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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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?

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.