? People, if you can't trust that your scripts are funny enough for your audience to laugh in the appropriate places, then maybe you ought to be writing better scripts?) I wouldn't mind so much, but the girls aren't actually watching the TV - they are tippity-tappiting away on their laptops and phones, 'talking' to their friends on Facebook, playing Angry Birds and watching odd clips of cats with bread on their heads on U-Tube. And the lip curling, eye rolling and snorts of derision I get if I want to watch Antiques Roadshow or Holby!
If the TV is switched off, then the iPods are on. My docking station has been redistributed. This lunchtime I had to listen to the complete works of Disney (?) interspersed with Frank Sinatra (?) and Linkin Park. Well, at least they have diverse musical tastes, I suppose.
And the conversations ...
'Jo, sew the button on my top.'
'No.'
'Why not?'
'Do it yourself, I'm not doing it for you.'
'But you haven't got anything else to do.'
'No.'
'I'll pay you.'
I can't even close my bedroom door to write, because slowly they drift in, one at a time, take up residence on my bed and then start to witter to eachother.
And the worst part of all is, that when they are gone I'll bawl my eyes out and spend the next five weeks missing them and wishing they'd come home again! And when they do, they'll be home for THREE WHOLE MONTHS!!!!
I might have to look into doing up the shed.
They also, occasionally, read my blog, so girls, if you are reading this and wondering where it is leading, don't take my next statement the wrong way.
They have been home for about three weeks now for the Easter holidays and I can't wait for them to leave.
I have made passing reference in previous posts to the student habit of disgorging their possessions when they come home for a visit of whatever length. Clothing draped and heaped on the backs of chairs and sofas and floors; shoes and handbags at the bottom of the stairs or the middle of the living room floor; hairbands and necklaces abandoned wherever in the house the girls were when said items were removed from their bodies; laptops, phones and cables in every available plug socket (which are always left switched on. It's not just about the electricity bill - have they not heard of global warming? Aren't we, their parents, bending over backwards switching things off and recycling to make sure they have a planet to live on after we are dead?). And if it's not enough that the things they've brought with them are scattered hither and thither, an X-Box, games and control has moved from a bedroom into the living room; no matter how often I take them into the kitchen and wash them up, half-drunk glasses of juice are constantly appearing on tables and the mantelpiece; the kitchen worktops are littered with crumbs and bits of used cutlery and the sink is never empty. My home seems to have contracted in size.
And, for me, maybe the worst thing of all ... THE NOISE!! There is a constant droning hum of the TV: Friends (still! Jeez don't they know every word of every script by now?), Family Guy, Three and a Half Men, The Big Bang Theory. All that canned laughter (are Americans really so dim that they have to be told when to laugh? People, if you can't trust that your scripts are funny enough for your audience to laugh in the appropriate places, then maybe you ought to be writing better scripts?) I wouldn't mind so much, but the girls aren't actually watching the TV - they are tippity-tappiting away on their laptops and phones, 'talking' to their friends on Facebook, playing Angry Birds and watching odd clips of cats with bread on their heads on U-Tube. And the lip curling, eye rolling and snorts of derision I get if I want to watch Antiques Roadshow or Holby!
If the TV is switched off, then the iPods are on. My docking station has been redistributed. This lunchtime I had to listen to the complete works of Disney (?) interspersed with Frank Sinatra (?) and Linkin Park. Well, at least they have diverse musical tastes, I suppose.
And the conversations ...
'Jo, sew the button on my top.'
'No.'
'Why not?'
'Do it yourself, I'm not doing it for you.'
'But you haven't got anything else to do.'
'No.'
'I'll pay you.'
I can't even close my bedroom door to write, because slowly they drift in, one at a time, take up residence on my bed and then start to witter to eachother.
And the worst part of all is, that when they are gone I'll bawl my eyes out and spend the next five weeks missing them and wishing they'd come home again! And when they do, they'll be home for THREE WHOLE MONTHS!!!!
I might have to look into doing up the shed.
Monday, 9 April 2012
Coming in From the Cold
An apt title for such a grey and dreary day. In my heart, however, the sun is shining. (I now have rhymes containing the phrases 'Easter bunny' and 'not so sunny' in my head. Because I like you, I'll spare you that particular little treat!)
I have now read the MS mentioned in my previous post. Do you know what ... it's not as bad as I remembered it. In fact, with some work, I think it could turn into something I'd put my name to. I've fallen in love with my protagonists again and am now itching to start cutting and stitching. Cinderella's raggedy dress can indeed become a sumptuous ballgown.
The revelation, which came to me in a flash this morning, is that I was slightly ashamed of what it is. I was convinced I should be aiming for an opus. An insightful literary exploration of the human condition that would touch hearts, open minds and contain flashes of brilliance that would echo, with Shakespearean eloquence, down the ages. I think this was partly overweening pride and partly a belief that whatever I produced, I could do better - a phrase I've had flung in my direction since the age of 7. Ah, what an easily dented thing is the ego.
What I have produced is a love story. And what's wrong with a love story? Love is, after all, supposedly what makes the world go round. I think my book was also tainted by a comment made at a very early stage: 'Well I suppose you could always try Mills & Boon' - as if that was the lowest rung on the writing ladder. I won't be going to that particular person for critiques in the future.
It feels as though I've reclaimed my child, rejected for not being good enough, now accepted for who it really is. I've even found the RNA (Romantic Novelists Association) - a collection of people, as the title would suggest, who also write love stories and aren't in the slightest discomforted by this fact. Their membership list for new, unpublished writers is closed until January of next year, but that's okay. I should have something to show them by then.
I have now read the MS mentioned in my previous post. Do you know what ... it's not as bad as I remembered it. In fact, with some work, I think it could turn into something I'd put my name to. I've fallen in love with my protagonists again and am now itching to start cutting and stitching. Cinderella's raggedy dress can indeed become a sumptuous ballgown.
The revelation, which came to me in a flash this morning, is that I was slightly ashamed of what it is. I was convinced I should be aiming for an opus. An insightful literary exploration of the human condition that would touch hearts, open minds and contain flashes of brilliance that would echo, with Shakespearean eloquence, down the ages. I think this was partly overweening pride and partly a belief that whatever I produced, I could do better - a phrase I've had flung in my direction since the age of 7. Ah, what an easily dented thing is the ego.
What I have produced is a love story. And what's wrong with a love story? Love is, after all, supposedly what makes the world go round. I think my book was also tainted by a comment made at a very early stage: 'Well I suppose you could always try Mills & Boon' - as if that was the lowest rung on the writing ladder. I won't be going to that particular person for critiques in the future.
It feels as though I've reclaimed my child, rejected for not being good enough, now accepted for who it really is. I've even found the RNA (Romantic Novelists Association) - a collection of people, as the title would suggest, who also write love stories and aren't in the slightest discomforted by this fact. Their membership list for new, unpublished writers is closed until January of next year, but that's okay. I should have something to show them by then.
Friday, 6 April 2012
To Edit or Not to Edit
Back on the subject of writing, I've been having an interesting time since the last (writing-related) post. I've completed a few short stories and, with the help of one particular member of our on-line writing group, edited one story to such a degree that it was completely transformed. Not only did Ron have me draw on emotions I've shied away from before because they were too painful, but he got me to really see the metamorphosis possible with editing.
I've also read two books that have got my mind thinking differently. The Paris Wife by Paula McLain is the story of Hadley and Ernest Hemingway's life in Paris in the '20s (the subject is also covered in Hemingway's A Moveable Feast which I read a couple of months ago, so I've found it fascinating). Just reading about the likes of Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Stein and Pound, how they worked, the torments they often went through, rejections they received and just how odd their lives were, has inspired me to write. I've got the beginnings of two books in my head and notes jotted down on paper as I find I'm getting snippets of ideas and conversations for both of them popping up all over the place.
I also read The Rector's Wife by Joanna Trollope. Its subject matter has a bearing on the book I wrote before I started my first OU course. Post OU, I tossed it aside as complete bilge-water that would never see the light of day. Now, I'm not so sure that with some serious editing and rewriting, it doesn't actually have some potential. I've not seen it for a year, so I've printed it out and I'm going to spend time this weekend reading through it and deciding if I should consign it to the bin permanently and concentrate on the new stuff buzzing around inside my head, or finish what I started and actually get it to the point where I'd not be ashamed to put my name to it and try and get it published.
And I really ought to do something with the short stories that I've written in the past few weeks. It seems a shame to have spent so much time on them only to do nothing with them.
So, green pen at the ready, I'm off to edit.
I also read The Rector's Wife by Joanna Trollope. Its subject matter has a bearing on the book I wrote before I started my first OU course. Post OU, I tossed it aside as complete bilge-water that would never see the light of day. Now, I'm not so sure that with some serious editing and rewriting, it doesn't actually have some potential. I've not seen it for a year, so I've printed it out and I'm going to spend time this weekend reading through it and deciding if I should consign it to the bin permanently and concentrate on the new stuff buzzing around inside my head, or finish what I started and actually get it to the point where I'd not be ashamed to put my name to it and try and get it published.
And I really ought to do something with the short stories that I've written in the past few weeks. It seems a shame to have spent so much time on them only to do nothing with them.
So, green pen at the ready, I'm off to edit.
Unholy Thoughts
Today is Theravadin New Year (Buddhist), Hanuman Jayanti (Hindu), Mahavir Jayanti (Jain), Good Friday (Christian) and Erev Passover (Jewish). Surely a day to have spiritually up-lifted thoughts and promote goodwill to all mankind. The vast majority of my mind is accepting of this and radiating altruism through every pore, but there is one small corner that is cackling like the Wicked Witch of the West and drowning out the rest. It's wrong. I know it is. I'm bigger than this. I control my thoughts, not the other way around. And actually I should be ashamed of my child behaving in such a manner. Mmwaaahhahahahha! Okay, maybe not.
Yesterday my ex-husband was 50. We've had a difficult relationship in the past with fault on both sides, but after over 10 years, I'm much more interested in being happy and living in the present for our split to continue to bother me. I sent him a text to wish him a happy birthday. I made sure our daughters, who were going to his party, had an early dinner, so they weren't late. I genuinely hoped he had a good day and it all went well.
This morning, I woke up and both of the girls' bedroom doors were shut, as expected. I had anticipated they would roll (quietly) through the door any time after 2 am, somewhat the worse for wear (the ex was putting money behind the bar and there's nothing a student likes more than a free bar!), so crept around in order not to rouse the slumbering beasts. I was grateful not to have been woken either by drunken stumbling up the stairs or the sounds of overindulgence meeting porcelain.
At about 10 am, I heard Jo moving around. I came upstairs with my cup of tea and poked my head round the door, expecting to see a bleary-eyed, pale-faced, pain-wracked lump of humanity, begging for either a quick death or a bucket of water and two paracetamol, but found instead a bright-eyed Jo, sitting up reading her book.
'Good morning. How are you feeling?'
'I'm fine.'
'Aren't you hung over?'
'No. Tasha's not home by the way. She stayed at Dad's.'
'Oh, okay. Why?'
'Because I didn't want her in my car.'
'You drove home?'
'I didn't drink. I didn't want to leave my car in the pub car park overnight.'
(I should just explain here that half way up the M4 on her way home for the Easter holidays, the head gasket on Jo's old car blew, so we had to go out and get her a new (new to her, at least) car - a whole other story all on its own - which she only picked up yesterday lunchtime.)
'Why wasn't Tasha allowed in the car?'
'Because she was throwing up and she'd already sat on a samosa on the back seat when we went from the pub back to Dad's, which she is going to clear up when she gets home.'
It turns out that Natasha had thrown up in the en-suite at her father and stepmother's flat (her father was doing the same in the other bathroom) and then again all over the spare bed, which her father had poured her into much to the annoyance of his wife, who much more keen on Natasha going home. She was summarily ejected at 10.30 this morning, brought home by her father, who I suspect is also in disgrace and sat with him on the kerb outside our house cuddling a roll of kitchen towel.
I know I shouldn't be feeling any glee whatsoever at the thought of the ex's wife having to deal with a husband vomiting in the bathroom and a stepdaughter vomiting in her en-suite ... but, I'm sorry, it made me laugh.
It's childish, isn't it?
I know. It is.
Mmmwwaahahahaha!
Yesterday my ex-husband was 50. We've had a difficult relationship in the past with fault on both sides, but after over 10 years, I'm much more interested in being happy and living in the present for our split to continue to bother me. I sent him a text to wish him a happy birthday. I made sure our daughters, who were going to his party, had an early dinner, so they weren't late. I genuinely hoped he had a good day and it all went well.
This morning, I woke up and both of the girls' bedroom doors were shut, as expected. I had anticipated they would roll (quietly) through the door any time after 2 am, somewhat the worse for wear (the ex was putting money behind the bar and there's nothing a student likes more than a free bar!), so crept around in order not to rouse the slumbering beasts. I was grateful not to have been woken either by drunken stumbling up the stairs or the sounds of overindulgence meeting porcelain.
At about 10 am, I heard Jo moving around. I came upstairs with my cup of tea and poked my head round the door, expecting to see a bleary-eyed, pale-faced, pain-wracked lump of humanity, begging for either a quick death or a bucket of water and two paracetamol, but found instead a bright-eyed Jo, sitting up reading her book.
'Good morning. How are you feeling?'
'I'm fine.'
'Aren't you hung over?'
'No. Tasha's not home by the way. She stayed at Dad's.'
'Oh, okay. Why?'
'Because I didn't want her in my car.'
'You drove home?'
'I didn't drink. I didn't want to leave my car in the pub car park overnight.'
(I should just explain here that half way up the M4 on her way home for the Easter holidays, the head gasket on Jo's old car blew, so we had to go out and get her a new (new to her, at least) car - a whole other story all on its own - which she only picked up yesterday lunchtime.)
'Why wasn't Tasha allowed in the car?'
'Because she was throwing up and she'd already sat on a samosa on the back seat when we went from the pub back to Dad's, which she is going to clear up when she gets home.'
It turns out that Natasha had thrown up in the en-suite at her father and stepmother's flat (her father was doing the same in the other bathroom) and then again all over the spare bed, which her father had poured her into much to the annoyance of his wife, who much more keen on Natasha going home. She was summarily ejected at 10.30 this morning, brought home by her father, who I suspect is also in disgrace and sat with him on the kerb outside our house cuddling a roll of kitchen towel.
I know I shouldn't be feeling any glee whatsoever at the thought of the ex's wife having to deal with a husband vomiting in the bathroom and a stepdaughter vomiting in her en-suite ... but, I'm sorry, it made me laugh.
It's childish, isn't it?
I know. It is.
Mmmwwaahahahaha!
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