The Beginning And The End... A story with a mind of its own...

So I started writing this a few days ago. I've been so busy writing that I didn't get time to finish it off. The snow is now receding...slowly. The roads are pure ice, though. It's really quite cool. Might invest in some skis...

There is now no escape from Hull. We are trapped. Encased in snow. And I'm reading The Shining... I find it difficult to take my eye off the bath when I'm in the bathroom these days...

I've been working on my beginning this afternoon, with Rob's help. Beginnings are important, obviously. As a reader, I like to do what I call the 'first page test', which doesn't take a genius to work out what it is. Essentially, I'm the kind of person who will quite happily sit cross legged on the floor of Waterstones or WH Smith and work through a shelf reading the first pages. That is, of course, if I like the look of the blurb. 

You can tell a lot from a first page. And what often makes me cringe is 'My name is.... I'm this tall' etc, or the equivalent from third person. Or big, boring, long-winded descriptions of a setting. Sometimes, this works. But the thing that makes it work is the hook. If there is a good reader hook, something that makes the reader want to read on, then that stuff doesn't really matter in the grand scheme of things. 

Take The Lovely Bones for instance. It opens like this:

'My name was Salmon, like the fish. First name, Susie. I was fourteen when I was murdered on December 6, 1973.' 

It works because there's a hook. Why was she murdered? Who did it? You want to read on. 

I've often been told that it's a good idea to start with dialogue, which I find does work because it's snappy and gets you straight into the action. 

The point is, you need to have enough information there to get the reader interested, without bombarding them with introductions and background information. This is what I'm trying to do. My original beginning was a dream prologue, which I worry could be too cliched, especially as it is followed with the classic 'getting up in the morning' routine. I'm having my doubts about it. I wrote that beginning in my first year of University, which is a long time ago now. Scarily so. 

Recently, I decided that we should come into the story a wee bit earlier, so we see the break up between Anna and Ryan. That way I'm not constantly needing to give backstory. I think it was in a Writers' Forum article ( I will check and update), that it's all well and good to have lots of flashbacks, history and back story, but if there is nothing, or barely anything going on in the present in the story, then it can get a bit tedious. If there is so much back story that is more interesting than the actual story, you might as well cut the boring stuff and set it earlier.

I remember as I read Obsessed by Ted Dekker, I was on the edge of my seat reading about the women in the concentration camp, drawn in by their wonderfully depicted characters, strengths and struggles. But I'll admit, I got a bit frustrated with the present-day storyline. Not that it was dull, but that it was a bit samey and a wee bit unrealistic, I thought. 

At the same time, I'm also working on my 'ending', which is becoming bigger and bigger... further away from the end. I can't help noticing that this story has become something entirely different to what it started life as. I'm trying to convince myself that that's not a bad thing. I've cut a major character and given a leading role to someone who was originally wandering about in the background - this person is now the antagonist. Is that the right word? Villain, bad guy... psycho. The person who pits himself directly against the protagonist. 

So what I'm wondering is, does anyone else find this with their ideas - that they warp and morph into something that strays entirely from the intial idea?

Walks in The Snow

The first part of this post I wrote last night, but I never like to actually publish anything I write past about midnight until I've looked over it and edited it. The latter part I've added this afternoon.

"You know those days where you lie in bed at the end of them and just smile? I've had one of those days. The world is draped with fluffy white blankets, snowflakes spiralling their way down from a bright white sky, and clinging to each other as they fall softly to the ground. You can't help but stop and take it all in. I love what snow does to people.

Not always, and not everyone, but I love what I witnessed today; 

neighbourhood kids in the street having a snowball fight, and genuinely having fun, not destroying something. Joining in as we pass.

A giant snowball in the middle of the path, two guys look at each other and before long are rolling it along, making it bigger.

A snow penis blocking someone's doorway...  

A couple of guys playing ice hockey in the street. Never thought I'd see that in Hull.

Parents and their children lobbing snowballs at each other, laughing and enjoying each other's company.

The icing white eradicates the grey beneath, and for a second, you could forget you were in Hull and unemployed. Forget you were anywhere. It’s nice to see people relaxed, having fun. Getting on with each other. I guess you don't see it that much round here. It’s nice to know that in amongst all the troubles and complaints we are so quick to see with the city, there is some real innocence and purity in the place. 

And  in all of this, I think the setting if the final chapter of 'CQ' is coming together... I think November 30th is not going to happen seeing as it is in  two days time. Christmas at the latest. Watch this space. "

I'm going to try and write another 3000 words tonight, amending continuity flaws such as the season and the weather. The story starts in about October, midway through a term, and I don't think the time frame extends as far as midsummer like I seem to imply with some of my later scenes. So it is a winter story, completely opposing my original setting ideas. But I think Winter works, especially with the inspiration of snow all around me.

Before I go, I'd like to say a quick thank you to everyone who saw my letter in Writers' Forum and has come across to say hello. I really appreciate you taking the time, and I've looked through some very interesting blogs. I look forward to getting to know you all over the next few months.

Proud, Geeky Moment

My day has been made :) I made it into Peter Brett's blog. Oh Yes. 
This was a rather geeky project, which I spent a fair amount of time on and stayed up til 4 finishing off. Well, I doubt it's anything against half of the contenders, but it was fun, and it was worth a try. Check it out:


http://www.petervbrett.com/2010/11/26/final-homemade-hero-entries-1-of-3-clay-leesha/


Anyway, I'm still in my PJs and I'm going to be late for church.

Role Models and Poetry

I've been writing more of a scene just after the fight scene (there's a fight scene) - Toby, Ryan and Lauren trying to derive meaning from Ryan's bloodstained shirt. I envisage a dialogue perhaps a bit later between Toby and Ryan that will give a bit of back story on Toby. In the past few months I have completely fallen in love with Toby, and he seems to be really fleshing out in my head. I hope it comes across on paper. 

And it's becoming clearer that in this story, Toby becomes a kind of mentor character for Ryan. I was speaking with Rob the other day, and he was putting me on the spot, asking delving questions as he does. It's a brilliant excercise, and as much as I snap at him for it, I love him for it. Because it makes me pull out the raw, unprotected and fleshy thoughts, ideals and themes that sew together what I write. He asked me what I thought the strongest theme was in my book. I stuttered, but as I spoke, I said something along the lines of, '...that age where you're working out who you are, not just in a cliched sense, but how you are defined...the way we relate to each other, the people we allow to have influence in our lives, the relationships that are good for us and the ones that aren't. The people we love anyway.' 

I've been thinking a lot about role models and whether we choose them or they choose us. You don't choose to be somebody's mentor, it just happens. At any given point, you could be influencing somebody's life. We very rarely know if we are a mentor to somebody, so don't you think we should think carefully about the way we relate to each other?

So these thoughts are what have been influencing my writing of these few scenes and the character developments within them. 

I've been writing some poetry too. It's good for me, I think. Words have started flowing from me like blood from the wounded, tears from the heartbroken. They'll stay hidden, of course. Because I am a person. I am not my suffering. For eyes to see them would be to forget that. 

And while I have had an incredibly tough year, I'd like to think I have still kept my sense of humour. So I will share a single one with you. 

Oh, Twinings, with your milk so fresh,

Your warmth seeps into tired flesh

My hands wrapped round the liquid pause

A porcelain shell

Of sweetened warmth

The sloshing tan gives way to white

An empty cup

It’s time to write.

Also worth mentioning is that I have added a link to the page for my short story 'Sugar Rush' on YouWriteOn.com. I have been reading through it again, and the reviews people have left, and I am itching to edit. Having left it a month or two, the initial hurt I always feel after constructive criticism has been replaced by motivation, as much of what was said I have seen is true. I'm very grateful for the help people have given me. I will be editing bits and pieces of it soon, though obviously, 'CQ' is my main priority. 


And now, role models and tea poetry aside, I have a train ticket to book. I'm going to Doncaster again tomorrow for a literacy and numeracy test at the YMCA, just in case they wish to employ me. Lets hope I can spell and add up. 

The Industry Game. (Kids, let's measure our words....)

Lyrics Booklet for LowCountry, EOTC

This piece of lyrical gold came through my door this morning, which made me smile. I know, I'm being out of date because this band stopped existing months ago. But I'll still be listening to the music they made, and I'll still be marvelling at the lyrical genius contained in this booklet. I thought they might have sold out, but was pleasantly surprised. 

I hesitated before writing here again. I wondered if I've posted too much. But then I thought, whatever, because this is a writing journal, and I'm speaking about writing. It just so happens that I have ridiculous amounts of time on my hands. 

Anyway. The point. My word count remains the same as yesterday, unfortunately. However, I wrote 2,300ish words the day before, which I thought was good. I've been working on the ending again, and it's coming together quite nicely. November 30th still looking possible.

But, I have a confession. That little niggling doubt is creeping in once again. Who on Earth would want to read this thing I'm referring to as a 'novel', when what I mean by that is the record of pretend lives of fictional people who live in my head? Or, more to the point, even if people want to read it (and a few do, apparently), I'm seriously doubting whether they'll a) get through the whole thing without getting bored or b) finish reading it and not think of a million other things that deserved their time above it. And I'm worried that it's all very silly. I never used to take myself seriously as a writer. Call it humility or whatever, but I just took for granted the fact that there was no real skill beneath the scenes I concocted on a bright white computer screen. 

However, since doing my course, I've kind of had to take my writing a little more seriously. And it's starting to scare the hell out of me, because I'm convinced that at the end of it all I'm going to end up looking like a pretentious git who can string some words together just like any literate graduate worth their salt. That's what I feel like right now. A pretentious git.

Because this all feels rather silly again. The thing I’m very aware of is that it’s easy to be optimistic before I’ve encountered The Industry, and while my only critic is my significant other who, to the point and ruthless as he is, loves me dearly and is invested in these characters because he’s invested in me. But I know, with absolutely no doubt in my mind, that if I am ever lucky enough to have an agent/publisher/editor read through my work, it’s going to be peeled back, stripped down, torn apart, rearranged, or even just laughed at.

And then what on Earth am I supposed to do with the knowledge that I’ve wasted four years of my life?

I suppose I've whined enough. I've been thinking about our use of words. And I speak for myself first and foremost; I think I have a habit of being over-enthusiastic in my use of adjectives. For example, using the word 'amazing', when I  really mean, 'quite good', or perhaps some string of words that is more in-depth but less glorifying. I say this, because I am very much of the belief that words are important. We should dish them out with care. 

If somebody says something I've done is 'amazing', and then in the same breath also comments that the price of milk has gone down, which is 'amazing', I'm unlikely to take their praise seriously. 

My Grandfather was someone who had high standards in life, and as an artist was honest, critical and analytical. Often he would look at my work and tell me it was 'Ok'. Sometimes I managed a 'Good', and on rare occasions he said my work was 'Very Good'. When Granfer told me my work was 'Very Good,' I felt a genuine sense of achievement, because he really meant it when he said it. He was not the sort to dish out compliments for the sake of it.

And I like that.  I would rather have got hundreds of 'Ok's with an explanation of why and how to improve, as he always did, than one 'amazing' that wasn't meant from the heart. 

And I don't mean we should never respect little things that may not be perfect. I'm all for appreciating little things in life that make us smile. But perhaps our standards for dishing out words like 'amazing' should be kept respectfully high, just so we can give to others that same sense of achievement that Granfer gave to me.  

Patrick Rothfuss - Heifer International

I've just taken the time to read through Patrick Rothfuss's most recent blog posts and thought I would share the sentiment of what he's doing because it looks ace.

Essentially, he's running a fundraiser with Heifer International, including a lottery to win all sorts of incredibly rare and signed books from loads of different Authors. It's very exciting. The charity works alongside families and communities living in poverty in Third World Countries, offering things like training and donations of livestock to dramatically improve living conditions. I think instead of trying to regurgitate information, I'll refer you onto Partick Rothfuss's blog and to the team fundraising page. 

This is a little aside from me. In his blog, Rothfuss comments that he's a big fan of Peter Brett's work, which I just found lovely. The two author's books are nestled next to each other on my bookshelf. Gotta love artists supporting each other. 

Anyway, that was all for today. I'm definitely one to support anything that works to lift poverty and this looks like a really good forum for it, as I'm sure there are plenty of charitable geeks out there like me :). Definitely a good way to be.

I Remember...

Cenotaph: a monument or empty tomb honouring a person or persons whose remains are elsewhere.

I have just come back from a very powerful and moving service. 

It is remembrance Sunday, where we remember those who gave their lives fighting for peace all those years ago. Wesley (the preacher) spoke powerfully about loss and letting go. 

I thought that instead of voicing my own reflections, I would share a letter written to me by my late Grandfather last year. It includes an article he wrote on remembrance Sunday. I hope it can mean as much to you as it does to me. 

15 November 2009

Dear Elizabeth,

Your Mother suggested I should send you a copy of an article I have just sent  to my old school website. It may or may not be published there and I think the format of the site is far too complicated so things get missed.

The article was prompted by the recent memorial services, as I am probably one of the last people to have known those mentioned in it.

The site is the 'Royal High School Club in London' (http://www.royalhigh.org.uk) and there is a site map, which looks useful. If you should go to 'committee' from the home page, you will eventually find a picture of me with a glass in my hand.

I hope the term is going well, and please give my best wishes to Rob. Grandma also sends her love to both.

Love,

Granfer

CENOTAPH

By James Henry Randell

I remember, in the two minute silence, I remember fresh-faced boys in my class. In my memory they are still young and not as when I look in the mirror, or occasionally see other boys from those years.

A generation before mine, the conversation of aunts and uncles was studded with trench slang and what the Sergeant said. I can remember ten years after the first Armistice sitting with my mother and an aunt in front of the wireless. We were listening to the ceremony from the cenotaph. I knew about it because I knew I had listened to it the year before, although that has gone beyond my present recall. There was the bang of a gun and everything went silent except for the rustle of the late autumn leaves until the next bang and then they sang ‘Oh God our help’. My mother, remembering in the silence, said, ‘Harold was such a nice boy...’.

It wasn’t just the servicemen who died from my class. There were two boys who shared the same name but were not related. One was heavily built, and fair haired, and had a particular way of standing – slightly to one side, easy going and with a curiosity about things. The other was a bit shorter and was more intense. His over-riding passion was ‘guiders’, the boxes on wheels that were steered with your feet, and could reach incredible speeds down a hill, with no brakes. He made models of them, streamlining the box, modifying the steering. He also had a curiosity about things and the way they went together. Fairly early in ‘our’ war, there had been air raids in Glasgow. The anti-aircraft guns round Edinburgh had joined in, firing at enemy bombers both ways. One shell arcing through the summer holiday air had landed somewhere in the Pentland Hills having failed to explode, until one of the boys called to the others in curiosity, when it did. I remember going to the funeral, myself barely in long trousers, seeing the white coffins carried to the graves.

Later into the war the men teachers started to disappear, being replaced by lady teachers. In an all male environment where a Miss C, the beak’s secretary, had been the only lady to about 600 males, this could be a revolutionary experience. Most of them had been teachers, whose husbands were away in the services. G in my class had that tall, gaunt, dark, highland look of a future seeing, seventh son of a seventh son, although he only had an older sister. His father was in the regular army and was serving in India and from whom G had no doubt learned to call ladies a respectful ‘ma’am’, thus solving what was for us the problem of saying ‘Miss’ to a known ‘Mrs’. This teacher of English set us an essay, which I think must have had a fairly broad subject. Going over them in class the next day, she said of G’s, ‘It’s not the way it is written, but i have never known so young a person with such an attitude to, and expectation of death.’ What she read had visibly disturbed her. On our last day in school after we had gone through the memorial door, and gathered in our old form room; G came up to me, more formal than the others and slightly unexpectedly shook my hand. ‘So long,’ we said, because we never said ‘Goodbye’ in those days. He went out of the room, crunched across the gravel to the main gate and strode down Regent Road to the Post Office. Some time later in North-west France, I think he must have been in the so-called birdcage – the Bocage, a country criss-crossed by hedges. Here by repute the German mortar teams could drop a bomb on your back collar stud and everyone went with their heads permanently down into their shoulders. Anyway, his essay prediction came true.

From time to time the societies or organisations of the school, the Literary and Debating Society, The Cadet Corps, the Scouts, would organise a dance in the gym of the prep schoolat Northfield Broadway. If you were on leave or could wangle a pass it was a good place to be as everyone tried to go and you could meet friendsand hear what was happening. I tended to get out of uniform as as quickly as possible and put on the lurid sports jacket and tie of what I though was a girl puller. On this evening, Ali, who was disabled and to his chagrin was not wanted in the forces, as I arrived told me that D was there and what’s more had brought a girlfriend with him. Not specially known for chasing after girls like some of us this was a surprise. And there he was, immaculate, smartly pressed, gleaming in his uniform, immensely pleased and proud of the young lady by his side. He introduced us. She was charming, delightful, his pride well placed. On D-day with his rifle weighing 9lbs, his ammunition pouches full of four fully loaded bren magazines, a tin hat weighing lord knows what, so called ammunition boots on his feet, a full water bottle, the small pack of his battle order webbing , with some food boxed in mess tins, what else he had hoped to ease the next couple of days, a cotton sling with pockets of clips full of .303 rounds, an entrenching tool and probably a carrier full of mortar bombs, he came off the landing craft. There is a bump you can feel, as the bottom of the craft hits the sand and the sailors lift the ramp and everyone moves forward. If it was a sand bank and not a real beach, there would have been deep water at the end of the ramp, well over a man’s head. Had it been the real beach there would have been invisible rocks or hazards below the water to trip a man and once down keep him down by the weight of what was fixed to him. D didn’t make it onto the beach.

There may have been others, as there were for older years.

In the two minutes silence, ‘They were such nice boys............’.