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!
Thursday, 1 March 2012
Spring of Creativity - Mind Your Backs
The 1st of March brings to mind a rhyme my Dad used to repeat when I was a child: Spring is sprung, the grass is riz, I wonders where the birdies is. This, of course, is apropos of absolutely nothing, other than the fact that something primeval within me has recognised the approach of a change in season.
I realised something was up when I started moving furniture last week. The sky was blue, the sun held some warmth and I'd turned off the heating and opened all the doors and windows. I'd only intended to do my usual quick run round with a duster and the hoover, but low and behold spring madness wafted in. Before I knew it, I was clearing out accumulated rubbish and playing Tetris with my bedroom furniture in an attempt to swap over my wardrobe and my desk (you would have to understand the layout, smallness and quirky-shapedness of my bedroom to fully understand the insanity of said manoeuvre, especially single-handed).
I'm looking on the new configuration of my bedroom as an interesting shift in my state of mind. My desk, was originally in the lounge where I could police my daughters' use of the internet when that was still a necessity. They grew up. I started my OU course and needed peace and quiet to write, not endless re-runs of Friends and Scrubs ricocheting around my head while I tackled the concepts of POV, and iambic pentameter. Consequently, the desk moved to my bedroom where I could shut the door. Despite the presence of the desk squished into the corner of the room, I continued to write sitting in or on the bed. I thought this was Interesting and Proustesque. Actually it just killed my back. My desk became swamped by paper, magazines, books and clothes. And it started to feel as though the deeper my desk got buried in the detritus of everyday life, the more difficult I found it to write.
Throwing off the winter gloom and hibernation, I have created a dedicated writing space. The desk has a lamp, a printer and my laptop. The books, magazines and paper have all been moved up to a shelf (also put up by self - with help from daughter who was luckily on hand to sit me in a quiet, dark corner when I started to get wild-eyed and snarling whilst still in charge of a fully functional drill). I have completed a short story since the excavation and liberation of my desk and sent out two others to magazines (previously I've only ever submitted two short stories and a poem anywhere at all). Not bad in just a week. This afternoon/weekend, I'm planning on beginning a short story for The Writers' Workshop's next challenge and adding to the 600 words in the novel.
Don't ya love spring?
I realised something was up when I started moving furniture last week. The sky was blue, the sun held some warmth and I'd turned off the heating and opened all the doors and windows. I'd only intended to do my usual quick run round with a duster and the hoover, but low and behold spring madness wafted in. Before I knew it, I was clearing out accumulated rubbish and playing Tetris with my bedroom furniture in an attempt to swap over my wardrobe and my desk (you would have to understand the layout, smallness and quirky-shapedness of my bedroom to fully understand the insanity of said manoeuvre, especially single-handed).
I'm looking on the new configuration of my bedroom as an interesting shift in my state of mind. My desk, was originally in the lounge where I could police my daughters' use of the internet when that was still a necessity. They grew up. I started my OU course and needed peace and quiet to write, not endless re-runs of Friends and Scrubs ricocheting around my head while I tackled the concepts of POV, and iambic pentameter. Consequently, the desk moved to my bedroom where I could shut the door. Despite the presence of the desk squished into the corner of the room, I continued to write sitting in or on the bed. I thought this was Interesting and Proustesque. Actually it just killed my back. My desk became swamped by paper, magazines, books and clothes. And it started to feel as though the deeper my desk got buried in the detritus of everyday life, the more difficult I found it to write.
Throwing off the winter gloom and hibernation, I have created a dedicated writing space. The desk has a lamp, a printer and my laptop. The books, magazines and paper have all been moved up to a shelf (also put up by self - with help from daughter who was luckily on hand to sit me in a quiet, dark corner when I started to get wild-eyed and snarling whilst still in charge of a fully functional drill). I have completed a short story since the excavation and liberation of my desk and sent out two others to magazines (previously I've only ever submitted two short stories and a poem anywhere at all). Not bad in just a week. This afternoon/weekend, I'm planning on beginning a short story for The Writers' Workshop's next challenge and adding to the 600 words in the novel.
Don't ya love spring?
Saturday, 18 February 2012
At Last I'm Writing Again!
Attended the Get Writing 2012 conference in Hatfield last Saturday. Came away really quite desperate to get down to work, but was still struggling with finding a way in to the book I've been wanting to write. I spoke to so many people with works in progress or books they wanted to pitch to agents and I felt like an absolute fraud having nothing to show for my months of tinkering.
Spent Thursday - a day I had put aside for writing - looking at a blank screen and getting more and more depressed. The only things I have produced since I packed in the OU course because I just wanted to 'get on with it' are two very short stories. Well received by my Writers' Workshop colleagues, but still ...
I did a bit of writing around the subject yesterday during my very short lunch break. I thought if I could identify who my main character was, what she wanted, what she needed and who was in conflict with those wants and needs, then I might be able to move a bit. Until this point, I knew the elements of the story, but couldn't decide the best point of view or, whose story to tell, how to tell it, when to set it and what genre it would be. It had been everything from historical fiction to thriller!
I'm pleased to report that the sideways approach seems to have worked. I've now got 600 words down, which may not sound like much, but believe me, after the tumbleweed that's been blowing through my brain recently, they feel like the most miraculous 600 words in the English language!
There's still part of me that's convinced I'm not up to the challenge and won't have the staying power, imagination or talent to conjure up another 80,000 - 100,000 words that will be able to hold a reader's attention and therefore worthy of publishing, but if I don't give it a go, then I'll never know. And I know I'll regret that.
And if I'm not writing, then I'm not a writer.
Spent Thursday - a day I had put aside for writing - looking at a blank screen and getting more and more depressed. The only things I have produced since I packed in the OU course because I just wanted to 'get on with it' are two very short stories. Well received by my Writers' Workshop colleagues, but still ...
I did a bit of writing around the subject yesterday during my very short lunch break. I thought if I could identify who my main character was, what she wanted, what she needed and who was in conflict with those wants and needs, then I might be able to move a bit. Until this point, I knew the elements of the story, but couldn't decide the best point of view or, whose story to tell, how to tell it, when to set it and what genre it would be. It had been everything from historical fiction to thriller!
I'm pleased to report that the sideways approach seems to have worked. I've now got 600 words down, which may not sound like much, but believe me, after the tumbleweed that's been blowing through my brain recently, they feel like the most miraculous 600 words in the English language!
There's still part of me that's convinced I'm not up to the challenge and won't have the staying power, imagination or talent to conjure up another 80,000 - 100,000 words that will be able to hold a reader's attention and therefore worthy of publishing, but if I don't give it a go, then I'll never know. And I know I'll regret that.
And if I'm not writing, then I'm not a writer.
Sunday, 12 February 2012
I'm Starting a New Religion
For this post to have its full impact and, quite frankly, make any sense, I suggest you read Localised Armageddon first.
Hallelujah! I've had a visit from Vic the plumber. How does one go about getting someone canonized? Vic swept in, stemmed the flood in the garden, got water to flow round the boiler, tightened the screws on the front door as he was passing because he happened to have a cross-head screw-driver in his hands and then rode off into the ... err, fog in his white van, uttering into his mobile phone the most reassuring words in the world ...
'Get the ladder out, I'll be round in ten minutes.'
All hail St Vic, saviour of the cold and clueless!!
Hallelujah! I've had a visit from Vic the plumber. How does one go about getting someone canonized? Vic swept in, stemmed the flood in the garden, got water to flow round the boiler, tightened the screws on the front door as he was passing because he happened to have a cross-head screw-driver in his hands and then rode off into the ... err, fog in his white van, uttering into his mobile phone the most reassuring words in the world ...
'Get the ladder out, I'll be round in ten minutes.'
All hail St Vic, saviour of the cold and clueless!!
Localised Armageddon
Usually I love Sundays. Lazy mornings in bed reading, drinking tea and eating big, fat bacon sarnies. I don't love this Sunday. In fact I'm feeling a decided antipathy towards it.
I was woken by the Edward Bear monster (for those of you not in the know, that's one of my cats) at 6.45. He decided it was time for cuddles and I really needed to be awake for said process. I was not best pleased. I then became aware of a strange, intermittent vibrating noise emanating from Natasha's bedroom. STOP! That's where the boiler is located, and you're thinking about my daughter, so please mind where you allow your thoughts to wander.
On investigation (which involved creeping into Natasha's bedroom, a hazardous venture as the floor was littered with all sorts of detritus - a visiting uni student doesn't unpack, she disgorges - turning on the light inside the airing cupboard so I could look at the offending article,whilst trying not to wake the slumbering teen in the bed) there was a blue flashing light on the front of the boiler and a worrying sound of a bubbling cauldron coming from within.
'This can't be good,' I thought. 'I'm sure it's not meant to make that noise.'
What's even more annoying is that the blooming thing's less than a year old.
After various re-settings of the boiler, running of hot water taps (now only gushing water that has come straight from a glacier) and frantic pattings of radiators (are they cooling down, they are, they're cooling down ... bugger, bugger, bugger ...) I rang British Gas, who installed the bloody thing in March of last year.
'Do you have any other forms of heating, Madam?'
'No.'
'I'll put you down as a priority then. An engineer will be out to you on Tuesday. Would you like morning or afternoon?'
'Tuesday!'
'Sorry, Madam, but we're a bit busy what with the weather an all. You are a priority. Would you like us to give you a call if we have a cancellation?'
So, after a perfunctory wash and brush up, boiling 3 kettles of water to wash the dishes, greeting Jo back from the boyfriend's, who tells us that she has a crack in her engine so can't drive her car back to Wales tonight, but it's okay because the boyfriend's Dad's a mechanic and is going to fix the car while Jo's back at uni and she's going onto her friend's car insurance so she can drive them both back tomorrow morning (the friend only has a provisional licence), restraining myself when Natasha finally crawls out of bed and grumbles,
'You could have made me a cup of tea too!'
clearing up cat vomit from my bedroom carpet - thanks Gus, just add to the beauty of my day, why don't you - I bundle Natasha into the car to take her to the station in Stevenage so she can get her train back to Sunderland.
She makes the train by seconds. Thank the Lord for that!
On the way home I go via B&Q and buy a plug-in radiator. At least that's £9 off in the sale. I phone Jo to let her know where I am and that I'll be back in a few minutes and she's all sympathy and offers to make me a cup of tea.
I go into the kitchen at home to unload the washing machine and I can hear another noise. It sounds like a freight train under the house. What the ....?
In the garden a water pipe has burst and I have Niagra Falls gushing down the wall. I didn't sit down and cry. I wanted to, but Joanna was standing watching me and I could tell her fight or flight reflex was fully armed. Which way would I go?
After phoning the plumber (great a Sunday emergency call out, I haven't spent enough money today!) and getting him to come down to isolate the pipe and just switch the damn thing off I have retired to my room. I'd crawl back into bed, but I've got to wait for the plumber and then go round to my brother's for a shower.
And it's only one o'clock.
I don't want to be a grown up any more.
I was woken by the Edward Bear monster (for those of you not in the know, that's one of my cats) at 6.45. He decided it was time for cuddles and I really needed to be awake for said process. I was not best pleased. I then became aware of a strange, intermittent vibrating noise emanating from Natasha's bedroom. STOP! That's where the boiler is located, and you're thinking about my daughter, so please mind where you allow your thoughts to wander.
On investigation (which involved creeping into Natasha's bedroom, a hazardous venture as the floor was littered with all sorts of detritus - a visiting uni student doesn't unpack, she disgorges - turning on the light inside the airing cupboard so I could look at the offending article,whilst trying not to wake the slumbering teen in the bed) there was a blue flashing light on the front of the boiler and a worrying sound of a bubbling cauldron coming from within.
'This can't be good,' I thought. 'I'm sure it's not meant to make that noise.'
What's even more annoying is that the blooming thing's less than a year old.
After various re-settings of the boiler, running of hot water taps (now only gushing water that has come straight from a glacier) and frantic pattings of radiators (are they cooling down, they are, they're cooling down ... bugger, bugger, bugger ...) I rang British Gas, who installed the bloody thing in March of last year.
'Do you have any other forms of heating, Madam?'
'No.'
'I'll put you down as a priority then. An engineer will be out to you on Tuesday. Would you like morning or afternoon?'
'Tuesday!'
'Sorry, Madam, but we're a bit busy what with the weather an all. You are a priority. Would you like us to give you a call if we have a cancellation?'
So, after a perfunctory wash and brush up, boiling 3 kettles of water to wash the dishes, greeting Jo back from the boyfriend's, who tells us that she has a crack in her engine so can't drive her car back to Wales tonight, but it's okay because the boyfriend's Dad's a mechanic and is going to fix the car while Jo's back at uni and she's going onto her friend's car insurance so she can drive them both back tomorrow morning (the friend only has a provisional licence), restraining myself when Natasha finally crawls out of bed and grumbles,
'You could have made me a cup of tea too!'
clearing up cat vomit from my bedroom carpet - thanks Gus, just add to the beauty of my day, why don't you - I bundle Natasha into the car to take her to the station in Stevenage so she can get her train back to Sunderland.
She makes the train by seconds. Thank the Lord for that!
On the way home I go via B&Q and buy a plug-in radiator. At least that's £9 off in the sale. I phone Jo to let her know where I am and that I'll be back in a few minutes and she's all sympathy and offers to make me a cup of tea.
I go into the kitchen at home to unload the washing machine and I can hear another noise. It sounds like a freight train under the house. What the ....?
In the garden a water pipe has burst and I have Niagra Falls gushing down the wall. I didn't sit down and cry. I wanted to, but Joanna was standing watching me and I could tell her fight or flight reflex was fully armed. Which way would I go?
After phoning the plumber (great a Sunday emergency call out, I haven't spent enough money today!) and getting him to come down to isolate the pipe and just switch the damn thing off I have retired to my room. I'd crawl back into bed, but I've got to wait for the plumber and then go round to my brother's for a shower.
And it's only one o'clock.
I don't want to be a grown up any more.
Saturday, 14 January 2012
Answered Prayers and Penitence
It's funny how one can make a decision and suddenly find blockages disappearing. Having decided that I was going to take the learning and run, my work/life balance seems to be offering change that I could not have foreseen. In my last post, I had been outlining the difficulty I found fitting in writing - my own writing, that is - during a hectic week, resulting in my plan to drop out of the OU course once I'd received my mark for my play assignment.
Yesterday, whilst discussing the new Single Point of Contact (commonly known as SPoC - I've always loved Star Trek!) coming into force at work on Monday, requiring new shift hours being put in place, my boss offered me a 4-day working week. Instead of 8.30 - 5.00 with an hour for lunch Monday to Friday, I could work 8.00 - 6.00 with 35 minutes for lunch Monday to Thursday or Tuesday to Friday. Just when I was lamenting my lack of time, I'm handed an extra day in my week - and a non-working day at that. Maybe Father Christmas does exist after all!
During this meeting, I was also made to face one of my failings - stubborn pride. I've had a difficult relationship with one of my work colleagues - not entirely unjustified, I might add. One tends not to take to a person who, on their first day back in the office after being off sick for 10 months, finds new colleagues in place (in place for only two weeks, so still a touch nervous and unsure of themselves) and ignores them. After two hours of this non-communicative stranger sitting at the desk behind me, I turned and introduced myself. I found out that she was my team lead counterpart. This behaviour was not confined to me. She treated the other new members of staff in similar vein. I was astonished. I'd never come across such a passive-aggression before. When also liberally littered with bouts of crying, unexplained disappearances from her desk, an apparent inability to answer a telephone because she 'couldn't manage it today', or type 'my hands hurt/eyes are blurred', further frequent sick days and a complete lack of team spirit or consideration for work colleagues, I mounted my high horse, determined never to acknowledge her fey, woebegone languishing and spoke to her only when necessary. And even then, my words were laced with so much ice, I'm surprised she didn't go off sick with frostbite. Her performances caused eye-rolling, laughter and resentment in equal measure amongst other members of staff. One of the women would throw her hand to her forehead and utter an wan 'Ooh!', like a 1930s black-and-white film damsel-in-distress when one of these 'I'm not well!' acts began.
I should have risen above it and tried to maintain some sort of communication. I'm a grown woman. I should not have started to find petty ways to distance myself and freeze her out. An atmosphere pervaded the office when she did (occasionally) turn up for work. Mea culpa.
It has made me reflect on other places where I have galloped my pride down a dead-end street - the only way out being a volte-face and return journey with my dignity crushed underfoot. Its never pretty and the only person who ends up with sleepless nights and indigestion while they dither at the nub-end of the cul-de-sac contemplating the inglorious retracing of steps is me.
I'm not aiming for sainthood, but I would like to be a better person. I wonder if I'll learn from my mistakes.
Yesterday, whilst discussing the new Single Point of Contact (commonly known as SPoC - I've always loved Star Trek!) coming into force at work on Monday, requiring new shift hours being put in place, my boss offered me a 4-day working week. Instead of 8.30 - 5.00 with an hour for lunch Monday to Friday, I could work 8.00 - 6.00 with 35 minutes for lunch Monday to Thursday or Tuesday to Friday. Just when I was lamenting my lack of time, I'm handed an extra day in my week - and a non-working day at that. Maybe Father Christmas does exist after all!
During this meeting, I was also made to face one of my failings - stubborn pride. I've had a difficult relationship with one of my work colleagues - not entirely unjustified, I might add. One tends not to take to a person who, on their first day back in the office after being off sick for 10 months, finds new colleagues in place (in place for only two weeks, so still a touch nervous and unsure of themselves) and ignores them. After two hours of this non-communicative stranger sitting at the desk behind me, I turned and introduced myself. I found out that she was my team lead counterpart. This behaviour was not confined to me. She treated the other new members of staff in similar vein. I was astonished. I'd never come across such a passive-aggression before. When also liberally littered with bouts of crying, unexplained disappearances from her desk, an apparent inability to answer a telephone because she 'couldn't manage it today', or type 'my hands hurt/eyes are blurred', further frequent sick days and a complete lack of team spirit or consideration for work colleagues, I mounted my high horse, determined never to acknowledge her fey, woebegone languishing and spoke to her only when necessary. And even then, my words were laced with so much ice, I'm surprised she didn't go off sick with frostbite. Her performances caused eye-rolling, laughter and resentment in equal measure amongst other members of staff. One of the women would throw her hand to her forehead and utter an wan 'Ooh!', like a 1930s black-and-white film damsel-in-distress when one of these 'I'm not well!' acts began.
I should have risen above it and tried to maintain some sort of communication. I'm a grown woman. I should not have started to find petty ways to distance myself and freeze her out. An atmosphere pervaded the office when she did (occasionally) turn up for work. Mea culpa.
It has made me reflect on other places where I have galloped my pride down a dead-end street - the only way out being a volte-face and return journey with my dignity crushed underfoot. Its never pretty and the only person who ends up with sleepless nights and indigestion while they dither at the nub-end of the cul-de-sac contemplating the inglorious retracing of steps is me.
I'm not aiming for sainthood, but I would like to be a better person. I wonder if I'll learn from my mistakes.
Friday, 6 January 2012
It's Been So Long!
I am shamed and saddened. I logged on and read the date of my last post. 30th October! Good heavens! However, this realisation has only added to the nagging voice that has been whispering in my ear for a few weeks now. Let me explain.
The new job is great (really, I love it - much to the surprise of my new boss, who raised her eyebrows and said 'Really? Oh, good.' - strange reaction. Still ...), but time consuming. I'm now up at 6.00 in order to leave the house at 7.45 (I know, but it takes me a while and a bucket of tea before I could contemplate even showering safely, let alone driving), not returning until some time between 5.45 and 6.00 in the evening. After getting changed, having a quick shufty at my emails and maybe a FB flick to see if anyone has posted anything I should know about (this also includes my writing group, so it's not all froth), it's probably about 6.30/6.45 and if I'm to have any chance of eating without subsequently going to bed with indigestion, then I need to start making dinner. Meal cooked, eaten and washed up, it's probably now between 8.00 and 8.30 and quite frankly I'm only fit for gawping mindlessly at the TV whilst attempting to keep my eyelids open until 10.00 when I can go to bed without feeling like a very sad person indeed. (And the first person to shout 'You're getting old!' will be taken off the Christmas card list forthwith!) This last often fails, I must add and the fine dramas screened at 9.00 are often watched in five to ten minute chunks with breaks in consciousness littered throughout. Very annoying and thank heavens for Sky+.
In my lunch break at work (when I get one) I try to find a quiet, secluded spot to write or read around my OU work - up until yesterday, when my assignment was sent in, this was plays and playwrighting. Other than sitting in the toilet (the smell is distracting and people still insist on coming in!) or the closed down cafeteria (just plain creepy) quiet, secluded spots are difficult to find in a city hospital.
The above has been written neither to elicit sympathy, nor as an excuse, but simply as a statement of fact.
It means that my writing and studying time is, realistically, reduced to weekends (the two days in which I also need to squeeze in household chores - limited, admittedly - and having some sort of social life). Which, in turn, means that time to write anything for pleasure alone is ... non existent!!
Q.E.D.
I haven't even mentioned the fact that the Proofreading and Copy Editing course that I signed up for in the summer has got as far as me sending in my first (mock) assessment - which received a creditable (apparently) B-, but has not been looked at since.
Seeing as Santa didn't deliver the extra two days in the week I requested (non-working days, obviously), I have had to re-evaluate my time management strategy. My thinking has gone as follows:
Parts of the OU course left to complete: Assignment 3 - write a tract on the benefits of critique and how it can change the way you view your work; Assignment 4 - write a proposal on something on want to write (!); Assignment 5 - write a 2500 word short story or a play (can't remember the running time); Assignment 6 - write a first attempt at the thing you proposed in Assignment 4; EMA - write the thing you proposed in TMA4 and stabbed at in TMA6 ie 4000 word short story, start of novel or 30 minute play. (Poetry is also included, but ... never again.)
Assignment 3 - if I don't know that by now, then what have I been doing on my 3 on-line forums and at my writing group for the past 18 months? Do I really need to explain it to you and be marked on it? Assignment 4 - yeah, I have proposals running through my head all the time, I just need time to sit and write some of them. Not having OU work to do would assist greatly in achieving this. Assignment 5 - nuff said, read previous. Assignment 6 - yup called a first draft, read previous. EMA - can I just get on with writing what I want to write, PLEASE!!
Proofreading course - possible source of lucre to either prop up writing career or subsidise part time work so that I can write. Also may give valuable connections in publishing world. Currently languishing untouched.
What would it be more important for me to finish? Add to that the fact that I want to stop fannying about and get on with writing now.
Where do we think the axe is going to fall?
The new job is great (really, I love it - much to the surprise of my new boss, who raised her eyebrows and said 'Really? Oh, good.' - strange reaction. Still ...), but time consuming. I'm now up at 6.00 in order to leave the house at 7.45 (I know, but it takes me a while and a bucket of tea before I could contemplate even showering safely, let alone driving), not returning until some time between 5.45 and 6.00 in the evening. After getting changed, having a quick shufty at my emails and maybe a FB flick to see if anyone has posted anything I should know about (this also includes my writing group, so it's not all froth), it's probably about 6.30/6.45 and if I'm to have any chance of eating without subsequently going to bed with indigestion, then I need to start making dinner. Meal cooked, eaten and washed up, it's probably now between 8.00 and 8.30 and quite frankly I'm only fit for gawping mindlessly at the TV whilst attempting to keep my eyelids open until 10.00 when I can go to bed without feeling like a very sad person indeed. (And the first person to shout 'You're getting old!' will be taken off the Christmas card list forthwith!) This last often fails, I must add and the fine dramas screened at 9.00 are often watched in five to ten minute chunks with breaks in consciousness littered throughout. Very annoying and thank heavens for Sky+.
In my lunch break at work (when I get one) I try to find a quiet, secluded spot to write or read around my OU work - up until yesterday, when my assignment was sent in, this was plays and playwrighting. Other than sitting in the toilet (the smell is distracting and people still insist on coming in!) or the closed down cafeteria (just plain creepy) quiet, secluded spots are difficult to find in a city hospital.
The above has been written neither to elicit sympathy, nor as an excuse, but simply as a statement of fact.
It means that my writing and studying time is, realistically, reduced to weekends (the two days in which I also need to squeeze in household chores - limited, admittedly - and having some sort of social life). Which, in turn, means that time to write anything for pleasure alone is ... non existent!!
Q.E.D.
I haven't even mentioned the fact that the Proofreading and Copy Editing course that I signed up for in the summer has got as far as me sending in my first (mock) assessment - which received a creditable (apparently) B-, but has not been looked at since.
Seeing as Santa didn't deliver the extra two days in the week I requested (non-working days, obviously), I have had to re-evaluate my time management strategy. My thinking has gone as follows:
Parts of the OU course left to complete: Assignment 3 - write a tract on the benefits of critique and how it can change the way you view your work; Assignment 4 - write a proposal on something on want to write (!); Assignment 5 - write a 2500 word short story or a play (can't remember the running time); Assignment 6 - write a first attempt at the thing you proposed in Assignment 4; EMA - write the thing you proposed in TMA4 and stabbed at in TMA6 ie 4000 word short story, start of novel or 30 minute play. (Poetry is also included, but ... never again.)
Assignment 3 - if I don't know that by now, then what have I been doing on my 3 on-line forums and at my writing group for the past 18 months? Do I really need to explain it to you and be marked on it? Assignment 4 - yeah, I have proposals running through my head all the time, I just need time to sit and write some of them. Not having OU work to do would assist greatly in achieving this. Assignment 5 - nuff said, read previous. Assignment 6 - yup called a first draft, read previous. EMA - can I just get on with writing what I want to write, PLEASE!!
Proofreading course - possible source of lucre to either prop up writing career or subsidise part time work so that I can write. Also may give valuable connections in publishing world. Currently languishing untouched.
What would it be more important for me to finish? Add to that the fact that I want to stop fannying about and get on with writing now.
Where do we think the axe is going to fall?
Sunday, 30 October 2011
Love can be swift, throwing caution to the wind
This hasn't happened for a while. Probably not since the spring before last. There have been mild attractions and cases of need, but not an all-encompassing, immediate desperation to try and possess and own.
I know the lure. Its been the same since I was a child capable of choosing for myself. Its not height or shape, or purpose, but colour.
And that colour is red.
From crimson to cherry, burgundy to berry. Red does it for me every time. Last time it was a handbag. This time its boots. I knew when I ordered them in the brown and saw that they also came in both purple and red, that I shouldn't even allow them across the threshold of my house. I knew that if they came out of the box and found their way onto my feet, then all would be lost and they would never leave again. I didn't need red boots. I needed a pair of brown ones for work because at the rate I was wearing my new black boots, they wouldn't last until Christmas. I succumbed. Oh, weak and self-deluded flesh, I looked temptation in the eye, hesitated and buckled.
'What could be the harm?' I asked myself, stroking the page, mesmerised, already picturing them on my feet. 'Red or purple? I'll only try them. I won't keep them. I don't need red boots. And I already have purple boots. I could order the purple boots as well. Just to see the shade.'
Purple is rapidly becoming a neck-and-neck runner with red. Whatever it is, wherever it is, red and purple stop me in my tracks. Jumpers, wall coverings, bedding, dinner plates, Christmas tree decorations. Reds and purples offset with deep greens, or browns, or gold. Heaven!
Of course, the red boots arrived, along with five or so other pairs in brown to try. I opened the red boots first, carefully unwrapping them and laying them back down in the box on their paper nest. I would look at and try the brown boots first. These were the boots I needed. I'm a grown woman. I can exert some self control. The first pair were too high - I did that last year, determined that I would teach myself to walk in them. I'm fond of them. I still can't walk in them. They only go on when the furthest I'll be walking is from front door to car, car to front door, front door to seat. No stairs. At all. My ankles hate me for days afterwards. This pair was too small - whatever possessed me to order that size? I haven't been that size since I was 12! These were very nice, but felt odd when I walked in them. Between trying each pair of brown boots, my hand reached out to caress the supple leather of my Achilles' heel.
Eventually and with much reverence and ceremony, the red boots were held aloft, each in turn, examined from every angle and then slipped on. Oh, bliss! Oh, joy! They embraced my feet as though magical elven cobblers had placed each stitch in exactly the right place to offer me comfort. As my heart trilled the Hallelujah Chorus, I ran upstairs to my long mirror and examined them. I was lost. Smitten. The tiny voice that had perched on the farthest reaches of my shoulder alerting me to the folly of my actions was sent flying across the room with a flick of my finger, as if removing a gnat.
I returned to the mess and muddle of brown boots and boxes and wrapping paper in the middle of the living room floor. I picked the brown twin to my new love as my purchasing necessity and packed up the others to be returned. I then took my new red boots to meet a friend, who exclaimed, admired and advised the purchase of the purple pair as well, because, frankly they were a staggeringly good price, one could never have too many pairs of comfortable boots and, most importantly, I deserved them.
I might order them. Just to see the shade. After all, what could be the harm? I am a grown woman with self control. I can always send them back.
I know the lure. Its been the same since I was a child capable of choosing for myself. Its not height or shape, or purpose, but colour.
And that colour is red.
From crimson to cherry, burgundy to berry. Red does it for me every time. Last time it was a handbag. This time its boots. I knew when I ordered them in the brown and saw that they also came in both purple and red, that I shouldn't even allow them across the threshold of my house. I knew that if they came out of the box and found their way onto my feet, then all would be lost and they would never leave again. I didn't need red boots. I needed a pair of brown ones for work because at the rate I was wearing my new black boots, they wouldn't last until Christmas. I succumbed. Oh, weak and self-deluded flesh, I looked temptation in the eye, hesitated and buckled.
'What could be the harm?' I asked myself, stroking the page, mesmerised, already picturing them on my feet. 'Red or purple? I'll only try them. I won't keep them. I don't need red boots. And I already have purple boots. I could order the purple boots as well. Just to see the shade.'
Purple is rapidly becoming a neck-and-neck runner with red. Whatever it is, wherever it is, red and purple stop me in my tracks. Jumpers, wall coverings, bedding, dinner plates, Christmas tree decorations. Reds and purples offset with deep greens, or browns, or gold. Heaven!
Of course, the red boots arrived, along with five or so other pairs in brown to try. I opened the red boots first, carefully unwrapping them and laying them back down in the box on their paper nest. I would look at and try the brown boots first. These were the boots I needed. I'm a grown woman. I can exert some self control. The first pair were too high - I did that last year, determined that I would teach myself to walk in them. I'm fond of them. I still can't walk in them. They only go on when the furthest I'll be walking is from front door to car, car to front door, front door to seat. No stairs. At all. My ankles hate me for days afterwards. This pair was too small - whatever possessed me to order that size? I haven't been that size since I was 12! These were very nice, but felt odd when I walked in them. Between trying each pair of brown boots, my hand reached out to caress the supple leather of my Achilles' heel.
Eventually and with much reverence and ceremony, the red boots were held aloft, each in turn, examined from every angle and then slipped on. Oh, bliss! Oh, joy! They embraced my feet as though magical elven cobblers had placed each stitch in exactly the right place to offer me comfort. As my heart trilled the Hallelujah Chorus, I ran upstairs to my long mirror and examined them. I was lost. Smitten. The tiny voice that had perched on the farthest reaches of my shoulder alerting me to the folly of my actions was sent flying across the room with a flick of my finger, as if removing a gnat.
I returned to the mess and muddle of brown boots and boxes and wrapping paper in the middle of the living room floor. I picked the brown twin to my new love as my purchasing necessity and packed up the others to be returned. I then took my new red boots to meet a friend, who exclaimed, admired and advised the purchase of the purple pair as well, because, frankly they were a staggeringly good price, one could never have too many pairs of comfortable boots and, most importantly, I deserved them.
I might order them. Just to see the shade. After all, what could be the harm? I am a grown woman with self control. I can always send them back.
Saturday, 15 October 2011
Boo! Writing resumes ...
Dear Blog, I have neglected you. Looking at the date of my last entry, I feel as though I should open with 'Forgive me, Blog, for I have sinned. It's been four weeks since my last posting.' However, if you've read previous witterings, you'll be well aware of the existence of a piece of two-by-four used for self-flagellation. It will, of course, be put to good use immediately ... or at least after I've finished writing.
So, what's news? What's the goss? Well, lots I suppose. Mostly minutiae in the great scheme of things, but they've kept me busy. Where to begin?
I've started my new job. I'm working for 'normal' people, at long last. Having said that, I'm in the NHS so normal is definitely a comparative term. The natives are friendly and the big chiefs seem to give a monkeys about how their staff are getting on. Hurrah! It would be nice if they could work out where I'm meant to be, what training I need and how I get it as quickly as possible, so that I can start doing whatever it is they need me to do - which is still a little bit of a mystery. The term 'HR' has been bandied around and I keep getting slightly sympathetic looks and small bursts of mildly hysterical laughter when I'm introduced to my new co-workers. I'm not too concerned. Yet.
I'm entering my fourth week and I still can't get onto the computer system. I've pitched up at the Harpenden site twice now to shadow the PA to the Locality Manager supposedly for a week each time. I think I've racked up about an hour and a half of training in total. This isn't due to unwillingness to train me, just pressure of work which meant she didn't have time. Ah, well, I've always been a seat-of-the-pants girl. This week there was the added problem of two members of staff going off sick at the St Albans site, so for three days I was at one site in the morning and the other in the afternoon. I kept having to pause when I answered the phone, so that I could remember where I was and who I was working for. Once I think I just paused and settled on 'Hello'. Still, I think I've shown my bosses admirable flexibility and actually I've learnt a lot about how both sites work, which is useful. Yesterday afternoon, the Locality Manager walked past my desk at St Albans, having seen me in Harpenden that morning and said,
'Oh my God, you're here now.'
'Yes,' I replied. 'Actually I'm stalking you.' She gave me a bit of an odd look. Note to self ... censor sense of humour.
What else? Children are well settled at their respective Universities. Jo's even managed to find herself a part time job at a coffee shop in Cardiff. In these difficult times I think she deserves a 'well done' for that. She's having a much happier time with her new housemates and seems to have made a couple of really good friends. I'm so relieved.
Tasha's taken to university life like a duck to water. She gets on really well with all 6 of her flatmates - mind you, one seems to be a bit of a recluse, so maybe we should take that down to 5. He only emerges from his room every three or four days, presumably to find food. She says there are two students from somewhere in eastern Europe - Bulgaria, or Romania, or Albania or somewhere. They share a room, even though they are different sexes and aren't in a relationship, which strikes me as a touch odd or vaguely third world. The girl does all the cooking while the boy criticizes the salt levels in the food. She makes a lot of chicken, apparently. Two or three whole ones a day. When asked why, she just said she likes chicken. And who can argue with that?
The other tenants refer to them in a parental fashion as 'our foreigners'. I've gently questioned the PCness of this phrase and asked if it's not a touch patronising, or even a little right wing, these are, after all, people not possessions, but I've been told that I'm wrong and it's a label assigned with love. But then this is from a child who is referred to as 'our Jew' and sees nothing wrong with that, so what do I know. Maybe we grown-ups have an out-dated and far more frightened view of racism and perception of racial and cultural difference than our children who have grown up in a much larger and more established melting pot. Joanna's nickname at school for a long time was Jewanna. I nearly passed out in horror, seeing gas chambers and cattle trucks on the horizon. She told me not to over-react. The red-head in the class was called 'Ginge' and they used to ask one of their black classmates to smile so they could find him in the dark. There is part of my brain that recoils from this like someone with a peanut allergy from bowl of bar snacks. Whose to say, however, that things haven't moved on and my generation isn't the one with the problem? Maybe they just acknowledge the difference and move on because that difference is largely unimportant. Its just like wearing red socks or listening to '80s soft rock. Its simply part of what makes you you.
What else? Well, I could tell you about last weekend when I fell down the stairs, or last week when I lost my underwear whilst walking home, but I thing I'll leave that for another time. I've got a hedge to trim, leaves to sweep and washing to hang out. Oh, and writing to do ... Level 3 A363 Advanced Creative Writing started last weekend and I also need to get on with my proofreading and copy-editing course, of which I've done precisely four pages. Since June! Must get on.
So, what's news? What's the goss? Well, lots I suppose. Mostly minutiae in the great scheme of things, but they've kept me busy. Where to begin?
I've started my new job. I'm working for 'normal' people, at long last. Having said that, I'm in the NHS so normal is definitely a comparative term. The natives are friendly and the big chiefs seem to give a monkeys about how their staff are getting on. Hurrah! It would be nice if they could work out where I'm meant to be, what training I need and how I get it as quickly as possible, so that I can start doing whatever it is they need me to do - which is still a little bit of a mystery. The term 'HR' has been bandied around and I keep getting slightly sympathetic looks and small bursts of mildly hysterical laughter when I'm introduced to my new co-workers. I'm not too concerned. Yet.
I'm entering my fourth week and I still can't get onto the computer system. I've pitched up at the Harpenden site twice now to shadow the PA to the Locality Manager supposedly for a week each time. I think I've racked up about an hour and a half of training in total. This isn't due to unwillingness to train me, just pressure of work which meant she didn't have time. Ah, well, I've always been a seat-of-the-pants girl. This week there was the added problem of two members of staff going off sick at the St Albans site, so for three days I was at one site in the morning and the other in the afternoon. I kept having to pause when I answered the phone, so that I could remember where I was and who I was working for. Once I think I just paused and settled on 'Hello'. Still, I think I've shown my bosses admirable flexibility and actually I've learnt a lot about how both sites work, which is useful. Yesterday afternoon, the Locality Manager walked past my desk at St Albans, having seen me in Harpenden that morning and said,
'Oh my God, you're here now.'
'Yes,' I replied. 'Actually I'm stalking you.' She gave me a bit of an odd look. Note to self ... censor sense of humour.
What else? Children are well settled at their respective Universities. Jo's even managed to find herself a part time job at a coffee shop in Cardiff. In these difficult times I think she deserves a 'well done' for that. She's having a much happier time with her new housemates and seems to have made a couple of really good friends. I'm so relieved.
Tasha's taken to university life like a duck to water. She gets on really well with all 6 of her flatmates - mind you, one seems to be a bit of a recluse, so maybe we should take that down to 5. He only emerges from his room every three or four days, presumably to find food. She says there are two students from somewhere in eastern Europe - Bulgaria, or Romania, or Albania or somewhere. They share a room, even though they are different sexes and aren't in a relationship, which strikes me as a touch odd or vaguely third world. The girl does all the cooking while the boy criticizes the salt levels in the food. She makes a lot of chicken, apparently. Two or three whole ones a day. When asked why, she just said she likes chicken. And who can argue with that?
The other tenants refer to them in a parental fashion as 'our foreigners'. I've gently questioned the PCness of this phrase and asked if it's not a touch patronising, or even a little right wing, these are, after all, people not possessions, but I've been told that I'm wrong and it's a label assigned with love. But then this is from a child who is referred to as 'our Jew' and sees nothing wrong with that, so what do I know. Maybe we grown-ups have an out-dated and far more frightened view of racism and perception of racial and cultural difference than our children who have grown up in a much larger and more established melting pot. Joanna's nickname at school for a long time was Jewanna. I nearly passed out in horror, seeing gas chambers and cattle trucks on the horizon. She told me not to over-react. The red-head in the class was called 'Ginge' and they used to ask one of their black classmates to smile so they could find him in the dark. There is part of my brain that recoils from this like someone with a peanut allergy from bowl of bar snacks. Whose to say, however, that things haven't moved on and my generation isn't the one with the problem? Maybe they just acknowledge the difference and move on because that difference is largely unimportant. Its just like wearing red socks or listening to '80s soft rock. Its simply part of what makes you you.
What else? Well, I could tell you about last weekend when I fell down the stairs, or last week when I lost my underwear whilst walking home, but I thing I'll leave that for another time. I've got a hedge to trim, leaves to sweep and washing to hang out. Oh, and writing to do ... Level 3 A363 Advanced Creative Writing started last weekend and I also need to get on with my proofreading and copy-editing course, of which I've done precisely four pages. Since June! Must get on.
Tuesday, 20 September 2011
Mrs Darcy visits Scrivener's Progress
I feel as though there should be a drum-roll followed by a
crash of cymbals on Scrivener’s Progress today.
We have our first guest. Please
be upstanding and welcome Mr Jonathan Pinnock, author of the decidedly odd, unequivocally
funny and strangely clever Mrs Darcy Versus the Aliens.
This is the sequel to Pride and Prejudice that Jane Austen
would never in her wildest dreams have imagined would be written. It sees Elizabeth Bennet, now Mrs Darcy, of
course, a few years into her marriage to her dear Fitzy, heirless and missing a
sister. Wicked Wickham has reappeared,
poor Jane and Mr Bingley have hit a snag or two and as for Lady Catherine over
at Rosings, well …
Good morning, Jon. I
can't imagine how it must feel to see your book nestled on the shelves and
looking quite at home in the books charts at WH Smith. Can you describe
the emotions that have accompanied this wonderous event?
It's
a weird emotional roller-coaster, having a book published. Once you're over the
fantastic elation that you've finally achieved your earliest ambition (and it really
was my earliest ambition to be a writer), you almost immediately switch to
panicking about your Amazon ranking, wondering why no magazines have reviewed
it yet and why isn't the whole world knocking on your door. It's the old story.
However much you get, you always want more. But it is still massively cool to
be able to walk into a bookshop, point to your own book and say "Yep, I
wrote that".
How has your life changed since your book launch?
Too
early to say yet. I suppose I feel a bit more confident about calling myself a
writer. But if someone asks me what I do for a living, I'll still probably say
I write software rather than write books.
What's been the response from your family and friends and,
indeed, from your work colleagues and have you noticed anyone treating you
differently?
The
response from my family has been along the lines of "When will you stop
going on about that sodding book?" Which is fair enough. The response from
non-writing friends occupies the entire spectrum from being seriously impressed
through to the kind of embarrassed silence that one would adopt with someone
who's been caught having intimate relations with a farm animal.
As Mrs Darcy began on-line, did you have thoughts about
bringing her out as an e-book?
Oddly,
that never crossed my mind. It might have done had I reached the end without a
publisher in sight, but fortunately one appeared at the last minute.
Writing as an on-line serial instead of being able to present
a novel in an edited and polished state must have brought its problems.
Would you do it again?
Good
question. I think the positives far outweighed the negatives. On the plus side,
I had an audience to write for and deadlines to meet, and those were the key
things that kept me writing. On the negative side, I could never go back and
re-write an earlier section in order to prepare the ground for something that
happened later on, but that never seemed to be a problem in this case, possibly
because the plot is a bit mad anyway. Besides, there's a school of thought that
says that all the emphasis on re-writing is not necessarily a good thing and
that your first instinct is right - most of the time. As it happens, I did
re-write a few scenes at the (entirely correct) request of my editor, but
fortunately they were all self-contained and had no effect on the rest of the
book. Would I do it again? I don't know. It would be slightly different coming
at it from the position of being a published author.
I know there have been mutterings regarding a sequel to Mrs
Darcy and wondered if you had intended to take other well loved classics down
roads hitherto untravelled?
I've
no great desire to wreak havoc on any other well-loved classics, but I would
like to do more with this one because there are some unresolved issues at the
end. Then again, who's to say that other classics won't get dragged in?
Thank
you, Jon.
Mrs
Darcy Versus the Aliens, published by Proxima, is on sale in WH Smiths and
on-line bookshops NOW!
Monday, 19 September 2011
A Visit From a Bona Fide Published Author
Don't forget tomorrow's visit by Jonathan Pinnock, author of the new regency classic/alien mash up, Mrs Darcy Versus the Aliens.
Post from the black hole
There's a funny thing about black holes, I've just discovered - they're far more frightening from the outside looking in.
Those of you who read this blog, know that an event of momentous proportions was due to occur this weekend. I was unable to fathom how my life would proceed from Saturday night onwards. I was, in fact, having a small identity crisis (this following on from my mid-life crisis in August). I would hate you to get the wrong impression. I'm not normally a crisis-ridden person. I'm far too lazy. Crises are hard work. All that angst, soul searching, navel gazing and teeth gnashing. A brief synopsis of walls being hit were: the 10-year gap between mentally accepted age and actual chronological age, the ending of a two and a half-year stint in the part-time job from, well not hell, exactly, but certainly hell's ante-room and my last little fledgeling flying the nest and to Sunderland of all places - even further away than Cardiff, where her sister has been resident for a year now.
The age thing currently resembles a cooled rice pudding - looks smooth and solid on the surface, but don't press too hard or you'll crack the skin.
The job thing - my God, what a relief to be away from the dark place. They were still playing with my head even on my last day. I just need my CRB check to come through so that I can start the new job. Squeaking just a little as it means I'm currently income-less. And seeing as I've just had to pay for Joanna's car to be serviced, fixed and MOTd on top of kitting out Natasha for her new life oop north, that's not a comfortable place to be. Please, nice Mr Policeman, PULL YOUR FINGER OUT!!!!
Which brings me on to the biggest thing. The untying of the last apron string. It was fine. Well, okay it wasn't fine, but it's going to be fine. Jo left on Thursday and I was anxious when she left, but she arrived in Cardiff in a time that meant I refrained from asking what speed she had been doing on the motorway. There are some things you just don't want to know. I miss her, but I'm used to her not being here. I know how her not being here works.
Natasha and I left for Sunderland on Saturday morning. All her things rammed into the car. Spotting all the other parents on the motorways also taking children to Uni - kitchens and bedrooms fighting for space in the backseats and boots. The odd stuffed toy with its face squashed up against a window. Lots of things to talk about and concentrate on. The windscreen wipers shredding in the middle of a downpour just outside Rugby, entailing a slight detour to Halfords to get new ones fitted. Wanting to stop for lunch, but discovering that all the diners and restaurants were on the southbound side of the motorway and northbound were only dodgy-looking truckstops. Which actually worked out okay in the end because at about 3 o'clock we found a Toby carvery en-route to Sainsbury's and had a gut-busting roast, so I knew that at least she'd had one decent meal before the onslaught of freshers' week and the rivers of alcohol that are likely to be flowing down her gullet in place of food. We collected her key and carried her bedroom stuff all the way up to the fourth floor helped by the lovely older brother of one of Tasha's new flatmates, Emma. We bagged her cupboard in the kitchen and unpacked the boxes and bags that had been decorating the dining room table at home for about three weeks. Did the Sainsbury's shop and unloaded that into Tasha's shelf in the fridge and drawer in the freezer and the inch and a half of space left in the cupboard. By which time it was 5.30 and I needed to go, as I had a two and three-quarter hour drive over to Whitehaven in Cumbria, where I was staying overnight with my bff, Emms and Tasha needed me to go because her other flatmates were starting to congregate in Emma's room on the middle floor and we both wanted her to get to meet everyone before the bin-bag party at the Students' Union bar that evening. My eyes were dry when we said goodbye at the door. My heart broke on the way out of Gateshead when I drove past the Angel of the North and I asked it to look after my baby. I was in stasis one second and howling the next. I barely remember the trek across country. My view was partially obscured most of the way. I soaked Emms's shoulder and then her husband, Paul's. I was given tea and then fed a thai curry in front of a roaring log fire. By the time Emms and I went to bed just before 1, the searing pain was down to a dull ache and I was only occasionally being side-swiped by a rush of tears. Jo kept texting me to make sure I was okay.
Sunday morning I was fed bacon and eggs and home-made bread and had my cards read (its all good news, I was thankful to hear). I was also forced to purchase goods in 4-year old Rhianna's beauty shop. Most of which I was told were inappropriate for an occasion that only Rhianna was aware of and advised that I had actually bought something else instead which was far better for Rhianna's purposes and did I want to wear all of Rhianna's perfumes, yes I did, no I definitely did, all of them at the same time.
I left at lunchtime, sent off with many hugs and kisses, regiments of angels and copious sprinklings of fairy dust and accompanied by Radio 4, which successfully kept away a couple of wellings-up, arriving home just after six.
Today I woke up and ... I'm okay. Just don't hug me quite yet.
Those of you who read this blog, know that an event of momentous proportions was due to occur this weekend. I was unable to fathom how my life would proceed from Saturday night onwards. I was, in fact, having a small identity crisis (this following on from my mid-life crisis in August). I would hate you to get the wrong impression. I'm not normally a crisis-ridden person. I'm far too lazy. Crises are hard work. All that angst, soul searching, navel gazing and teeth gnashing. A brief synopsis of walls being hit were: the 10-year gap between mentally accepted age and actual chronological age, the ending of a two and a half-year stint in the part-time job from, well not hell, exactly, but certainly hell's ante-room and my last little fledgeling flying the nest and to Sunderland of all places - even further away than Cardiff, where her sister has been resident for a year now.
The age thing currently resembles a cooled rice pudding - looks smooth and solid on the surface, but don't press too hard or you'll crack the skin.
The job thing - my God, what a relief to be away from the dark place. They were still playing with my head even on my last day. I just need my CRB check to come through so that I can start the new job. Squeaking just a little as it means I'm currently income-less. And seeing as I've just had to pay for Joanna's car to be serviced, fixed and MOTd on top of kitting out Natasha for her new life oop north, that's not a comfortable place to be. Please, nice Mr Policeman, PULL YOUR FINGER OUT!!!!
Which brings me on to the biggest thing. The untying of the last apron string. It was fine. Well, okay it wasn't fine, but it's going to be fine. Jo left on Thursday and I was anxious when she left, but she arrived in Cardiff in a time that meant I refrained from asking what speed she had been doing on the motorway. There are some things you just don't want to know. I miss her, but I'm used to her not being here. I know how her not being here works.
Natasha and I left for Sunderland on Saturday morning. All her things rammed into the car. Spotting all the other parents on the motorways also taking children to Uni - kitchens and bedrooms fighting for space in the backseats and boots. The odd stuffed toy with its face squashed up against a window. Lots of things to talk about and concentrate on. The windscreen wipers shredding in the middle of a downpour just outside Rugby, entailing a slight detour to Halfords to get new ones fitted. Wanting to stop for lunch, but discovering that all the diners and restaurants were on the southbound side of the motorway and northbound were only dodgy-looking truckstops. Which actually worked out okay in the end because at about 3 o'clock we found a Toby carvery en-route to Sainsbury's and had a gut-busting roast, so I knew that at least she'd had one decent meal before the onslaught of freshers' week and the rivers of alcohol that are likely to be flowing down her gullet in place of food. We collected her key and carried her bedroom stuff all the way up to the fourth floor helped by the lovely older brother of one of Tasha's new flatmates, Emma. We bagged her cupboard in the kitchen and unpacked the boxes and bags that had been decorating the dining room table at home for about three weeks. Did the Sainsbury's shop and unloaded that into Tasha's shelf in the fridge and drawer in the freezer and the inch and a half of space left in the cupboard. By which time it was 5.30 and I needed to go, as I had a two and three-quarter hour drive over to Whitehaven in Cumbria, where I was staying overnight with my bff, Emms and Tasha needed me to go because her other flatmates were starting to congregate in Emma's room on the middle floor and we both wanted her to get to meet everyone before the bin-bag party at the Students' Union bar that evening. My eyes were dry when we said goodbye at the door. My heart broke on the way out of Gateshead when I drove past the Angel of the North and I asked it to look after my baby. I was in stasis one second and howling the next. I barely remember the trek across country. My view was partially obscured most of the way. I soaked Emms's shoulder and then her husband, Paul's. I was given tea and then fed a thai curry in front of a roaring log fire. By the time Emms and I went to bed just before 1, the searing pain was down to a dull ache and I was only occasionally being side-swiped by a rush of tears. Jo kept texting me to make sure I was okay.
Sunday morning I was fed bacon and eggs and home-made bread and had my cards read (its all good news, I was thankful to hear). I was also forced to purchase goods in 4-year old Rhianna's beauty shop. Most of which I was told were inappropriate for an occasion that only Rhianna was aware of and advised that I had actually bought something else instead which was far better for Rhianna's purposes and did I want to wear all of Rhianna's perfumes, yes I did, no I definitely did, all of them at the same time.
I left at lunchtime, sent off with many hugs and kisses, regiments of angels and copious sprinklings of fairy dust and accompanied by Radio 4, which successfully kept away a couple of wellings-up, arriving home just after six.
Today I woke up and ... I'm okay. Just don't hug me quite yet.
Sunday, 11 September 2011
It's Finally Arrived
This week, that is. I'm alternatively filled with joy and despair. I finish my old job this week. My daughters leave for University at the weekend. I didn't know one body could contain so many conflicting emotions all at the same time and not spontaneously combust. When I picture Monday next week, all I can see is a black hole - I have no idea how my life will be from now on. I've had dreams in the past fortnight where I'm in dark water, trying to get out. I think you can safely say I've got a steep learning curve about to hit me square between the eyeballs.
If I go a little off-kilter in the next couple of weeks, please forgive me. I've no idea who I am supposed to be.
If I go a little off-kilter in the next couple of weeks, please forgive me. I've no idea who I am supposed to be.
Friday, 2 September 2011
My WIP
This should be titled 'My WNIP' if I'm being truthful.
The on-line Writers' Colony to which I belong, Litopia, is a wonderful thing to be a part of (ooh, I've left a preposition dangling. Never mind, it's my blog and I'll dangle if I want to). I find talking and listening to other writers, some of whom have been published more than once, others in the same anticipatory state as me, is a helpful, stimulating and thought-provoking pastime (as well as a fantastic excuse not to be doing other things, such as the list mentioned further down the page - still beating myself with stick, BTW).
My aim, in the Colony, is to get to Full Member, Pitch Room status. Essentially, the Pitch Room is where you can submit your work in the hope that it will be considered for publication (I haven't really looked too deeply into the ins and outs of this, as it is waaay too far down the line for me to worry about). However, I am starting to feel a bit of a fraud. This is because most (if not all) of the other members of Litopia have WIPs - works in progress. That is to say, they are actually writing something. I don't. I have vague scratchings that could or might be suitable to be turned into a full-length novel. I have lots of them. But I don't have an actual WIP.
I was told, yesterday, by one lovely lady writer, Rosy Thornton,
'Write your book, get it published and I'll want to read it.'
'Yaay! I thought. Quickly followed by, 'Ah.' For here was the stumbling block. I have no WIP.
I have half-formed excuses and genuine reasons wafting around inside my head regarding this lack. Firstly, I am about to start, within the next two weeks, a full-time job and my Level 3 OU course and I've only just got off my lazy behind to begin the proofreading and copy-editing course that I should have started back in June, when I had weeks of nothingness ahead of me, but, oh no, I thought kicking back and chilling was far more beneficial, what a twit! Secondly, the girls will be leaving for Cardiff and Sunderland, so I will have an empty house and yawning acres of void to fill - also peace and quiet, not punctuated by re-runs of Friends, or MTV, or X-Box games where assassins jump from roof to roof in medieval Jerusalem slaughtering everything in sight. I'm also wondering if, subconsciously, I'm storing up all this work, in order to be so busy I won't have time to miss the Friends re-runs, MTV, mess, needing to cook and care for someone else, etc.
Whatever the reasons are - for I'm sure they are multiple - I'm going to have to make do, for the time being, with research for the prospective novel (the first in a family saga, beginning with a fictionalised version of my Nana's life, I think. All I'll say is that we continue to discover things about her some 10 years after she died, the most poignant fact for me being that she is buried a non-Jew in a Jewish cemetery under a false name) because I suspect that I'm going to be a bit busy.
Hopefully, by the time I get into the Pitch Room, I might actually have something to pitch.
A date for your diaries, by the way: 20 September - we will have a guest on Scrivener's Progress; as part of his world blog tour, the rather lovely Jonathan Pinnock will be answering some brilliant and erudite questions about his brand new book, Mrs Darcy vs the Aliens which was published by Proxima Books yesterday. WH Smiths had Mrs Darcy at No 54 in their book chart on her first day out. Congratulations to Mr Pinnock. All I need now is to find some brilliant and erudite questions to ask!
Wish me luck!
The on-line Writers' Colony to which I belong, Litopia, is a wonderful thing to be a part of (ooh, I've left a preposition dangling. Never mind, it's my blog and I'll dangle if I want to). I find talking and listening to other writers, some of whom have been published more than once, others in the same anticipatory state as me, is a helpful, stimulating and thought-provoking pastime (as well as a fantastic excuse not to be doing other things, such as the list mentioned further down the page - still beating myself with stick, BTW).
My aim, in the Colony, is to get to Full Member, Pitch Room status. Essentially, the Pitch Room is where you can submit your work in the hope that it will be considered for publication (I haven't really looked too deeply into the ins and outs of this, as it is waaay too far down the line for me to worry about). However, I am starting to feel a bit of a fraud. This is because most (if not all) of the other members of Litopia have WIPs - works in progress. That is to say, they are actually writing something. I don't. I have vague scratchings that could or might be suitable to be turned into a full-length novel. I have lots of them. But I don't have an actual WIP.
I was told, yesterday, by one lovely lady writer, Rosy Thornton,
'Write your book, get it published and I'll want to read it.'
'Yaay! I thought. Quickly followed by, 'Ah.' For here was the stumbling block. I have no WIP.
I have half-formed excuses and genuine reasons wafting around inside my head regarding this lack. Firstly, I am about to start, within the next two weeks, a full-time job and my Level 3 OU course and I've only just got off my lazy behind to begin the proofreading and copy-editing course that I should have started back in June, when I had weeks of nothingness ahead of me, but, oh no, I thought kicking back and chilling was far more beneficial, what a twit! Secondly, the girls will be leaving for Cardiff and Sunderland, so I will have an empty house and yawning acres of void to fill - also peace and quiet, not punctuated by re-runs of Friends, or MTV, or X-Box games where assassins jump from roof to roof in medieval Jerusalem slaughtering everything in sight. I'm also wondering if, subconsciously, I'm storing up all this work, in order to be so busy I won't have time to miss the Friends re-runs, MTV, mess, needing to cook and care for someone else, etc.
Whatever the reasons are - for I'm sure they are multiple - I'm going to have to make do, for the time being, with research for the prospective novel (the first in a family saga, beginning with a fictionalised version of my Nana's life, I think. All I'll say is that we continue to discover things about her some 10 years after she died, the most poignant fact for me being that she is buried a non-Jew in a Jewish cemetery under a false name) because I suspect that I'm going to be a bit busy.
Hopefully, by the time I get into the Pitch Room, I might actually have something to pitch.
A date for your diaries, by the way: 20 September - we will have a guest on Scrivener's Progress; as part of his world blog tour, the rather lovely Jonathan Pinnock will be answering some brilliant and erudite questions about his brand new book, Mrs Darcy vs the Aliens which was published by Proxima Books yesterday. WH Smiths had Mrs Darcy at No 54 in their book chart on her first day out. Congratulations to Mr Pinnock. All I need now is to find some brilliant and erudite questions to ask!
Wish me luck!
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