On a roll (3760)

Yes, 3760 words! Admittedly it took me all day and 1400 words were mostly written and just needed to be chopped to fit. It was fun, writing a sort of legend or myth that just grows over time. I've been researching Elizabeth Bathory, who certainly killed a lot of young girls but almost certainly doesn't deserve the reputation she has now as a 'vampire' and monster who bathed in the blood of young girls. As if a serial killer and sexual sadist wasn't enough! Now I've invented more backstory about her origins. Great fun. Hopefully she won't haunt me, because I did make her clever and pretty. My back hurts from sitting at the computer for six hours though. 
Meanwhile, the house gets painted by my flunkies, normally called the 'tiny spongers' but presently earning their keep. We move our stuff back on Saturday, Sophie Matt and Russell head out in the rented van on Thursday to clean up the house and pack it all into the van. Then I get my boys back and we'll be seven again. We would be eight, but no. 2 son is living with his girlfriend but not too far away, so we shall see him soon, too. 

Progress! (750 and 1450)

My wordometer has reached 17861! This is partly because I'm running into scenes I have already written, though I'm keeping very little. So I managed a whole chapter this morning, bringing in new threats to Jack and Felix now they have met. The same threat has just popped up in the Kelley strand - wow, I feel like a real writer, with a plot and everything (which reminds me, I should get me one!) The kids are decorating the hall stairs and landing(s) which is the biggest expanse of wall we have and doing a lovely job covering the mustard/beige/baby poo shade the previous owners liked. Although, they were heavy smokers, so it could have started out white. The skirting is now darker than the walls and I can't wait to get the terrible carpet up. I guess we're staying here after all... 

Fourteen thousand words! (850)

I'm chuffed to have logged fourteen thousand words on Borrowed Time since I got back from Winchester and it's a substantial chunk of the dissertation. Whether the words are any good remains to be seen! Daughter and betrothed are sanding and knotting the acre or so of tongue-and-groove panelling the previous owners covered up the hallway in (then didn't bother to use knotting solution so the whole thing is spotty). They took down the original Lincrusta...which people now pay to have restored...when they stripped out the fireplaces and modernised the ancient walls with cheap plasterboard and tacky skirting. At least the woodworm are original - and enjoying the old doors. We moved in here and immediately were hit by a driver, head on, and it soured our relationship with the place a bit, so it's good to reconnect and start decorating and improving it. We were measuring up for book cases yesterday, what a lovely bonding experience that always is. He's measuring up for a case for CD's so it's not just me and my insane book habit. In my defence, he does have a lot of guitars, drums, flutes and a violin.
As I write, I'm finding connections between different narrative strands. There has to be a reason to jump between time periods and I've made the account of Kelley written down in documents in the present day, although my character doesn't exactly sit down and read them, they are there. I think they might be archived and translated by the bad guys at the end of the book, come to think about it. Plot, just jumping out while I write, how cool and helpful is that?

Real Life (400)

Today, real life got in the way of writing. The jackdaw we were helping died peacefully, but left a gap in my day, especially as he was doing so well. Russ and I went to the bank to discuss either taking out a small mortgage to do the structural and plumbing work the house needs, or whether we might just move. Mortgaging would save us money, and I love the location but my back doesn't really suit the steep drive and long walk into town. So we thought about moving and talked about mortgaging and came home with lots of plans. There was no room left for writing, although I managed to find a bit of Felix's chapter. I had one of those moments, when a new character walks in and you really like them. Shame he's getting divorced, the soon-to-be ex-wife is great! I shall have to find more interesting things for her to do. Tomorrow, I hope to finish his chapter and get back to Kelley's adventures in 1585.

Monday mornings (1000)

Strange how Monday morning always seems to have that back-to-school, or back-to-work feeling, even when I'm doing neither. So I actually sat down and worked. This threading the strands together thing is (sort of) working, I'm just playing with finding the links between them rather than forcing them with contrived connections. Meanwhile my baby bird is hanging on and gaining strength, very nice although the study stinks of cat food and worse and everything I own is covered in bird poo. It's suddenly a cold night with a clear sky and big moon and I'm freezing, although we managed a sunny evening. I feel like I ought to go howl at the moon or something, writing about the Carpathian mountains and packs of starving wolves...  

I can't respond to comments on my blog - this is getting old and annoying, blogger - so in response to Downith...

I have, gorgeous book! I used the picture to visualise the dog in the book. Hope things are going well?

Another day without writing a word

At least I have a good excuse - my husband's parents and our son and his girlfriend were all joining us for a Sunday lunch, and by the time I had cooked and eaten that I was so sleepy I couldn't concentrate. Any spare time was taken up with feeding the bird every hour and a half. But I did do some research into beliefs about blood around the world and the crimes of Richard Trenton Chase, who believed drinking blood would 'cure' him from what he believed was a disease and killed 6 people. The details will give me nightmares but it's a recognised delusion. I can get on and work tomorrow and hopefully, the bird won't take so long (if he's still here). He's a time waster, he's very cute. He is still very fragile but we're still trying. He managed to balance on two feet today, pretty good at his age, and has filled out a bit over 48 hours. He is easier to feed, too, but I'm looking forward to him being able to eat by himself!

Sunny, sunny days (700)

I've been watching manoeuvres as my daughter's boyfriend moves in temporarily, another son moves in with his girlfriend but his stuff has moved in, and the third one prepares to go back to college. Meanwhile, I have been trapped by my back typing while lying almost flat. I'm bored with the pain now.


On the plus side, I have edited 4000 words of the beginning of the book ready to fit in the other strand. This complicated structure may be too complex but I'm giving it my best shot for the next month, when I can get it to my supervisor before she goes off on holiday. More thoughts about the plot as well, but I must remember to write them down! I have an 'aha' moment when I'm writing, I'm six inches from a whiteboard and a dozen pens, and still don't do it. Ten minutes later I know I had a brilliant idea, but it's gone... I'm going to put a post-it to remind me to write it down.


Meanwhile, the sun is too hot but looks lovely, and the cat has worked out where the baby sparrows are... two down, four to go. I'm locking her in periodically to give them a chance, but they are a bit stupid, despite being able to fly.

27,000 words plus and still poetry!

Well, it's still growing, and Emma is becoming clearer (she's the woman who runs the B&B). Emma's intense connection with her identical twin has left her aware of atmospheres, shadows, all the ghosts of her family home. In a way, the man who she is starting to see as a friend is fitting into her world of the past as she starts to go into his world.

On the poetry front, I have been playing around with the two freewrites I did on the day school, which I will put up once I have had them marked. One was so intensely personal, painful, the days and weeks we spent on a children's ward waiting for Leonie to be diagnosed/treated. I think the poetry is creeping into the fiction, which is very satisfying. It's starting to read better, even in its primitive first draft. What has become clear to me is the energy in Emma, what happens when she not in front of the guests, folded in on herself, just performing the basic tasks, the cooking etc. I'm liking her more and more!

While I'm playing with book 1 I'm plotting book 2. I don't plot - but this is a more complex book aimed at young adults so I need more research, especially into the minds of teenagers for the background. I don't want it to date too much, so I'm looking for the right language. I've been picking the brains of my 15 year old niece (thanks, Ash!) and will continue to do so. I must admit, she's kind of influenced the heroine a bit! Gradually, I'm picking up threads that will form the book.

9635 words and counting

Well, the book is growing in jumps and chunks. I want to know what happens to the lead character, who I have a feeling will have to be entirely rewritten from her POV. She's lovely, warm and quirky and emotional, and I think seeing her is more fun than knowing what's going on under the surface. But over time, it might be nice to see things from Lily's POV more. The geeky character is already warming up, even though he's distant and cool, and the landlady is coming into view through all the interactions with other characters, and gossip from the locals. It's all set in Ilfracombe - how did that happen? The house is much bigger and grander than ours so that's OK. Here's a sample:

A wooden sign had been painted grey, and in black curly writing, the words ‘Chancel Hall’ had been inscribed. From the late October afternoon, the house loomed over the road on a high terrace, its stone matching that of the retaining wall. The drive was badly worn tarmac, opening onto a gravelled area in front of the house itself.
‘It looks like a Victorian asylum or something.’ Lily was out of breath from the steep drive, but stood staring as the late sun reddened the blank windows on three floors. ‘It’s like something out of a book.’
‘Well, they called it quirky.’ the front door was behind an imposing porch, also built of stone. Three pairs of wellies were ranged along one side of the porch, the other was stacked waist high with cut logs. The whole lot was misted with spiders’ webs.
There was no doorbell. James put down the bags and rapped on the wooden door, then on the small glazed windows at the top of the door. Finally, Lily noticed a bell pull.
‘Christ, it’s hardly welcoming, is it?’ Just as James spoke the word welcoming, the door opened.
The woman who stood there was weather-beaten, without makeup, her hair wiry, escaping from a loose bun. ‘We didn’t expect you until later.’ Although her voice was matter of fact, James felt he ought to apologise.
She took one of the bags from the porch and hefted it into the hallway, dimly visible behind her. ‘Come in, out of the cold. I’ll put the kettle on, if you like.’
‘Her voice was neutral, but Lily was more enthusiastic. ‘That would be lovely, we’ve been driving for ages…’ Then she looked around and her voice died.
The hall was tall, the ceiling probably twelve feet over their heads, the area behind the door filled with coats, an umbrella stand, hat stand covered with hats, all dusty. The door to a dining room had drawn Lily as if by magnetism, ignoring the dark browns and greens of the hall to walk towards door that led onto a grey sky. And the sea, crashing on the rocks below the cliff on which the house stood.
‘Oh, wow.’ Lily stopped in the doorway. ‘Can I go in?’
‘If you like. It’s the dining room.’ The woman wasn’t unencouraging, but James felt awkward following Lily into the room and straight to the bay window.
The illusion that the house was balanced along the edge of the cliff faded as he realised a strip of fairly level garden led onto a slope covered with short grass and gorse, dotted with stoic sheep. The sea was huge, dark grey in the fading light, textured like tweed, flecks of hundreds of feet below rising and falling as far away as Wales, in the distance.
‘I’ll take you up to your room, now.’ The woman was back, her feet in old slippers, her floral overall faded but clean. The house smelled nothing like James and Lily’s modern four bedroom eighties house, close to the motorway for work, close to schools… It smelled like old pipe tobacco and pure wool blankets and bonfires. James realised, as his eyes adjusted to the dim light in the hall, that what he had thought were pictures were mostly stuffed and mounted animal heads from some historical safari. A display of British finches, under a large glass dome, sat on the huge hall table, the feathers faded to beiges and greys.
Picking up the bigger of the two cases, he followed her up to the room, along broad wooden stairs with a patterned runner.
‘This is your room. I’m Emma Chancel. If you wants me, ring the bell in your room. I’m mostly around. That’s your bathroom, there. I’ll get the tea, then.’

This is first draft, just the starting point. I write without much editorial interference for the first draft. I'm lean ring to re-write the big stuff, the structure and the plot, then put my critical hat on and faff about wit the actual words.

Getting back into genealogy has made me think about the BRB's section on lifewriting, which I am trawling through. I'm writing masses of material for poetry for the TMA, which is 40 lines of poetry, but until the day school I can't really get stuck in. It's all good at the moment, I'm working consistently and somehow getting it all done. Of course, I'm not getting anything else done, and the kids are toiling over the path and husband is doing the garden, leaving me huddled over the PC with a sore neck... frightened I'll put my back out and won't be able to write at all. But the story demands to be written...

Feedback welcome!