There Is No Muse

I have written more than nineteen thousand words so far this year! And it’s only 19th January. So it would seem that I’m not having too much trouble keeping up with the 100K in 100 days challenge. But have I written nineteen thousand words of value; or nineteen hundred? Or even nineteen? Sometimes it’s hard to answer that questions - or anyway to answer it positively.

Planning to be a Pantser

I saw a post on Facebook last week about creativity. Like most of the things I read on the social media platforms, it was very transitory - it floated past my eyes along with messages about book launches, pictures of people enjoying their New Year celebrations, and clips of cute cats/dogs/platypuses (well, there was only one platypus, but it was really cute). So I’m ashamed to say that the author’s name didn’t register with me - and nor, for that matter did the words themselves. But the sentiment must have stuck - as I keep coming back to it. It was a pithy comment about writers needing to stop planning and just let go, to give creativity a chance. (If anyone recognises, the quote, do let me know, I'd love to read it properly.)

A Writerly Round-Up: Blowing My Own Trumpet and Planning the Future

It's been a busy few months. I spent much of May and June working on the publicity and logistics for our town's annual summer festival, which took place earlier this month.

Result!

[Today's snippet of new prose comes from another Write Invite entry; I came fourth with this piece based on the trigger 'racing'.]  

The notice was on the board when we arrived back at school at the end of the Easter Holidays: 'Scholarship to Summer Training Camp'. Apparently one of the old boys - or 'alumni' as Headmaster 'Micky' Mouseton insisted on calling them - was involved in running a training event for promising athletes during August each year. Seems old Micky had managed to persuade him to offer a free place to someone from our school this year.

Now, I'm a fair athlete myself, although Ma says I shouldn't boast, and I thought I'd have a go at that - it didn't look like we were getting a holiday this year, and at least it would be a break from the same old shops and parks around here. There's not much competition in the running stakes, not at this school anyway. 

The notice said the winner would be whoever finished top of the race league at the end of term. So the following evening I turned up for running practice with all the other hopefuls. True, my trainers were old and battered; my kit was handed down from my elder brother and already half a size too small, but I didn't think that would matter when I started running.

And then I saw Roddy - the new boy who'd just moved into the area. He was in the same class as me, but I'd not had much to do with him so far - he seemed a bit snobby to tell the truth. I'd already spotted there was a fair bit of cash in the family - it was obvious from the quality of his school uniform - didn't look like his mum shopped in Matalan.

And when I caught a look at the trainers he was wearing, my heart sank. State of the art, although not brand new; he'd obviously had a good bit of running practice. Looked like I'd got some competition after all. And as I strolled up to the little group waiting for practice to start, I heard Roddy speak:

"Yes, I've won quite a few races; my trainer says I could win far more if I practised a bit harder."

There was one girl in the group I didn't recognise; stunning looking, with long golden hair, big boobs and a bottom that would have given Kylie a run for her money. It looked like Roddy was successful in the girl stakes as well as running.

Now, I bet you think this is going to be a take on the tortoise and hare scenario, don't you? That the poor boy worked harder than the rich kid, beat him in the final race and snatched the scholarship from under his nose. Well, life's not like that! With better equipment, money to spend on private one-to-one training and, if I'm honest, a bit more speed than me, Roddy beat me in nearly every race and topped the league with no problem at all.

So in August, Roddy went off to the Training Camp to enjoy his prize, while I stayed at home, wandering around the shops or lazing in the park. Mind you, it wasn't all bad; the girl with golden hair wasn't Roddy's girlfriend; she was his sister. And what with it being her first summer in this town, and with her brother being away, she spent most of the time wandering around the shops or lazing in the park too. Result!

Blog Tour: My Writing Process

I’ve been following with interest the blog tour about writing process, so was delighted to be asked by Cathie Hartigan if I’d like to follow her in answering four questions. If you missed Cathie’s fascinating answers, you can find them HERE.

 

Here are my answers:

 

What am I working on?

As usual, I have several projects on the go at once. I have a novel I’ve been writing since 2006; I’ve just finished yet another edit and it’s currently being read by members of my local Book Club. Once I have their feedback, I’ll decide on the next step: another rewrite; submit to agents and publishers; or publish it independently via my own imprint, Chudleigh Phoenix Publications. I am also putting together an ebook on Writing as a Business, based on the workshops I present each year at Swanwick, The Writers’ Summer School.

 

But my main project at the moment is to edit and polish the material I drafted during NaNoWriMo last November. The challenge is to write 50,000 words in 30 days, with quantity being more important than quality at that stage. This was my third attempt and my first success. I wrote a series of short stories, and when I reached 50,022 words with a couple of days to spare, I stopped — not quite mid-sentence, but certainly mid-story. I didn’t think about it again until this weekend, when I started editing. I had forgotten the details of what I’d written and was pleased to find a great variety of pieces I can work on for competition entries and submission to magazines. I was also shocked to see how much detail of my own life went into my fiction when I was just writing without thinking too deeply about it. There was one scene over the breakfast table that was eerily familiar. My aim is to find a home for all these stories before it’s time to start NaNo again on 1st November.

 

How does my work differ from others in the genre?

I really struggle with categorising my writing into a genre at all. I don’t write romantic fiction, although I’ve got more than one love story in my novel; I don’t write historical fiction, although two of the novels that are currently yelling for attention in my sub-conscious are set in the past, as is a major strand of my novel. I don’t write sci-fi or fantasy, although I read more of this genre than anything else. I don’t write about crime, although one of the stories I wrote in November... you get the idea. I tend to write ‘nice’ stories where the goody ends up on top and the baddy gets his just desserts, although anyone who has read The Well Brought-Up Woman in Life is Not a Bed of Roses will know it’s not always that simple. I guess it goes back to what I said earlier about writing my own experiences into my fiction. Many writers do that at some point; and since my life is unique to me, that’s how it’s going to differ from others. For example, there will usually be references to pharmaceuticals and/or Russia, two of my main influences.

 

Why do I write what I do?

 

I spent more than twenty years working all over the world, made some wonderful friends and had fascinating experiences. I turned from technical to creative writing in 2006 and originally tried my hand at life writing but quickly found I was much more comfortable writing fiction. Some of my early life-writing pieces finally saw the light of day in Parcels in the Rain but I still mostly write short stories — apart from the novel — and the non-fiction ebooks — and the blog posts. Actually, I guess I just write.

 

How does my writing process go?

I have a reputation for being well-organised. I’m usually the one who knows dates, times, exam rules etc. in my head. I’m the one my MA friends would email if they couldn’t find the handbook. In my former life, I was a project manager. So it won’t surprise anyone to hear I am a compulsive planner.

 

 

I have a set of annual writing objectives which I review and update in August (at Swanwick) and at the end of December. I have a monthly plan showing which project I am concentrating on. Every month I prepare a detailed To Do list and each day starts with Writing-4 hours, Writing-2 hours etc., depending on what other commitments I have. I’ve found from experience that if I plan to write every day and then can’t, I beat myself up about it — and this writing lark is supposed to be fun. So now I plan in advance NOT to write sometimes — and then I don’t feel guilty. I also have a detailed spreadsheet with all my pieces of work catalogued, records of when and where they’ve been submitted — and all the upcoming competitions I want to enter.

I generally write to triggers, either competition themes or self-imposed ones. I will usually plan my stories first, either on a flip-chart with post-its or on the cork board view in Scrivener. If I’m having trouble getting a piece written, I play the numbers game: 2000 words needed, that’s 10 scenes at 200 words or 4 scenes at 500 words and so on and start with a bullet point for each scene. It's second nature to a former scientist to work like that, but it was a tip I picked up from Richard Beard on an Arvon Course some years ago.

Sometimes I try out the ‘pantster’ route by taking part in Write Invite or exercises at one of my Writing Groups (Chudleigh Writers’ Circle and Exeter Writers), but I’m not too good at that yet. I carry a notebook everywhere but rarely write by hand and tend to spend most days glued to a keyboard and screen.

I can write anywhere, so long as I have my iPod to shut out distractions, so have written on planes and trains, in libraries (not so quiet as one would expect these days), in hotels in remote parts of Russia, and in cafes. At home, I have a wonderful writing room in the garden with walls of melted chocolate and buttercup yellow. In summer, I open the doors, let in the sunshine, the smell of the herbs and the sounds from the farmyard across the stream. A little piece of Heaven in rural Devon.

 

 

So that's my writing process. I'm handing the baton on to friend and Swanwick buddy Madalyn Morgan. She's up to her eyes in finishing her second novel at present; you can read about Madalyn's writing process on Monday 17th February by going HERE.

Make Do and Mend [Part 1]

[I started this story during last week's Write Invite competition, using the trigger 'The Present'. It didn't get short-listed, and the original ending (which I have deleted) was not strong enough. So I've posted the opening few paragraphs and I'm going to develop the story over the next few weeks. I currently have no idea where it will go - but that's the joy of writing fiction.]

 

"Trouble with you, Mum, you're too fond of living in the past!." Mark stood with his hands on his hips, looking in at the spare room. "We're going to have to throw all this junk out. There won't be room for it when you move in with us."

"In my day, we didn't just throw stuff out," I said, "we kept it for a rainy day; we always found a use for things in the end. Make do and mend, we called it."

"Yeah, yeah, I know. There was a war on; you didn't have money to waste... but like I said, you're living in the past." He dodged as I threw a cushion at him and then gave one last look at the room before following me into the kitchen for a cup of tea. "We'll tackle that next weekend, if you like."

I knew he was right, of course. There wasn't going to be room in the little annex for the contents of a fifty-year marriage. And maybe keeping all the children's old clothes, as well as our own, was a bit excessive. But I wanted to go through it on my own first, before our past - mine and Ted's - was given away to the charity shop or a jumble sale. [to be continued]

Rocking to Parenthood

[Recently, I was delighted to win the weekly 'Write Invite' competition. Based on one of three triggers, posted at 5.30pm on a Saturday evening, the exercise is to write and submit a piece before 6pm. In such a short time, the emphasis is inevitably on getting the words down, rather than fully polishing the piece. Today's snippet of prose is the story that won me my prize.]

 

 

I might not have been conceived in the back room of the Kings Arms just after closing time one Saturday night in December 1998 - but that's where it all started. My mother had gone with her mates to see Crimson Star playing their farewell gig before heading for London and 'the big time'.

 

Everyone loved Crimson Star - four local lads with ambition to top the charts and then make it big in the States. Charlie Mann the lead singer was everyone's favourites. He had all the girls - not to mention a few of the boys - sighing after him. Yes, everyone wanted to be with C the Mann - apart from my mother, that is.

 

Mum took one look at Chris, the drummer and she was gone. He had long curly hair tied back with a leather strap; he wore sleeveless T-shirts, even in the middle of winter, and he had a picture of Keith Moon tattooed on his chest.

 

When the gig was over, mum's mates all gathered around Charlie; everyone was paying attention to him; no-one had eyes for anyone else, so no-one noticed when Chris took mum's arm and pulled her away from the crowd and into the back room.

 

When Crimson Star left town two weeks later, my mum went with them. Well, not exactly with them, in the van - but she ran away from home, moved to London, got a job as a temp - and then started following the guys around wherever they went. At first they laughed at Chris, told him he was soft to put up with her, but gradually, they stopped, when they realised he was serious about her.

 

By the time they'd all been in London for six months, mum had stopped temping and started acting as a backing singer on some of the gigs. But then she got pregnant - and things started to go awry. My dad didn't want her working while I was on the way. The band didn't want a pregnant woman cramping their style - not a good look in the dressing room and at the late night parties. So mum and I came home. She didn't expect to see Chris ever again.

 

If you're going to be brought up by a single parent, it sure helps to be able to tell your mates the missing one is a rock star. When they ask me why it's always my dad who picks me up from school, I tell them about Crimson Star, about four young lads who lived the dream until they woke up. And I tell them about one - called Charlie Mann - who became a record producer, remembered a pregnant young woman with a voice like Janis Joplin, and took here away to change her life. Then I point to the pictures on YouTube and in Hello!

 

"That's my mum," I say, "she's a rock star."