Christmas is a time for marking / family / recovering / writing *

So much to do...

With so much to do and so little time, it's a wonder anything gets done at all. At least, that's how I feel most of the time. But with the end of term looming (2 days and counting till the kids I teach go away and the kids I procreated are with me 24/7) I'm feeling a little bit more space around me.

I have no lessons to plan for the next two weeks. My evenings will be mine (more or less) for the next two weeks. So this is the ideal time to re-commence my writing which, truth be told, has been relegated to the bottom of the to-do list this last month or so. So why am I feeling so unmotivated? A genuine question to which I would like an answer.

Last night, work done, children in bed, I finally got my laptop out with the intention of reading over the last 3 chapters I've written, add in some scenes that have been floating around inside my head for the past couple of weeks, maybe write the next chapter (I've planned it all out - it's not like I even need to think about where the plot is going next).

I settled into my nice new comfy chair, and then....

I opened up a tab on Chrome and idly looked at Facebook. Then I remembered it's nearly Christmas so I checked my partner's Amazon wishlist. Then I had a look for chemistry sets for my daughter.

I went to bed not having written a single word. I am ashamed but not, I fear, alone.

Procrastination is the root of all evil. I am convinced. And writers (or wannabe writers) are perhaps the worst offenders. A quick Google search will produce hundreds of results on the topic, but an article in The Atlantic particularly caught my eye, perhaps because I am a teacher. It proposes that writers are the worst procrastinators because "We were too good in English class". It goes on to argue that, never having needed to try in English at school, we have not experienced that necessary sense of failure (at least, when it comes to writing). And I can kind of understand that. All my English teachers and university tutors have always been so complimentary about my writing skills that I am terrified of writing something that's, well,... shit.

I don't have pretensions to be an Oscar Wilde or a Margaret Atwood, but I do want to be good. And apparently, "The fear of being unmasked as the incompetent you 'really' are is so common that it actually has a clinical name: impostor syndrome". Who knew? And moreover, women are more prone to this than men (although I'll leave that for another time).

So, to return to my original point, perhaps the reason there is so much to do in a very limited amount of time is because, being the genius procrastinators we are, we create the extra work ourselves subconsciously, so as to avoid the unthinkable shame and sense of failure when we produce something decidedly mediocre.

I think I need to get over myself and write.

*Delete as appropriate

Chapter One - so tricky!!

OK.  So this is the opening to the story.  Honest feedback please peeps.  Does it get your attention?  Do you care enough to want to know more?  Does it read like my 7-year-old wrote it?

Deep breath.....

Chapter One

It was bright. Squinting at the gap between the curtains, she couldn’t make out whether the brightness was caused by a brilliant early summer sun or, more likely she thought, just her eyes adjusting after… How long had she been asleep?

She closed her eyes again and screwed them up against the intrusion. Dreams are almost impossible to recapture once the frontal cortex has been jarred out of its subconscious state by daylight. Which is why she always kept the lights off at night. Just in case. Some people claimed that if you cleared your mind of everything then you could return to your dreams. That if you focused on nothing else, like some sort of self-hypnosis or delusion, then you could go right back to the same point in your dream from which you woke. Bullshit. If that was true then no-one would ever have bad dreams. Why would you, she thought, if you could choose for yourself? If you could direct your subconscious and take control of that part of you that’s so elusive people pay thousands of pounds in therapy just to uncover? Then wish they hadn’t.

Screwing up her face she forced her eyes to focus on the window once more. And this time she could see much more clearly. Funny how quickly our bodies adapt and what was before blinding light becomes simply the gentle morning sun. As if you were a dumb laboratory monkey recoiling from the painful light the scientist shines into your swollen, itchy eyes, only to realise moments later that you’ve been freed by well-meaning Guardian readers and you’re actually recoiling from the first sunlight you’ve ever encountered.

Sometimes, reality is better than you imagine it will be.

And that’s what Jenny’s reality was at that precise moment. When she saw that it was in fact a beautiful summer sun shining into her bedroom. Reality was better than she expected.



Coffee on the hob, croissants in the oven, newspaper on the table, all spread out ready to be consumed, absorbed, digested. To be discussed later with friends. Maybe in the pub which used to be such a shithole. “You’re not going there.” her boyfriend had said. He had been rather protective of her. Not in an overbearing way. She just needed someone to protect her from herself now and then. When everything was going well. You know, money in the bank, friends on the end of the phone, a good appraisal at work (or at least, not getting sacked); sometimes these situations had been a bit too much for Jenny to bear. Life wasn’t meant to be an episode of The Waltons and Jenny found it extremely disconcerting when it seemed like it was heading that way. The unnerving calm before the inevitable storm. Waiting for that storm to come was painful for Jenny. She much preferred to be in control of her own weather, to pre-empt the clouds and beat them to it. Shit on them before they shat on her, so to speak. So on such occasions she had a tendency to edge towards self-destruction. Not a total annihilation of her mortal soul. Jenny would never have had the courage to take action quite so drastic. More a gentle descent into solitude and isolation, pushing friends away by becoming that person who simply refuses to give a shit any more. 

She’d done this a number of times during her life. The last time it took the form of being a complete bitch at work which got her into trouble with HR, but not with the boss himself who seemed to be coasting along under the misapprehension that this kind of ‘work hard play hard’ attitude was just what the office needed. Luckily. It was what she did outside of work that worried her the most (in hindsight, she always looked back on these episodes with an amount of regret and shame). She got great satisfaction from drinking her way out of her default status of conformist, nice, pretty little Jenny and into rebellious, uncompromising, hard-arse little Jenny. When she was in one of these dark places – and it was dark. Jenny didn’t want to feel like this, like having permanent PMT. Hating everyone and everything. Finding disgust in every aspect of her life, from the way the kettle took too long to boil in the morning, to the irritating fucking click-clack of oversized high heels on the tube platform. From the idiotic students in the pub, all chatting loudly about the pressure of finishing their meaningless little dissertations to the way her key stuck in the lock of her front door – when Jenny was in one of these dark places, she needed something to fire her anger, to harden not soften her emotions. The deep, oblivious pleasure of drinking to absolute excess blurred the world and the people around her and she could no longer be hurt by any of it. Rather, she was the perpetrator of dangerous deeds and she was not to be messed with. In truth of course, she was in fact so drunk at these moments that the slightest act of aggression towards her would be met with instant unconsciousness. And that was indeed a good thing.

It wasn’t always alcohol that best served her needs however. At other times she had simply retired to bed for a week or two, blocking out the world, the light, the noise, the people with the clever use of duvets, pillows and curtains. But her last episode of that kind was at least a year behind her. She’d not fallen into the darkness for a long time and she was now quite determined to overcome her ridiculous affliction.

The shithole of a pub had now been done up. Reclaimed furniture. Mis-matched pews and old wooden schoolchairs. Scuffed tables and 1970s floorlamps. Industrial radiators painted in bright pinks and turquoises contrasting cleverly with the Arts and Crafts print wallpaper and faded leather sofas that were too low and too far away from the table to actually be comfortable or seductive. Fuck it. Stop over-analysing everything, she thought, and just enjoy life for once. Everyone else somehow seemed to be able to get on with their shit and be happy so why couldn’t she?

The sun was shining and she had the day to herself. She was determined to make the most of it.

She picked up the paper and settled in her favourite chair. It was just right for reading in. The back was high enough to support her and it was positioned perfectly for her to reach her cup on the side table. She took her first sip of coffee, jolting her properly awake, and looked at the front page.

She was instantly propelled backwards as if she had been slapped in the face. No. Punched. In the stomach. Hard. Like her older brother used to do when they were kids. But this was a hundred times more powerful. She gasped for the air which had suddenly vanished from the room. Sucked out and away from her body, leaving her powerless and panting. The paper fell from her lap onto the floor. Face down. And her eyes followed it. The significance of what she had seen flooded her brain and overwhelmed her senses. And just as the air came rushing back into her desperate lungs, she passed out.

NaNoWriMo? No Chance!

So, a lovely friend of mine emailed me last month about NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month).
"Ooh, that sounds like a good idea", I said, clearly in a state of denial regarding time and energy. "It would be fun to meet up with other writers and try to complete 50,000 words in a month!"
That month is November.
Not next November.
This November.
So I have signed up - created a username and password (instantly forgot both), uploaded my novel idea and begun online chatting with other writers.
And it's proving quite useful.
There are lots of seasoned writers who are on their 3rd or 4th books, who've self-published, and who are very willing to share advice.
However...
Is it just me, or does everyone else seem to have more available time?
People are meeting up for write-ins, getting 3,000 words written before lunch, starting 2 or 3 different ideas before settling on just one...  Generally, I'm feeling a little bit inadequate here.
Now, I know books don't write themselves, and I'm trying to write at least every other day, but with full time work  and full time parenting (I know that doesn't add up, but I teach English not Maths) it's difficult simply finding the time to sit down, switch my brain into gear and focus on my story. Last night, for example, my protagonist was trying to formulate her thoughts and plan her next move with 'My Little Pony' playing on the telly in the background. A tricky feat!
I envy those writers who have the time and space to actually write.
But then, maybe they're just more motivated and focused than me.
Something to aspire to.
I shall attend a write-in and let you know how it goes...

An excerpt - for your comments...

Here is a little excerpt to perhaps whet your appetite or more likely make you laugh out loud in mockery:

It had been raining.  The pavement shone in the brilliant blackness and little onyx pools had accumulated in the shallow channels of the gutters and broken paving stones, refracting the orange light in strange shapes.  Jenny lifted her chin and fixed her gaze directly ahead of her, giving the impression to the rest of the world that she was single-mindedly walking to the shop; that she was looking only ahead at her destination, and not keeping watch from the corners of her eyes.  Every shadow in every hedge seemed to pull itself into the shapes of eyes, noses and mouths.  Jenny had read about this phenomenon.  About how human brains are instinctively programmed to see faces where there are none.  It was part of the survival process of the human race; the ability to recognise another human face, to detect others on whom we so heavily depend – whether we need their help or, as Jenny currently felt, feared their intentions.  So she tried to pay little attention to the gargoyles and the monsters that leered at her from the leaves of the hedges and the shadows of the doorways.  She had only one thing on her mind – only one man on her mind – and none of these imaginary faces were his.  There was no moon above the houses.  No stars pricked the darkness.  Clouds blanketed the sky and smothered the night with a heavy mask, blocking any light from the heavens. 

Jenny slowed her pace as she saw a movement up ahead.  It was difficult to make out exactly what it was.  It was in the shadowy part of the pavement, at the exact point where two circles of light from two streetlamps failed to meet.  A perfect ven diagram of black nothingness.  Something low down in one of the front gardens shifted.  She heard the rustling among the leaves before she saw the fox, but was still startled when it sprang out and trotted quickly along the pavement for a few feet before darting back into the next garden.  The fox hadn’t even noticed her.  Or if it had, it hadn’t cared.  The fox was as indifferent to Jenny’s presence as an alcoholic is to the type of glass their drink is served in.  It simply did not focus on anything other than itself and its own survival.  Jenny envied that fox.  She envied its simple life and its stupid little brain.  Animals didn’t carry around the burden of guilt or betrayal.  They were concerned only with the lower tiers of their hierarchy of needs.  What was it?  Food and shelter, safety.  Anything higher than that simply wasn’t a concern for them.  Why did humans have to evolve to be concerned with abstract needs like love and belonging; with the desire to achieve self-esteem, to seek out morality, to be creative?  What purpose did any of that serve other than to instil a sense of failure in those who struggled to grasp the highest peaks?  If there was a point to any of this, it had passed Jenny by.  Yet she, like the rest of the collective masses she moved amongst, still strived for these things, with varying degrees of success. 

Yes, Jenny had experienced her fair share of love and belonging.  Until they had parted ways, she and her most recent boyfriend had shared the deepest relationship Jenny had ever been part of, deeper even than her friendships with Graeme or Theresa.  He had understood her and she had never had to explain herself to him.  He was the only person with whom she had ever come close to telling the whole truth about herself.  She nearly did one night.  About six months into their relationship.  Wine had been drunk to excess by both of them and they were sitting on the rug of his living room floor, either side of the coffee table.  He had just put out a cigarette in the ashtray and the smoke curled up between them, snaking in front of their faces like a fortune teller’s spirit guide.  She looked at his face and saw hers reflected in his eyes.  She saw herself as he saw her, and what she saw was wonderfully pure and simple.  He loved her whole-heartedly.  Unconditionally.  They gazed at each other in the simple silence, unfettered by the need for small talk.  They had done all the small talk they would ever need to do.  If I can tell anyone, she thought, I can tell him.  And in those few minutes of silence they shared, she contemplated telling him everything, toying with the idea at first, seeing where it would end up, letting it roll around her head until it found a place to settle.  But it sat there uncomfortably.  If she did tell him, would they ever be completely at ease with each other like this again?  He might still love her, but he would never again see her as a pure and simple person.  How could he?  It would forever change their relationship.  He might try to pretend that it was all fine.  For months, even years, they might both convince themselves that nothing had changed.  Go through the motions.  Shit, they might even get married.  And then what?  Wait for the inevitable collapse of their fragile life when the strain to keep up such a façade became too much to maintain?  Sit back and watch as the man she loved disintegrated in front of her, knowing that she was to blame?  No.  She couldn’t ruin his life as well.  She loved him too much.  And so she didn’t tell him.  Not that night.  Not any night.  She kept herself pure and simple in his eyes, and he kept on loving her. 

But it hadn’t lasted.  Nothing that beautiful can stay. 

The Writers' Workshop

Have found a great website.  Actually, it was recommended to me by Robin Stevens, author of fabulous children's Agatha Christie-eque murder mystery Murder Most Unladylike and Arsenic For Tea (see my post on the Bedford Booktastic Children's book festival for details on this).

It is the Writers' Workshop

It has a fabulous amount of information on writing and preparing your manuscript for submission to agents.  And while I'm not at that stage yet, there is some fabulous advice which I'd like to share with you.

Synopsis - perhaps more of a blurb?

OK, so this is my synopsis.  Would be good to get some feedback...

Best friends Theresa and Jennifer join a gymnastics club at school.  All is going well until one of them has a dreadful crime committed against her by a man she thought she could trust.  

Twenty years later the criminal is brought to justice.  It is a media scandal and, after hiding the truth for so long, both women are suddenly forced to come to terms with what happened in their youth.  

Guilt and fear begin to take over.  Can they trust each other?  Will the real criminal be found out?  Whose side are the police on?  A confrontation seems inevitable but will it reveal the truth?  

And an idea for a cover (it was suggested to me that if you get a basic cover design then you're more likely to finish your story.  Thought I'd give it a go):

The Bedford Booktastic Bookfest Children's book festival 2015

Well this was just about the best fun I've had in June 2015.
Probably.

Hosted by the marvellous Rachel Rogan it showcased some brilliant children's authors and I was very excited to be taking my two daughters along.

First on my schedule of events was to see Chris Riddell draw some lovely pictures and read some lovely writing.

I arrived at the same time as he did, so I accosted him at the reception desk.

Instead of running away from me (as I would have), he was incredibly warm and friendly, happy to talk, pleased to meet a young fan (my daughter, not me) and all in all, showed me that these literary types are actually very happy to chat about the process of writing with interested people.

I must confess, dropping the fact that you are an English teacher and that you will put the author's photo together with a display of their books on your classroom wall into your conversation does, I am sure, help when it comes to asking for a selfie.

However, I wouldn't go so far as to say that bribery is the only way you can get authors to talk to you.

Robin Stevens was more than happy to discuss the process she went through in getting her first book, Murder Most Unladylike published.  She has just published her second, the third is due out this summer, and there is a fourth on the way.  Success!

Like me, she works full time, though as an editor for a publishing house so her career is also her hobby, her passion.  I am admittedly jealous.

However, this did not make it completely plain-sailing for her.  Yes, she has talent and her writing is fabulous, but that alone isn't enough to get published.  What a competitive market the bookish world inhabits!

She was adamant that every writer needs an agent.  Publishers won't read manuscripts unless they are recommended by an agent.  And getting an agent isn't easy in itself.  However, I did not leave feeling depressed at all.  She is incredibly inspirational and I am sure she is one reason why my own writing has begun to flow so freely.

I'm not hoping that my work will be published.  There is a door marked 'Publisher' through which you cannot enter without having previously collected your Confidence passport and Worthiness visa.

I haven't got those.  Yet?  Who knows.

But I've at least begun walking towards that door by beginning to write.  And surely that's the point yes?

The Union Chapel - Awe-Inspiring Authors

On the 16th of June I trotted along to the fabulous Union Chapel in Islington to see Neil Gaiman in conversation with David Mitchell.

I had just finished Gaiman's The Ocean at the End of the Lane - if you haven't read it, do so - and was excited to see him and Mitchell discussing together.

They had never actually met before, so they told the audience, but had passed each other at book festivals, airports, publishing events; often only separated by a tent-canvas or a late-running train.


So it was really lovely to hear two of my favourite authors discussing what makes them tick.  What keeps them going.  What gets them started in the first place!


What hit home for me in particular was their description of how their stories and books came into being.  They both agreed on this point, but it's Neil's words that I remember most clearly.

He said that he often felt as though he was surrounded by fictional characters he'd not yet met.  As though they were waiting in the wings for their moment to step onto the stage (or words to that effect).  That when the time was right they'd come along and start doing what it was they'd been waiting to do.  And the story just unfolds.

Both authors said that when that happens, they find themselves writing quickly to keep up with the characters.  The characters get on with the story by themselves and the writers then find that their job is simply to write down what they are doing.

I thought this sounded magical - and indeed it is.  What a marvellous gift!

But do you know what?  Since I began writing my own story, my characters have gone off and done things I hadn't planned for them to do.  And I've been finding myself writing to keep up with them.

So maybe there's something in this after all? ...

Beginning

Apparently, everyone has a novel inside them.
Somewhere.
Whether that novel is actually any good or is a steaming pile of shite is another matter altogether.

I have discovered that I've got one inside me.

I think it's always been there.  Maybe that's where I should have left it.

For about five years I think it's been rolling around in my head, sometimes spilling out in little snippets scribbled onto notebooks here and there.  More usually pushed to the side by the immediacy of life - you know - working, looking after children.  The mundane stuff of life that gets in the way of life.

Until last Thursday that is.

I have been working up to this and for some reason, last Thursday is when I put pencil to paper and it began flowing out of me.

And this blog will be my record of how it all goes.

For better.

Or for worse.

Prologue

Teaching full time.
Phew!
It is by far the hardest job I have ever had.

In my twenties and early thirties I enjoyed a successful career in marketing and branding.  And it was great.  I loved it.  I learned an awful lot and got to travel around the UK meeting people from many different walks of life.

Or so I thought.

I then had children of my own and with them came an epiphany.

I realised that I was leaving no real legacy.  That I was doing nothing to help future generations achieve their potential.

So I decided to join my young children and return to school.

My daughter's first day at Reception coincided with my first day at university as I embarked on a PGCE (Post-Graduate Certificate in Education) to fill that gap in my life left behind when I forsook literature and learning, reading and writing for my 'go-getter' career.

And now, as a full time teacher, I am trying to find some space in my life for my own writing to flourish.

It's tough.

There is no space.

But it needs to be done.

And this is what I've been learning...

Hope you enjoy the read and can maybe relate to some of this...

Much love xxx