Game On

A year ago, I returned from our annual holiday to Tenby, with a completed first draft of my novel "Echo Hall." Whilst 3/4 of it was complete tripe, it was a relief to know I'd come to the end of a narrative that had possessed me for 7 years. Completing the story gave me a huge boost and by the autumn I was well into my second draft. Work progessed at a fantastic rate in November when I escaped for a writing retreat here. Three days away in a splendidly Gothic house, complete with oak panel walls and Edwardian living room did wonders for my word count and gave me the impetus to write every evening till Christmas. Before I knew it, I was half way through my second draft, and had high hopes of completing it by Easter...

I should have known...after nearly 8 years of writing this novel...I should have bloody known. Life always always gets in the way. And this year has been no exception. A perfect storm of work and personal stuff (which I won't go into here, it's not that kind of blog) nearly blew me off the hillside. In January I stopped halfway through a chapter, and try as I might,  whenever I went back to it, I just couldn't move it on. I've been able to write other things - the odd #fridayflash, the start of a screenplay and contribute to a drama project - but every time I've returned to my character stuck in a park leafletting boys queuing to join the army, I've hit a brick wall.  This section of the novel was always the weakest, the blank bit that I always knew would need filling in and rewriting.  But I didn't anticipate it being so hard to get my character home to his wife...

It's been like that for months. Clinging on to mountain shrubs amidst tempestous squalls, thunder clouds and a foggy brain. But a few weeks ago, the  clouds began to clear, the gales to drop, the sky to lighten. The work and personal issues resolved themselves and as they did so, I found myself able to stand up straight, dust myself off and carry on upwards. I had a look at the chapter and found myself drawn to do more than look.  After a bit of procrastination I managed  200 words. I still couldn't write my way out of the park, but at least I'd moved him an inch further. And as I've made my way to and from work, in between sorting out children, cooking and cleaning, some ideas have begun to form. All of a sudden I'm back in the rhythm of the story. In the last two days I've written 1,000 words and finally, finally, the chapter has come to an end.

So to capitalise on the recovery of my writing mojo, I'm setting myself a summer challenge. We're off to Tenby again this week. There's no way I'm going to complete my second draft in a fortnight, but I might be able to finish Part 3, and even begin Part 4. Which gives me the thought by the end of the summer I might, I just might have got to the end of my second draft. I've given myself the deadline of 7th September, when I'm off to the York Festival of Writing where I'll have the opportunity to attend fascinating workshops and have 1 to 1's with publishers and agents. And to keep myself motivated I'm going to try and blog about it week by week.

The countdown to completion starts here. Game on.

Plug of the Month - Beauty in the Beast by Hugh Warwick



Our lovely friend Hugh Warwich aka "Hedgehog Hugh" has done it again. Another cracking book extolling the virtues of native wild animals, in the words of their passionate ambassadors. In an attempt to see if any animal can be an equal to his beloved hedgehogs, Hugh travels the length and breadth of UK meeting a diverse collection of animal mad Britons. There's Amy who loves moths, and Kate Long, the novelist, also known as "Vole woman" who can watch them for hours. 90 year old  Denis had a full time career in ICI but developed an expertise in sparrows on the way; Paul lives in a castle and has let beavers loose on Scottish estate with astonishing results; whilst Gareth, the mid Wales Badger man really sees badgers as part of his family. Mimi, the otter advocate swears by the smell of their droppings so much, she sends Hugh some in the post, Gordon the toad shaman dances with toad spirits. There are many more besides, a fascinating collection of characters and the animals they adore.

I once entertained aspirations to be an ecologist, but the nearest I got to it was traipsing round York misidentifying the local flora. This book makes me want to adopt a local mammal immediately and spend my nights in fields getting wet and close to nature. I probably won't but I enjoyed the inspiration.

Hugh's enthusiasm for the natural world, wit and knowledge make this an entertaining and accessible read. He's "a modern day Johnny Morris" according to the Hay Festival. I can't disagree.

That Special Someone

At first, like everyone who's been before, you succumb to her. You don't quite know how she does it, but there is something about her that makes you feel special,  needed, central to her concerns. Perhaps it is the softness of her speech that soothes your soul. Or the tilt of her head as she listens intently to your every word. Or is it the sincerity of her response to you - the way she makes you feel she's always on your side, the two of you against the world?

Other people, older and wiser than you, warn against her wiles. They point out the ways she has misled them in the past. They tell you tales of  broken promises, of roads to heaven paved with wilful deceptions. The lies built on so many lies that  truth is a long forgotten concept, buried deep beneath the ground. But you don't believe them. You won't believe them. How could you imagine that those wide brown eyes might be deceiving you? Or think her gentle voice is really full of guile?

It is only when your paths begin to diverge that the doubt creeps in. The moment you express an alternative point of view you detect a hardening tone of voice, a narrowing of her eyes. For months she has had you wrapped up warmly safe from bitterness and cold, but now you begin to sense a chill is in the air. Still you won't admit your fault. You don't want to admit your fault. Till even you begin to catch the faint criticism lingering behind her words of praise and your faith begins to weaken, your eyes to open.

It takes the arrival of the neophyte for you to finally succumb. To allow the truth to rise from the depths where it has lain buried under so many lies and broken promises. Your fall from grace is as rapid as his ascendancy, as the favours that were once bestowed on you are suddenly granted elsewhere. You try to warn him, but he doesn't listen. You tell him everything, but he doesn't believe you. He won't believe you. How could those wide brown eyes be decieving him, that beguiling voice be misleading him?

There is nothing you can do, except to join the others, older and wiser than you. They warned you once and  though you did not heed their warning they welcome you into their ranks. All you can do is watch and wait for paths to diverge, faith to weaken, eyes to open wide.

Woolf on Words

Oh this is marvellous. My heroine Virginia Woolf speaking about words in the only recording of her voice in existence http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E8czs8v6PuI Please take a moment to listen. Hat tip to the wonderful folk at Shakespeare and Company for posting it on twitter this morning.

We're All Different and that's OK

I usually use this blog to celebrate writing - fiction, drama, poetry, my own and others. But I'm making an exception today to join in Bloggers Against Disablism Day.


I have worked for and with people with learning disabilities for nearly thirty years. Although we have come a long way since people with learning disabilities were locked in institutions they, and other people, with disabilities still face a lot of discrimination. So I'm delighted to be part of BADD which is a great way to tackle disablism.


A few years ago I gave an assembly at my daughters primary school about people with learning disabilities. I told the children (aged 5-9) We are all Different, We are all Equal, We are All Special. I explained that sometimes people with disabilities weren't treated equally or seen as being as special as others. It maybe a bit cliched but children really do have an innate sense of justice, and straight away they all recognised how unfair this is.


I told them that all it takes is understanding and a bit of adjustment from those of us who do not have disabilities, and everyone can shine. I used the children's story "Amelia Bedelia" to illustrate my point. Amelia Bedelia is hired to be a housekeeper.  She is keen to do well and impress her new employers, but when they go out and leave her a list of chores she is a little puzzled. "Draw the curtains," the list says, so after thinking about it, she draws them a picture of the curtains. "Dust the furniture", and she covers it with dust. She interprets "Change the towels," literally and cuts them to make them different. "Put out the lights," really stumps her till she decides, like washing, the lightbulbs need hanging out on the washing line. Her employers return and are horrified by her actions. They are on the point of sacking her until they smell her delicious lemon meringue pie. When they realise how wonderful the pie is, they ask her to stay. They are clever enough to work out how to ask her to do things her way. When she is told "Undraw the curtains" "Undust the furniture."  she gets it right. In other words, instead of expecting her to be like them, they celebrate her uniqueness and adapt their behaviour to match hers.


It's a simple message. Instead of letting disability be a problem,  we need to see people for who they are and make the necessary adjustments to ensure they can fully participate. The kids totally got it.  Why is it so difficult for grown ups?


If you would like to do something about disablism you might want to start by checking out these fine bloggers: Benefit Scrounging Scum (Kaliya Franklin) - shortlisted for the Orwell Prize; Diary of a Benefit Scrounger (Sue Marsh); Where's the Benefit? (Collective).

Write until they pay you.

It was Mark Twain who said “Write without pay until somebody offers to pay". Which is exactly what I've been doing since I decided to take my writing seriously a few years ago. Like many a (better) writer before me, I've discovered it's a long old haul getting noticed, let alone published, and I've had plenty of moments where I've considered jacking it all in.

I haven't done so, because I realised (just about the time I started taking myself seriously) that I am a writer -I just have to write. And the more I write, the more I learn about how I write, why I write and tricks to improve my writing. In the last couple of years, this appears to have paid off, and I now have several on-line credits to my name, as well as some appearances in anthologies.  Up until now, I haven't been paid for any of them but it hasn't mattered. For there is nothing more heartening then receiving an email with the magic words: "We'd like to use your piece". It's a wonderful antidote to depressing tutorials, rejection slips and the many times when you look at your work in progress and decide it needs confining to the dustbin.

So I was delighted when the good folk at the Blank Media Collective accepted my piece "Following the Real Miss Piggy" as part of a publication to accompany their Inside Exhibition. They've published me in their fine magazine Blank Pages before and it was a thrill simply to be part of one of their shows. Imagine how excited I was to discover that not only was my little story in their collection, but this time round they are in a position to pay contributors. It's not much, but the experience of receiving my first cheque for a piece of fiction  is absolutely priceless to me.

And thanks to my lovely husband giving me a long weekend pass, I am taking the lunch time train to Manchester in time for the launch of the exhibition.

This writing life doesn't get much better than that.

Hesitation

I should leave now. I really should. There's nothing here to keep me. The party ended a long time ago. All that remains are the scattered crumbs of former pleasures: fading wine stains; crumpled beer cans; the faint scent of stale cigarettes.

I should leave. I  Should. Really. Leave. Now.

But still I hesitate. Pacing up and down our narrow hallway, rolling my black suitcase back and forth over the  red carpet. Occasionally a wheel snags on the frayed edges, causing me to pause in my pointless journey. As I stop to untangle it, I wonder why I am still here. It can't be out of any desire to stay.  To remain in the hangover of a now that has long past the point of no return to what once was.

Perhaps I am tempted by the tantalising illusion that what might be. That somehow we could still create a future where the bitterness of now is long forgotten, replaced by a magic that could be even better than what once was.

Or is it fear holding me back? The sense that what will be is bound to be a hell far worse than what is. The terror that if I leave, I will find myself  yearning for the life I endure now, as much as I now long for the life that what once was.

From the kitchen, the oven clock beeps - seven o'clock - reminding me that the time to choose is passing. Before your feet tramp up the path, before your key turns in the lock I must be unpacked or be gone.

Back or Forth? Once or Future? Now or Never? It is time to make up my mind.

I really should be going.  Really. I should.