The book is growing day by day. I've set myself the target of at least 1000 words a day and so far I've exceeded that each day. I need a sharp target because I have a low attention span (see how quickly I put the poetry down!) and my back, quite frankly, isn't up to long times at the computer. back to the life writing in the BRB and to the poetry, I'm just hoping my back stands up to the day school on Saturday.
I've worked out, poetry wise I can now generate useful phrases (well, I could do that before!). Now I can pick the good ones out from the other ones (trying not to call them crap, here) and can arrange them in some sort of order. I can get a sort of easy read rhythm out of them. Then my efforts to edit sort of fall apart. I don't know if the new edit is any better than any of the other drafts. I suspect I have to read more poetry, to use existing poems to see if I can hone my ear, which is the problem. I hate reading poems out loud!
Life writing is going to be hard. In fact, I think I may be better generating poetry for life writing, it might be easier than trying to write prose. As a scientist I can't let go of what is true and what is constructed but ultimately fictional. I think that sticks me with autobio which seems so self indulgent. Who wants to know about my life, for goodness sake? This is one of the problems I have with poetry! Who needs to listen to my rambles? The BRB isn't really helping much, and it's all new so I'm crawling through it and not retaining much. This may be the marks low point for this course.
The book is charging along. Lily has come back to Devon a couple of times, this time finding her strength in being single, of not having to carry James. We find out what's been happening to James in this chapter (4). James hasn't been having an easy time of it, and it's the first anniversary of Grace's death so he has that to deal with too, as well as his foundering relationship with mistress Leanne. Emma has found she doesn't want to lose regular customer Thurston, now that he's house hunting in the area. He makes her feel ... something. Emma's not used to feeling anything outside of the family. All interesting stuff!
A WRITER'S JOURNEY TO PUBLICATION ... AND BEYOND
Thursday, 11 February 2010
Sunday, 7 February 2010
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!
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!
Saturday, 6 February 2010
Novelling again!
It's a new year so I have to start a new novel. I hesitated mostly because I thought doing A215 was enough with the OCA course, but I've realised that the more I write, the more I can write, so I've pledged myself to write 1000 words a day for 100 days and put a first draft together (even if I have to get up in the night to do it). Interestingly, I have a beginning, middle and an end, for a change, up front. I've noticed a difference already in my writing, my first drafts are better, and I'm more confident doing massive edits, sweeping the story around, sorting it out.
My story is set in a bed and breakfast establishment, run by the last of a family living in an old house (a bit like our house), trying to make a living. The owner of the house is slowly revealed by the people who stay there, whose stories wind through the book. That's the present story anyway, but knowing how much the last one changed it may not be anything like the final draft!
I've also been wrestling with whether to do an MA. I know someone who did one, and frankly, although her work is polished and cleverly written, I couldn't imagine it going further. So I found an old copy of her MA groups anthology, which is wonderful, very varied. Even her piece in it is rich and warm and full of promise. I would like to end up writing at that standard, which, objectively I know is better than mine but not unreachably so. I want to push my writing, not because I must be published, but because I want to take it as far as it will go. Ultimately, an MA will help me teach - I enjoy building people's confidence and skills almost as much as I enjoy honing mine.
One thing I have realised in the last few weeks. It's impossible to have a written voice amongst the noisy voices of my children. Taking time away from them has been incredibly helpful. Going away for a few months would let me concentrate. It's not as if they need me to listen to them 24/7, just that their words become a blanket of sound over my head. With kids away at college and university and work, I can start to find the silence I need to work.
Oh, and we bought a new printer, and a lovely hifi for the study! Investing in the time I spend in there, in the work that I do. I feel like a grown up writer now.
My story is set in a bed and breakfast establishment, run by the last of a family living in an old house (a bit like our house), trying to make a living. The owner of the house is slowly revealed by the people who stay there, whose stories wind through the book. That's the present story anyway, but knowing how much the last one changed it may not be anything like the final draft!
I've also been wrestling with whether to do an MA. I know someone who did one, and frankly, although her work is polished and cleverly written, I couldn't imagine it going further. So I found an old copy of her MA groups anthology, which is wonderful, very varied. Even her piece in it is rich and warm and full of promise. I would like to end up writing at that standard, which, objectively I know is better than mine but not unreachably so. I want to push my writing, not because I must be published, but because I want to take it as far as it will go. Ultimately, an MA will help me teach - I enjoy building people's confidence and skills almost as much as I enjoy honing mine.
One thing I have realised in the last few weeks. It's impossible to have a written voice amongst the noisy voices of my children. Taking time away from them has been incredibly helpful. Going away for a few months would let me concentrate. It's not as if they need me to listen to them 24/7, just that their words become a blanket of sound over my head. With kids away at college and university and work, I can start to find the silence I need to work.
Oh, and we bought a new printer, and a lovely hifi for the study! Investing in the time I spend in there, in the work that I do. I feel like a grown up writer now.
Tuesday, 2 February 2010
Creative spell
I'm in the middle of a good spell, and slightly worried it will dry up! I'm working on a poem at the moment that's about getting my Mslexia magazine, and reading it in the garden, using notes from one of the two warm days we had last year. I've written several short stories, including one for an assignment. I also wrote a poem from a tutorial that came up with some good ideas.
Four hundred children were sacrificed in the mountains of the Andes
Ghosts visit
tap tap the silence
each breath crushing
her chest, utter dark
sounds trailing
and fading, ears
following every heartbeat.
No-one comes.
Dawn greys the condors,
crows breath mists
child remains, licking off the tears.
This isn't the way I normally write so I was surprised to find a poem emerging. It has encouraged me to use language more freely.
The short stories are evolving too, I've found I can stretch words into different shapes but, bloody hell, how many drafts does it take? Poems take more time than short stories with thirty times as many words.
Today, I felt I couldn't concentrate on any one thing so I spent a day focusing on starting points, just being creative and putting a few plots/poem ideas down on paper. I feel like I've got a few good ideas to develop for competitions.
I entered the debut dagger competition with the novel I've been working on. It's quite expensive, but I felt I could do with another go round even if I'm just recycling material that needs a new angle. So, I started the story in a better place and revamped the material. Giving the synopsis a new ending has really helped. I've now put a long list of comps on the whiteboard and am trying a few. I'm aiming for one a week. I've already written a ghost story for writing magazine for March and I'm working on a 200 word poem for Ambit (how do you write a 200 word poem!).
Long may this productive streak continue!
Four hundred children were sacrificed in the mountains of the Andes
Ghosts visit
tap tap the silence
each breath crushing
her chest, utter dark
sounds trailing
and fading, ears
following every heartbeat.
No-one comes.
Dawn greys the condors,
crows breath mists
child remains, licking off the tears.
This isn't the way I normally write so I was surprised to find a poem emerging. It has encouraged me to use language more freely.
The short stories are evolving too, I've found I can stretch words into different shapes but, bloody hell, how many drafts does it take? Poems take more time than short stories with thirty times as many words.
Today, I felt I couldn't concentrate on any one thing so I spent a day focusing on starting points, just being creative and putting a few plots/poem ideas down on paper. I feel like I've got a few good ideas to develop for competitions.
I entered the debut dagger competition with the novel I've been working on. It's quite expensive, but I felt I could do with another go round even if I'm just recycling material that needs a new angle. So, I started the story in a better place and revamped the material. Giving the synopsis a new ending has really helped. I've now put a long list of comps on the whiteboard and am trying a few. I'm aiming for one a week. I've already written a ghost story for writing magazine for March and I'm working on a 200 word poem for Ambit (how do you write a 200 word poem!).
Long may this productive streak continue!
Wednesday, 20 January 2010
Myslexia
Well, two entries for this year's Myslexia competition in an envelope, ready to go! Scary. I've decided to up the ante and work on setting aside real time to write, while I have that time, anyway. So, every day I'm going to work on what needs doing and towards the novel part 2. Though I'm a bit blocked there. Also, trying to do a bit of A215 every day as well, even if just half an hour. On the plus side, I have TMA05 and possibly the ECA in draft form already. Unless I won a prize (unlikely!!!) I can put my myslexia entry experience to good use for the 'going public' TMA.
I've found a better way of editing than chucking the baby out with the bathwater and then banging my head on the floor. I'm highlighting the 'good bits' and then working to link them up with more 'good bits'. That's helped with the short stories anyway.
As part of my 'What on earth am I doing?' virtual sort out, I printed off last year's output (50 pages of it! Close typed!) and I'm already collecting together stuff for 2010. I've written a short story about a book club (in the editing phase) and one about a true experience I had when patient was threatened (mostly edited). I have made up a very unscientific scale for work - 1/5 means just raw material and 5/5 means as good as it's going to get. 6/5 means I overdid it and even I don't understand it any more. This means I can see at a glance where everything is and what needs doing on my whiteboard. Now I just need to clean up my folders on the PC. The same short story might be in half a dozen folders. I have a feeling if I made a folder called absolutely never save anything in this folder it would be full of random drafts by the end of the week. At least one draft would be an empty page. I would have no way of distinguishing one draft from another, maybe better one. So I have to be strict and archive the 2009 stuff and start again with 2010. Oh, and write something for the OCA that I like, rather than just think is OK!
I've found a better way of editing than chucking the baby out with the bathwater and then banging my head on the floor. I'm highlighting the 'good bits' and then working to link them up with more 'good bits'. That's helped with the short stories anyway.
As part of my 'What on earth am I doing?' virtual sort out, I printed off last year's output (50 pages of it! Close typed!) and I'm already collecting together stuff for 2010. I've written a short story about a book club (in the editing phase) and one about a true experience I had when patient was threatened (mostly edited). I have made up a very unscientific scale for work - 1/5 means just raw material and 5/5 means as good as it's going to get. 6/5 means I overdid it and even I don't understand it any more. This means I can see at a glance where everything is and what needs doing on my whiteboard. Now I just need to clean up my folders on the PC. The same short story might be in half a dozen folders. I have a feeling if I made a folder called absolutely never save anything in this folder it would be full of random drafts by the end of the week. At least one draft would be an empty page. I would have no way of distinguishing one draft from another, maybe better one. So I have to be strict and archive the 2009 stuff and start again with 2010. Oh, and write something for the OCA that I like, rather than just think is OK!
Thursday, 14 January 2010
Posting on the conference
The open University provides us students a forum to share information, even drafts, on as well as moans, wails and tips from other students. I'm finding it a bit difficult to post on, partly because I'm naturally worried about someone saying' What are you on! This is rubbish, utter rubbish!' (a comment I had in school many years ago). The other problem is my tutor will see the posts, and there's a part of me that is worried she will see my fumbling first efforts and she will be prejudiced against my efforts at the TMA stage! Even writing these fears down makes them seem ridiculous - they are so deep rooted and childish, so I'm working on them now. I thought I could write notes for a poem about school and maybe get it out of my system a bit. I can hear some of the same fears in posts by other students, maybe this would be therapeutic for the other people who are too scared to post on our forum.
On the plus side, I'm really looking forward to the day school in February, I learned masses at the last one, even though as an agoraphobic the time was intensely stressful and I talked non stop all the way home. Fortunately we picked up my daughter on the way home, so I had someone to talk to so the driver got a break! I am anxious about the experience of doing poetry exercises in public, even though I'm realising I have a good ear for language and can easily hear rhythm in words (what a good scrabble word rhythm is! 15 points and no vowels!) I have found if I bold the stressed syllables I can hear rhythm better than I could, obviously it's a learned thing. It's made me go back and review my earlier poetry with a critical eye, and pull them to pieces but in a positive, reconstructive eye rather than just jumping up and down.
so: Meeting the QE2
Nan is on the QE2, crooked teeth and brittle blonde,
works because it has repeating patterns of stresses. The next line is much more awkward to read.
Crimpolene amongst silks, organdies, gauzes and tweeds.
It's given me time to look again at earlier work and take out the good bits and look at building new poems around them. I'm never going to be a poet and fiction is more my thing, but I'm liking poetry more and more.
On the plus side, I'm really looking forward to the day school in February, I learned masses at the last one, even though as an agoraphobic the time was intensely stressful and I talked non stop all the way home. Fortunately we picked up my daughter on the way home, so I had someone to talk to so the driver got a break! I am anxious about the experience of doing poetry exercises in public, even though I'm realising I have a good ear for language and can easily hear rhythm in words (what a good scrabble word rhythm is! 15 points and no vowels!) I have found if I bold the stressed syllables I can hear rhythm better than I could, obviously it's a learned thing. It's made me go back and review my earlier poetry with a critical eye, and pull them to pieces but in a positive, reconstructive eye rather than just jumping up and down.
so: Meeting the QE2
Nan is on the QE2, crooked teeth and brittle blonde,
works because it has repeating patterns of stresses. The next line is much more awkward to read.
Crimpolene amongst silks, organdies, gauzes and tweeds.
It's given me time to look again at earlier work and take out the good bits and look at building new poems around them. I'm never going to be a poet and fiction is more my thing, but I'm liking poetry more and more.
Friday, 8 January 2010
Villanelle
I've been writing loads of poems, all first and second drafts. I even wrote a villanelle. When I was thirty one, my husband died suddenly of what turned out to be leukaemia. I went to register the death, and he asked: 'Who is registering the death?'. I replied 'His wife,' and he wrote carefully, while reciting it slowly 'the relict of the deceased.' I never forgot being downgraded to a relict, not to mention I had to cope with the word widow, as well! Horrible day... Anyway, I stuck the villanelle up here but have had to take it down as I might need it for TMA03!
Anyway,I've been working on a poem a day and reading a handful of poems a day. I started on 'The Gentleless of the Very Tall' today by Linda France. Very interesting though I bought it second hand and someone has made rather dismissive notes in the margin.
Anyway,I've been working on a poem a day and reading a handful of poems a day. I started on 'The Gentleless of the Very Tall' today by Linda France. Very interesting though I bought it second hand and someone has made rather dismissive notes in the margin.
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