Misunderstood: stone #10

My boy bursts through the door, breathless, cheeks stung pink from running in the crisp air, dark eyes wild. In the mornings he walks to school, slowly, but he always runs home.  And I ask how his day was, as I always do, and he says, ‘Fine, fine,’ as he always does; the conversation closed. And I wonder, not for the first time, not for the hundredth time, how hard it must be to spend six hours in a place where you are misunderstood, underrated  and miserable. Later, we will talk. Now, we cuddle.

happy men and sheep - two stones

No laptop yesterday, so two stones today:

stone #8
The trolley dolly on the train - a rough-cheeked fellow in a blue uniform straining across his belly - fights January malaise. The squeak of tired wheels, a bitter draught, and a cry, 'Ice creams!' Silence. 'Coffee! Water hand-filtered from the granite rock of the Pennines!' The blue air carries no reply. He pushes on. Squeak, squeak. ‘Ice cream! Vipers’ noses, sea snakes’ venom…’ His happiness as robust as the travellers’ torpor.

stone #9
Sheep are jumping in the field. Sheep, not lambs. It is only January. I have never seen this before, or noticed. Sheep are dull, empty-headed creatures, or so I thought. I have been tricked; there is more behind those stone eyes. Mischief, unbridled joy.

stone #7

Snow has fallen once more. I watch the birds in my mother's garden in Wales, and I am reminded of school children in a playground. The majority: chaffinch in their blush uniform, hopping and pecking on the white lawn. A lone wagtail hovers beneath a shrub, sheltering from the crowd, the unpopular kid with bad clothes and an unfortunate tick. Starlings, the bullies, muscle their way through the throng. A wood pigeon perches on the wall, like the lunchtime supervisor, keeping a watchful eye.
Of course, the birds are scavenging for scraps in the frozen landscape; the price of a picture postcard snow scene: starvation.

stone #6

family ungraceful
air swimming
across the icy white
blades flash limbs twist

stone #5

biting wind sweeps the lonely park,
sitting above the drone of the leaf hoover
birdsong enchants a child

not a resolution, but...

I'm giving up alcohol for the month. Totally. Honest. I have tried this once before and I got to January 28th - not bad, eh? As last time, I am finding that as my alcohol consumption falls my chocolate consumption, which is already shockingly high, rises. So I am faced with a health dilemma: stronger liver versus rotten teeth and spots. And no one sees your liver... Wish me luck; looks like I might need it. 

stone #4

sticky farts, sweet flesh tang
of the room with doctors on the wall
beneath a cotton mound
apricot curls and shiny cheeks emerge
blinking

Stone #3

small child yelling bored! bored! bored!
boring a hole in my head
the sea beckons

Funny old life

Over Christmas a relative asked me the road to publication question, followed by the ‘what’s it about’ one. I realised how little practised I am in both, and thought I need to get some practice in. To the second I managed to bumble it’s about a woman who discovers that she’s not who she thinks she is when her son is diagnosed with a hereditary condition. To save his life she must unearth family history and secrets. I finished with a regrettable; it’s a kind of identity quest story. I think it’s better summed up thus: A former foreign correspondent must uncover the truth about her origins. Her son’s life depends on it. The first question was much easier to answer, if considerably more long-winded, and the answer is, I think, a great example of how life can take the most unexpected turns.
It's almost two years ago to the day that I printed out the first draft of my novel, BloodMining. It took twelve months to write; snatched hours in between working full- time and looking after my two little lads, GingerOne and GingerTwo. Although it was ropey I felt I'd achieved something. Like so many people I’d harboured an ambition to write a novel for years. I wasn't sure I could do it. I'd written non-fiction for much of my adult life, but fiction is SO much harder. But after penning a handful of short stories with minor success (they seemed manageable with a new born baby - GingerTwo – JK Rowling I'm not) I thought the time had come.
The first draft took twelve months, but it was a complete novel. I spent a further eight months redrafting and editing until it was in a state that I was, if not exactly proud of, not desperately ashamed of. I joined a writers' group and showed chapters to 'proper' authors: people who had masters’ degrees in creative writing and even had books of their own published. They were encouraging, and so I entered a debut novel competition. To my surprise I was long-listed. I wrote another draft and sent the first 10,000 words and synopsis to Roz Hart at Real Writers. Her comments blew my socks off. Once I’d finished basking in her praise (thank you, Roz, it meant the world to me, still does) I addressed the concerns she’d raised, those that resonated. When I set off on the journey I did not write with publication in mind, but I started to think maybe, just maybe...
So I wrote to half a dozen agents. Most said no immediately, but two were encouraging and asked to see the entire Ms. Whey-hey! In the end they both declined to represent me, but offered enough kind words to make me think it’d be worth battling on. In the meanwhile I entered two other competitions and this time I was short-listed in both. I wrote to another three agents and a handful of independent publishers. Although the odds are stacked against (independents publish, on average, just six novels a year) independents are more likely to take on unusual or first time novelists. Again, two came back asking to see the entire Ms. And again, both said that although they admired the book they didn’t love it enough to spend a not-inconsiderable sum of money and months of hard labour on it. I heard back from one competition: I had not won.
Pessimism set in. I re-read the book and was dismayed to find all sorts of things I hated about it. Some easily fixable, others more difficult to nail. It’s flawed, complete rubbish, I said. And by now I had almost completed the first draft of novel #2 and was having a whale of a time with it. Putting BloodMining in a virtual back cupboard, and consoling myself with the knowledge that few writers get their first book published, and how much I learnt along the way, I forgot all about it (almost).
Then one morning in October I received a call from the lovely Debz Hobbs-Wyatt at Bridge House. I’d won their debut novel competition! They wanted to publish the book! I was at work, in the staff-room, I had to sit down. For days I wandered round in a state of shock. I told few people; I didn’t believe it was real; I expected the ‘Gosh, I’m so, so sorry - we misread the winner’s name, it was Laura Wilson that won, not you,’ call. It never came and slowly, I came round to the idea that it was really going to happen.
Contracts have been exchanged, a designer has been appointed, marketing strategies are in discussion, I’m due to meet my editor, Gill James, this week, and I still can’t believe my good fortune. Thank you Bridge House for taking a chance on me.
If there’s a lesson here I guess it’s to take the work (as opposed to yourself) seriously, be critical, take criticism from those in the know, learn from it, be persistent and, possibly most importantly, keep writing.
I’m looking forward to another draft of BloodMining, and once that’s done doing the same for novel #2 and getting started on novel #3. I have lots of ideas, lots of background reading to do, and I’m excited about writing it. What more could I ask for?

Two for one

Oops, though I wrote my small stone yesterday, I forgot to upload it (yes, it was a good new year's eve). So here are two:

sinking into mashed potato
comforting tired bones

iridescent sky
sunlight bouncing off car bonnets
ignites such joy

And for every stone I'll be putting up pictures of some of my favourites things... which may, or may not, have anything at all to do with the stone

Old-fashioned diaries

Although I’m a fan of technology and use outlook more than any other calendar, I absolutely have to have a paper diary to carry round with me. Also, it doubles as a mini-journal, and reminds me to take notes whenever an idea or thought strikes (not as often as I’d like). No matter how great an idea I find if it’s not committed to paper there’s a strong possibility that it will slip from my mind, and I’ll be wracking my brains later trying to retrieve it. My Mslexia diary arrived on Friday – well done Mr Postman, as it’s very icy here on the hill – and although I find the head girl tone of the magazine irritating on occasion I one hundred per cent love the diary. The first I bought in 2005 when, after years of writing non-fiction, I committed to writing fiction. Buying the diary was a symbolic gesture to take my work seriously (if not myself). I have six of them now, and they remind me how far I’ve come and how far I’ve yet to go. GingerOne and Two are off now so chances are I won’t blog again before Christmas. So Merry Christmas everyone and here’s to 2011.

Sunday morning distraction

Sunday morning’s a great time for pootling. GingerOne and Two are playing on the Xbox and PS2 respectively and I’m catching up with fellow bloggers. I’ve just read writer Sarah Tanburn’s latest and I’ve generated a word cloud via Wordle for my WIP. Here it is (below). Fun, huh?
On a different note another of my short stories has found a home in Scribble. I received a letter from editor David Howarth yesterday. Scribble was a Best Short Fiction Magazine Winner a couple of years ago, ‘For consistent quality of content and production.’ Oo, erh, missus.

Wordle - Broken

Wordle - Broken: ""

Snappy Synopses

Bloody difficult, aren’t they? I’ve spent another two hours on the synopsis for my work-in-progress this morning and I’m still not sure if I’ve got it right. At least it’s an improvement on my earlier attempt. Well, I say that now; ask me again in a couple of days and there’s every chance I’ll contradict myself.

Met the delightful Julia Crouch again at a mutual friend’s birthday party yesterday and had a look at the cover of her forthcoming debut, Cuckoo. Having seen earlier drafts of the first two chapters I can’t wait to read it. The hardback is out in March I believe. Of course Julia, of the three book deal with Headline, has no need to rustle up dreaded synopses any longer. Well done her; good to see talent and success coming together. Anyway, there are some reasonable synopses how-to guides out there but none better than that offered by writing coach Jacqui Lofthouse. If you’re not on Jacqui’s mailing list already I suggest you sign up now. She offers a plethora of solid and inspiring advice on all manner of writing dilemmas for both would-be and experienced authors.
I’ve heard from Bridge House again and it looks like we’ll be meeting to discuss editing next month. I’m looking forward to talking things through with editor Gill James; I’ve lots of ideas for BloodMining and I’m sure she will have too. I can’t wait to get going and still can’t believe that it’s going to be published next year. Exciting and terrifying.
Until then, back to novel two, and staring out to sea.