Driftwood and Amethyst was written over a two year period when I lived a very different life. Without washing my laundry, I was ill, I was someone's wife and I did my best to make a difficult situation better. I failed.Not on my own, I'll give myself that. But it necessitated a huge change for me, one which over the last three years has resulted in a very different life.
I made the decision last year to go back to my maiden name. Not a decision I took lightly, as I have two boys who carry their father's name - regardless of our relationship or should I say lack of it - and I wanted to make sure this did not cause any undue distress. But the boys were very generous and actually were instrumental in helping me revert back to who I wanted to be.
It may only seem a name to anyone reading, but giving up my name was difficult in the first place and done only at the express wish of my partner-to-be who in time lost the right to have a say.
I have just gone through a rather laborious process of changing my author name to match my maiden name and I feel so light as a result. My books are being reprinted as are all the links to my writing name - future novels will have the same name as will my business and business links as my future workshops and works evolve.
The publishing company have been amazing and were able to keep costs to a minimum. As a self published writer, this is such a huge help and I know how much better I feel as a result of having the support of the company (Xlibris) running alongside me.
My next book, The Faerie Plot, an equally dark children's story may be half written, but just the change and joining up of the dots here has allowed me to refocus and work daily on this first draft with a view to having a draft to send to the editor by the end of the summer holidays. Writing is such a reward in itself yet I feel so lucky to be able to make this change and ensure that all my work can be tied together in my own name.
A pen name is a huge part of a writer's identity.I know great writers who have a completely different name for different genres within which they write, yet for me I know I've made the right choice.
Sunday, August 03, 2014
Tuesday, July 22, 2014
A person's a person, no matter how small . . .
Last week was one of the busiest I have had in a very long time. I know this is subjective - as people can feel all kinds of busy with varying demands upon them. But I'm sure, in its own way, my 'busy' was very busy last week. I'm still recovering!
After working for two terms in a local primary school, the end of term madness had kicked in. Students had parties and sports days, reports went home, parents meetings and training sessions continued, teacher assessments and test results were published while teachers moved - lock, stock and barrel - to new classrooms. Children carted home folders of work and carrier bags full of christmas cards and old newsletters while stock cupboards (some of which had not been spring cleaned in a number of years) were emptied in to endless binliners. Chaos ensued. Furniture removal companies have nothing on a bunch of teaching staff who have a finite number of hours to get a job done. We're not talking displays, labels, planning, classroom organisation, teaching resources or motivational posters (all made by theirs truly) as that comes later during the summer break. This was just the end-of-year loose ends, furniture shifting and stockroom moving shinannigans.
As school staff tend to be up for most challenges, this bunch just got on with it. We were our own cheerleaders. We kept our spirits up while becoming more and more dishevelled. Even the new headteacher rolled his usually pristine sleeves up. And so we battled on, full of positive pushes to keep fighting the fight.
Thick with dust and sneezing rather spectacularly, one staff member carrying furniture cursed her choice of stacked mules. Outside, the still, sticky heat made the children dozy and even the ever popular loomband making was too much effort. A few hard liners still attempted football with faces shining red until supervisors stopped their sticky fun.
As is the way with all moving days, domestic or business, suddenly it all seems to get to a point of no return. We had been at it for hours, days some of us. The place was in turmoil. Sticky and grimy, sense of humour failure was rife and even the most docile of teachers were getting a little bit snippety. Yet, while our cheerleading may have become quieter, we were still pushing through. We waved the children off at 3.15 wishing them safe and happy holidays. Then the real work began.
I had just trekked what felt like a good half mile with 90 exercise books - an unwelcome delivery to my old class's next teacher who I found surrounded by piles of library books, story books, tatty atlases and dictionaries - when I rested against a nearby windowsill. Either I'm getting older, or fatter, or both, but I'm sure I had more stamina back in the day.
The deputy head, her usually tidy demeanour a little frayed round the edges, strode down the corridor towards me cradling an A4 paper box and we smiled at each other wearily. She tipped the lid off .
"It's still alive," she smiled. Looking up at us from deep inside was the most beautiful housemartin, all irredescent greens and blues, its little head cocked to one side and its wings still.
"What do we do?" she asked. "I'm no good with birds."
It transpired that after saving this tiny creature from an almost certain lunch date with a cat, our Deputy, who was 'no good with birds', had regularly checked on the poor thing through the day. The bird had sat quite happily in her stock cupboard, in said box although it had been expected to keel over at some point during the day. However, now that it was perky and almost certainly not on its last legs, we needed to do something.
My suggestion was to give it to my dad who is, by his own admission, a bit of a twitcher and knows alot about dying birds after a life time of saving them from the jaws of various family cats.
The caretaker, himself also a bit of a BirdMan, suggested we take her to the highest point we could find. He shared with us that housemartins need to take off from up high so they can fly with the wind beneath their wings. I'll save you the Bette Midler tribute that ensued. We were a little amused though.
It's safe to say I've never been on the school roof before. Climbing a number of rickety steps to the loft then up to the roof, the now five strong group trooped their way up, up, up. I had a vision of Brian Blessed cheering me on as my vertigo kicked in.
Up on that roof, the bird was lifted up on to a cable and without a moment's hesitation, off she flew, the wind catching her and lifting her away. She was gone so quickly, some of us even missed the moment she left us and we scanned the horizon desperate for a glimpse of our tiny mascot.
On that roof, we all quietly stood. Away from the chaos of the corridors and the end of term turmoil, we had saved a life.
And it felt good.
However busy, however important our Things to Do list might be, it is always crucial to keep an eye on the bigger picture. The people we work with, the lives we come across will always benefit from another's kindness.
In the words of one of the greats, I'll leave you with this last thought:
Unless someone like you cares a whole awful lot,
nothing is going to get better. It's not.
So be sure when you step, Step with care and great tact.
And remember that life's A Great Balancing Act.
Dr. Seuss.
After working for two terms in a local primary school, the end of term madness had kicked in. Students had parties and sports days, reports went home, parents meetings and training sessions continued, teacher assessments and test results were published while teachers moved - lock, stock and barrel - to new classrooms. Children carted home folders of work and carrier bags full of christmas cards and old newsletters while stock cupboards (some of which had not been spring cleaned in a number of years) were emptied in to endless binliners. Chaos ensued. Furniture removal companies have nothing on a bunch of teaching staff who have a finite number of hours to get a job done. We're not talking displays, labels, planning, classroom organisation, teaching resources or motivational posters (all made by theirs truly) as that comes later during the summer break. This was just the end-of-year loose ends, furniture shifting and stockroom moving shinannigans.
As school staff tend to be up for most challenges, this bunch just got on with it. We were our own cheerleaders. We kept our spirits up while becoming more and more dishevelled. Even the new headteacher rolled his usually pristine sleeves up. And so we battled on, full of positive pushes to keep fighting the fight.
Thick with dust and sneezing rather spectacularly, one staff member carrying furniture cursed her choice of stacked mules. Outside, the still, sticky heat made the children dozy and even the ever popular loomband making was too much effort. A few hard liners still attempted football with faces shining red until supervisors stopped their sticky fun.
As is the way with all moving days, domestic or business, suddenly it all seems to get to a point of no return. We had been at it for hours, days some of us. The place was in turmoil. Sticky and grimy, sense of humour failure was rife and even the most docile of teachers were getting a little bit snippety. Yet, while our cheerleading may have become quieter, we were still pushing through. We waved the children off at 3.15 wishing them safe and happy holidays. Then the real work began.
I had just trekked what felt like a good half mile with 90 exercise books - an unwelcome delivery to my old class's next teacher who I found surrounded by piles of library books, story books, tatty atlases and dictionaries - when I rested against a nearby windowsill. Either I'm getting older, or fatter, or both, but I'm sure I had more stamina back in the day.
The deputy head, her usually tidy demeanour a little frayed round the edges, strode down the corridor towards me cradling an A4 paper box and we smiled at each other wearily. She tipped the lid off .
"It's still alive," she smiled. Looking up at us from deep inside was the most beautiful housemartin, all irredescent greens and blues, its little head cocked to one side and its wings still.
"What do we do?" she asked. "I'm no good with birds."
It transpired that after saving this tiny creature from an almost certain lunch date with a cat, our Deputy, who was 'no good with birds', had regularly checked on the poor thing through the day. The bird had sat quite happily in her stock cupboard, in said box although it had been expected to keel over at some point during the day. However, now that it was perky and almost certainly not on its last legs, we needed to do something.
My suggestion was to give it to my dad who is, by his own admission, a bit of a twitcher and knows alot about dying birds after a life time of saving them from the jaws of various family cats.
The caretaker, himself also a bit of a BirdMan, suggested we take her to the highest point we could find. He shared with us that housemartins need to take off from up high so they can fly with the wind beneath their wings. I'll save you the Bette Midler tribute that ensued. We were a little amused though.
It's safe to say I've never been on the school roof before. Climbing a number of rickety steps to the loft then up to the roof, the now five strong group trooped their way up, up, up. I had a vision of Brian Blessed cheering me on as my vertigo kicked in.
Up on that roof, the bird was lifted up on to a cable and without a moment's hesitation, off she flew, the wind catching her and lifting her away. She was gone so quickly, some of us even missed the moment she left us and we scanned the horizon desperate for a glimpse of our tiny mascot.
On that roof, we all quietly stood. Away from the chaos of the corridors and the end of term turmoil, we had saved a life.
And it felt good.
However busy, however important our Things to Do list might be, it is always crucial to keep an eye on the bigger picture. The people we work with, the lives we come across will always benefit from another's kindness.
In the words of one of the greats, I'll leave you with this last thought:
Unless someone like you cares a whole awful lot,
nothing is going to get better. It's not.
So be sure when you step, Step with care and great tact.
And remember that life's A Great Balancing Act.
Dr. Seuss.
Tuesday, July 15, 2014
What a difference a year makes ...
I wrote this in 2013, at a time I had just started working again after a long illness. I remember how hard it was back then and count my blessings now. Every day.
There is nothing you can count on in this life except change. (Said by someone else, somewhere else, sometime long long ago.)
Many years ago my life changed. I hadn't asked for change yet it came.
Walking across a road at twelve years old, my life stopped for a few seconds, then my old life stopped forever. Life would never be the same again.
Eleven years ago my life changed. I hadn't asked for change. Yet, again, it came.
Pregnant with my first child, I was hopeful and giddy. Life would never be the same again.
Then nine years ago my life changed once more.
As my second child grew inside me, my bones cracked and fractured as I fought to keep my life the same. Cautious, yet buoyant with a healthy new baby boy, life could never be the same again.
Six years ago change came once more.
But without the rain, there would be no rainbows someone had told me.
I was unsure at the time what that meant. I know now.
When my illness struck, my life changed.
On stronger days, family and friends would take me out in a wheelchair with my two boys as life buzzed along without me. I had become merely an observer. Things had to change. Ihad to make that change. Baby step by baby step, minute by minute, hour by hour, day by day.
Reducing medication I had taken for such a long time was a mixed experience as the withdrawal and anxiety clawed at me. Yet, the awakening I felt with every step I took closer to being drug-free was worth so much more than any relief I gained from lapsing and taking another yet pill.
The numbing of the pain had numbed the experience of all life: emotions, highs and lows. I had coped with an illness and a half life by burying myself within a cocoon of tramadol, fentanyl, codeine . . . whichever prescription I'd been trying. Though the consequences of long term pain relief outweighed any pain relief benefits I had been promised.
Finally, I awoke from my opiate-riddled doze. And it was my sheer bloodymindedness and the unwavering support of Team Kate who stuck by me regardless of how hopeless it must have sometimes seemed.
As I steadily improved, I found work again, and with that my financial independence. I was back in the game.
And all this time, I wrote. I wrote stories, made notes from great novels I read, jotted down comments I'd overhear as I drank coffee in local cafes. Sometimes ideas came from the collection of opiate-induced dreams I woke from, sleepy hands reaching for the notepad and pencil in the darkness. Deciphering my scrawl, however, was another matter . . .
Some days I'd sit in front of the screen wondering where to start, afraid to write. Afraid to write nothing of substance. Afraid to write nothing of substance and spend a month doing it.
But I knew I would always write. I would always try. Because change happens and with change good things can come. Even on my worst days the glimmer of hope for better things was always shimmering somewhere, just beyond the darkness.
I still teach from school to school and write every day, my stories and imaginings driving me on to write once the boys are in bed. Sometimes I write and the next day I shudder at the sheer awfulness of my clumsy sentences, yet other days I write and on a second reading know there may be something there.
I know I will always write, just as I know I will always teach in one form or another. I will always try. Because as change happens, good things can come.
Without the weight of painkillers, negativity and exhaustion, I can now focus on my future. Rather than frantically putting out the fires of my daily life, blinded by the smoke and drama, I can look forward and plan my next steps when I find myself on a day when my health, optimism and courage collide.
But maybe that is what that leap of faith is. Maybe we make leaps of faith every day on our brave days: - simply writing down ideas or cobbling a paragraph together; taking less medication or stepping out from the cocoon of the house or the life/relationship you have wrapped around you fearful of feeling the cold.
Courage can be the tiniest steps towards better things, embracing change and knowing that with hope, something better is possible.
There is nothing you can count on in this life except change. (Said by someone else, somewhere else, sometime long long ago.)
Many years ago my life changed. I hadn't asked for change yet it came.
Walking across a road at twelve years old, my life stopped for a few seconds, then my old life stopped forever. Life would never be the same again.
Eleven years ago my life changed. I hadn't asked for change. Yet, again, it came.
Pregnant with my first child, I was hopeful and giddy. Life would never be the same again.
Then nine years ago my life changed once more.
As my second child grew inside me, my bones cracked and fractured as I fought to keep my life the same. Cautious, yet buoyant with a healthy new baby boy, life could never be the same again.
Six years ago change came once more.
But without the rain, there would be no rainbows someone had told me.
I was unsure at the time what that meant. I know now.
When my illness struck, my life changed.
On stronger days, family and friends would take me out in a wheelchair with my two boys as life buzzed along without me. I had become merely an observer. Things had to change. Ihad to make that change. Baby step by baby step, minute by minute, hour by hour, day by day.
Reducing medication I had taken for such a long time was a mixed experience as the withdrawal and anxiety clawed at me. Yet, the awakening I felt with every step I took closer to being drug-free was worth so much more than any relief I gained from lapsing and taking another yet pill.
The numbing of the pain had numbed the experience of all life: emotions, highs and lows. I had coped with an illness and a half life by burying myself within a cocoon of tramadol, fentanyl, codeine . . . whichever prescription I'd been trying. Though the consequences of long term pain relief outweighed any pain relief benefits I had been promised.
Finally, I awoke from my opiate-riddled doze. And it was my sheer bloodymindedness and the unwavering support of Team Kate who stuck by me regardless of how hopeless it must have sometimes seemed.
As I steadily improved, I found work again, and with that my financial independence. I was back in the game.
And all this time, I wrote. I wrote stories, made notes from great novels I read, jotted down comments I'd overhear as I drank coffee in local cafes. Sometimes ideas came from the collection of opiate-induced dreams I woke from, sleepy hands reaching for the notepad and pencil in the darkness. Deciphering my scrawl, however, was another matter . . .
Some days I'd sit in front of the screen wondering where to start, afraid to write. Afraid to write nothing of substance. Afraid to write nothing of substance and spend a month doing it.
But I knew I would always write. I would always try. Because change happens and with change good things can come. Even on my worst days the glimmer of hope for better things was always shimmering somewhere, just beyond the darkness.
I still teach from school to school and write every day, my stories and imaginings driving me on to write once the boys are in bed. Sometimes I write and the next day I shudder at the sheer awfulness of my clumsy sentences, yet other days I write and on a second reading know there may be something there.
I know I will always write, just as I know I will always teach in one form or another. I will always try. Because as change happens, good things can come.
Without the weight of painkillers, negativity and exhaustion, I can now focus on my future. Rather than frantically putting out the fires of my daily life, blinded by the smoke and drama, I can look forward and plan my next steps when I find myself on a day when my health, optimism and courage collide.
But maybe that is what that leap of faith is. Maybe we make leaps of faith every day on our brave days: - simply writing down ideas or cobbling a paragraph together; taking less medication or stepping out from the cocoon of the house or the life/relationship you have wrapped around you fearful of feeling the cold.
Courage can be the tiniest steps towards better things, embracing change and knowing that with hope, something better is possible.
Monday, August 19, 2013
Happy Talk . . .
My nine year old,wise beyond his years , gave me one of his fabulous bear hugs today saying ' It's a sad fact that none of us can be around for ever'. I could have cried. Yet instead, I took (another) deep breath and said 'That's why we have to live our lives being happy and loving each other, Max. That's all we really have to do.'
I have always known that I wanted my children to be happy. My way of doing that does not involve elaborate showers of gifts, expensive experiences or the like. I surround myself with the people I love and great friends who have similar aims for their children. Occasionally I hear of issues friends have with other families desperately trying to up-manouveur within a school community by inviting every child in the class to a birthday party on a space rocket with i-pads in the goody bags - I'm exaggerating but I'm sure I had a few parents panicking for a moment or two. It can all get a bit crazy out there, but it really doesn't have to.
We all want a happier world, where our children are safe, content and healthy. I want my children to feel loved and be happy. Their happiness should be a contendedness gained from their demeanour, their sense of self and their relationship with the world, not quick fixes brought with gifts, expensive holidays or other more egocentric pursuits. I want them to know they are loved, I want them to swim in the sea, find the joy in simple pleasures, make healthy friendships, read great books, love easily, speak out against injustice and live kind lives. I strive to teach them to take what they need, give back what they don't need and share what they can. With every step, I will do my best to make that happen.
My youngest completed a form in the library today which asked him to list his name,his age and to complete the sentence 'I like ... '
He simply wrote '... happy times' and melted the hearts of the two rather day-worn librarians before him. It's all anyone really wants. We just need to put a little love in our hearts (Beth Orton's line, not mine)
Occasionally, I see a glimpse of the kind,loving, honest young men they will one day become. It warms my heart. I know that my children are happy when they are relaxed, enjoying something they have planned to do with me such as play in the paddling pool, walk in the woods, watch a film and are equally happy with a surprise trip to a play area or the cinema. They are happy playing with the rabbit in the garden, curled up with a good book, listening to music, dancing in the sitting room . . . I could go on. It's just all about balance.
So, let's take that deep breath, close our eyes and take that leap of faith.
Mahatma Ghandi wisely said 'Be the change you want to see in the world.' I live by that powerful phrase with tiny, tiny baby steps. I know I can't combat world hunger, sea pollution, stop wars or fix the big issues all on my own. I'm not powerful enough. Yet in little ways, we can all take pride in how we make less of an impact globally. But I'll save that debate for another post.
Happiness can be derived from the tiniest positive changes we make to our own lives and the lives of others. By living our lives kindly and with love, by trying to be better with every step we make, we can't fail.
Maybe, by being the change we want to see in the world, in time, like ripples on a pond, our happiness and the happiness of all our children will grow.
I have always known that I wanted my children to be happy. My way of doing that does not involve elaborate showers of gifts, expensive experiences or the like. I surround myself with the people I love and great friends who have similar aims for their children. Occasionally I hear of issues friends have with other families desperately trying to up-manouveur within a school community by inviting every child in the class to a birthday party on a space rocket with i-pads in the goody bags - I'm exaggerating but I'm sure I had a few parents panicking for a moment or two. It can all get a bit crazy out there, but it really doesn't have to.
We all want a happier world, where our children are safe, content and healthy. I want my children to feel loved and be happy. Their happiness should be a contendedness gained from their demeanour, their sense of self and their relationship with the world, not quick fixes brought with gifts, expensive holidays or other more egocentric pursuits. I want them to know they are loved, I want them to swim in the sea, find the joy in simple pleasures, make healthy friendships, read great books, love easily, speak out against injustice and live kind lives. I strive to teach them to take what they need, give back what they don't need and share what they can. With every step, I will do my best to make that happen.
My youngest completed a form in the library today which asked him to list his name,his age and to complete the sentence 'I like ... '
He simply wrote '... happy times' and melted the hearts of the two rather day-worn librarians before him. It's all anyone really wants. We just need to put a little love in our hearts (Beth Orton's line, not mine)
Occasionally, I see a glimpse of the kind,loving, honest young men they will one day become. It warms my heart. I know that my children are happy when they are relaxed, enjoying something they have planned to do with me such as play in the paddling pool, walk in the woods, watch a film and are equally happy with a surprise trip to a play area or the cinema. They are happy playing with the rabbit in the garden, curled up with a good book, listening to music, dancing in the sitting room . . . I could go on. It's just all about balance.
So, let's take that deep breath, close our eyes and take that leap of faith.
Mahatma Ghandi wisely said 'Be the change you want to see in the world.' I live by that powerful phrase with tiny, tiny baby steps. I know I can't combat world hunger, sea pollution, stop wars or fix the big issues all on my own. I'm not powerful enough. Yet in little ways, we can all take pride in how we make less of an impact globally. But I'll save that debate for another post.
Happiness can be derived from the tiniest positive changes we make to our own lives and the lives of others. By living our lives kindly and with love, by trying to be better with every step we make, we can't fail.
Maybe, by being the change we want to see in the world, in time, like ripples on a pond, our happiness and the happiness of all our children will grow.
Thursday, December 27, 2012
Time and Love - Christmas Gifts worth their Weight in Gold
The month of December saw a cornucopia of gatherings, each one momentous in its own way. I had been dreading the enormity of the season, how I could survive a significant birthday on my own and create a special christmas for my boys as a single mum, how I could ensure the days unwrapped as layers of reassuring old traditions and exciting new ones.
My 40th birthday was spent with dear friends in a rather lovely Sheffield hotel and spa, starting with raised glasses in their champagne bar and ending with room service as we all devoured chunky chips on my bed at 2am. My friends are my chosen family and feel like sisters to me. I'm lucky to have their love and support and hope in time I give as much as I receive.
The school term ended with lively class parties (Now 83 is etched in my aural memory forever) christmas lunches and even saw Father Christmas making a guest appearance. The staff de-tinselled their classrooms and put away the tree for another year as the children made their way home on that last day. We all felt suitably festive after performing as a 'teacher choir' to the great surprise and delight of the children and parents at the annual Carol concert.
The last few days have been a genuinely happy time and the look on my boys' faces as they told me they'd had 'the best Christmas ever' as we sat back after a Boxing Day bike ride was worth so much. When they are visiting their Dad I miss them terribly and count the hours until they come back home, but in time I hope they will settle in to this new way of living. By listening to the needs of my two precious boys, I do hope they had a happy Christmas. I know I have had the calmest and most pleasant Christmas in a very long time.
Being alone in a room full of people resonates with me still, but with the kindness and love of those closest to me, I know me and my boys have now come through the other side of a particularly difficult time.
Life goes on. Change happens. It's how you change to meet those new challenges that makes or breaks you. I still find myself locked in old memories but in time, my new happier memories will be the ones that make me smile.
This month I discovered I was not a single mum at all, nor was I on my own. I learned that I exist within the love and support of my friends and family - even my work colleagues have proved that they are just a whisper away - I just need to find the courage to ask for help. My friends and family gently pulled me along with them this season and we spent time together eating, drinking, dancing, playing and building those new traditions we will now enjoy year on year.
My 40th birthday was spent with dear friends in a rather lovely Sheffield hotel and spa, starting with raised glasses in their champagne bar and ending with room service as we all devoured chunky chips on my bed at 2am. My friends are my chosen family and feel like sisters to me. I'm lucky to have their love and support and hope in time I give as much as I receive.
The school term ended with lively class parties (Now 83 is etched in my aural memory forever) christmas lunches and even saw Father Christmas making a guest appearance. The staff de-tinselled their classrooms and put away the tree for another year as the children made their way home on that last day. We all felt suitably festive after performing as a 'teacher choir' to the great surprise and delight of the children and parents at the annual Carol concert.
The last few days have been a genuinely happy time and the look on my boys' faces as they told me they'd had 'the best Christmas ever' as we sat back after a Boxing Day bike ride was worth so much. When they are visiting their Dad I miss them terribly and count the hours until they come back home, but in time I hope they will settle in to this new way of living. By listening to the needs of my two precious boys, I do hope they had a happy Christmas. I know I have had the calmest and most pleasant Christmas in a very long time.
Being alone in a room full of people resonates with me still, but with the kindness and love of those closest to me, I know me and my boys have now come through the other side of a particularly difficult time.
Life goes on. Change happens. It's how you change to meet those new challenges that makes or breaks you. I still find myself locked in old memories but in time, my new happier memories will be the ones that make me smile.
This month I discovered I was not a single mum at all, nor was I on my own. I learned that I exist within the love and support of my friends and family - even my work colleagues have proved that they are just a whisper away - I just need to find the courage to ask for help. My friends and family gently pulled me along with them this season and we spent time together eating, drinking, dancing, playing and building those new traditions we will now enjoy year on year.
Sunday, November 04, 2012
More Bubbles and Less Troubles: A pre-Birthday Wish
During this particularly busy half term holiday, the boys and I have barely stopped. Part accident, part design, I have found it necessary to fill every waking moment being with my two offspring. As occurs with alarming frequency these days, I found myself awakened by a brutal slapping across the face by the pale and disinterested ghost of my own mortality.
As my two boys' buddies arrived to stay earlier this week, I caught my breath as three young men cheered a greeting and fell through my front door. In an instant I adopted the role of embarrassing auntie, reminiscing at length about the speed at which time has passed, how tall the boys had grown and how growling bass lines had replaced the choirboy voices of times past. Instead of measuring my own increases in height alongside theirs as tradition dictates, the opposite is now being tracked on my door frame as my spine depletes and treasured extra millimetres are gone for ever, while the once tiny children, nephews, nieces and 'little' friends now tower above me, fuelled in part by the entire contents of my fridge and pantry. I am, it would seem, no longer part of the giddy race through the firsts of teens, twenties or even thirties. A parallel party is in progress for my children and their friends and I am not invited. The abyss is merely widening and deepening. I will never get back.
No one told me I would cycle uphill to 40 then freewheel downhill evermore - no more opportunity to grow in to my adult self, only shrinking away from that which I hoped I would one day become. Some choices are irreversible and the damage is done. Yet the alternative is unthinkable and I will enjoy every minute for those of my friends who never got the chance to get this far. The rest of my life is a book unwritten and so I must pick up my pen and start plotting again!
Since my thirty fifth birthday, I have been hiding from what effectively is to become my middle age. Next month, my fortieth birthday will be celebrated as only I know how - with pink champagne, chocolate, my fabulous girlfriends and a great deal of laughter. As much of this year has been severely lacking in points one and four, my dearest friends have ordered a get together involving fluffy white robes, various pampering treatments and a few glasses of bubbly. With shiny toes of many colours, we will share a few bottles of bubbly, eat chocolates, dance, laugh, discuss our next steps, distance ourselves from our past mishaps and disasters, eat more chocolates, share our innermost thoughts and dreams during a few more bottles of bubbly, then return home to continue on with the precarious route through the rest of our lives.
While desparately braking at every turn, scraping my new patent pumps in a bid to slow down the ride, I will continue to live every minute to the full.
Life is short and so am I.
Today's lesson is merely to keep on and keep smiling.
What else is there?
As my two boys' buddies arrived to stay earlier this week, I caught my breath as three young men cheered a greeting and fell through my front door. In an instant I adopted the role of embarrassing auntie, reminiscing at length about the speed at which time has passed, how tall the boys had grown and how growling bass lines had replaced the choirboy voices of times past. Instead of measuring my own increases in height alongside theirs as tradition dictates, the opposite is now being tracked on my door frame as my spine depletes and treasured extra millimetres are gone for ever, while the once tiny children, nephews, nieces and 'little' friends now tower above me, fuelled in part by the entire contents of my fridge and pantry. I am, it would seem, no longer part of the giddy race through the firsts of teens, twenties or even thirties. A parallel party is in progress for my children and their friends and I am not invited. The abyss is merely widening and deepening. I will never get back.
No one told me I would cycle uphill to 40 then freewheel downhill evermore - no more opportunity to grow in to my adult self, only shrinking away from that which I hoped I would one day become. Some choices are irreversible and the damage is done. Yet the alternative is unthinkable and I will enjoy every minute for those of my friends who never got the chance to get this far. The rest of my life is a book unwritten and so I must pick up my pen and start plotting again!
Since my thirty fifth birthday, I have been hiding from what effectively is to become my middle age. Next month, my fortieth birthday will be celebrated as only I know how - with pink champagne, chocolate, my fabulous girlfriends and a great deal of laughter. As much of this year has been severely lacking in points one and four, my dearest friends have ordered a get together involving fluffy white robes, various pampering treatments and a few glasses of bubbly. With shiny toes of many colours, we will share a few bottles of bubbly, eat chocolates, dance, laugh, discuss our next steps, distance ourselves from our past mishaps and disasters, eat more chocolates, share our innermost thoughts and dreams during a few more bottles of bubbly, then return home to continue on with the precarious route through the rest of our lives.
While desparately braking at every turn, scraping my new patent pumps in a bid to slow down the ride, I will continue to live every minute to the full.
Life is short and so am I.
Today's lesson is merely to keep on and keep smiling.
What else is there?
Sunday, October 28, 2012
Education, Learning and Living Life to the Full
Two articles in this weekend's Guardian newspaper caught my eye - both on the themes of literacy and education, two of my passions. One was the continuing story of Malala Yousafzai, a 15 year old schoolgirl and blogger from Mingora, Pakistan who was shot as she returned home from a day at school - shot a point blank range by the Taliban for daring to pursue an education as a muslim girl. She is recovering after life saving surgery after being air lifted to the UK to the Queen Elizabeth Hospital in Birmingham. This young woman has shared her experiences through a regular blog for the BBC in which she not only promotes education for girls but also advises local authorities on the matter, but was shot by the Taliban for 'promoting secularism'. The Taliban have threatened to kill Malala if she returns to Pakistan. Muslim women and girls have been photographed with 'I am Malala' banners, showing support of this brave girl who intends to return home and is currently studying for her exams.
Frank Cottrell Boyce fears that children's love of books is at risk because of the way they are educated in schools. Reading for fun should be the emphasis he claims.
When I worked in East London some years ago, my aim was to educate students working through a 'broad and balanced curriculum' to help them become literate, numerate and hopefully live a balanced life where reading for enjoyment would be a part of it. Children learn best when their learning is interesting and fun, so regardless of whether I was teaching phonics or number bonds, the lessons had to engage the pupils.
However, what was central to my teaching and what was central to the message received by my children on an almost daily basis was the notion that Education brought Knowledge, Understanding and Power: the KUP (sp) of Education could bring the students purposeful and happy lives should they wish to work hard enough for it.
Older students needed to know that learning had a purpose. For some it was enough to enjoy a text or love writing their own stories. Yet, for others,in order to escape the cycle of poverty they lived in, learning was their way out - the key to a successful future.
These two stories in Saturday's Guardian were a stark contrast between two worlds and views on education.
School has a purpose first and foremost to give our students the tools they need to learn and be successful. If taught well, students will also develop their citizenship - becoming moderate, tolerant, kind, caring, intelligent and creative adults of the future.
Frank Boyce would do well to remember what good educators do best. We educate through every which medium we can to meet the needs of our students. I'm sure if Frank Boyce were to spend any amount of time in a good school, he would be reassured that we read for fun and children enjoy their lessons. Yet, it is sobering to remember that many children in our world walk through deserts or danger just to sit in on hard benches or dusty floors to listen to someone who may be able to change their lives for the better.
Frank Cottrell Boyce fears that children's love of books is at risk because of the way they are educated in schools. Reading for fun should be the emphasis he claims.
When I worked in East London some years ago, my aim was to educate students working through a 'broad and balanced curriculum' to help them become literate, numerate and hopefully live a balanced life where reading for enjoyment would be a part of it. Children learn best when their learning is interesting and fun, so regardless of whether I was teaching phonics or number bonds, the lessons had to engage the pupils.
However, what was central to my teaching and what was central to the message received by my children on an almost daily basis was the notion that Education brought Knowledge, Understanding and Power: the KUP (sp) of Education could bring the students purposeful and happy lives should they wish to work hard enough for it.
Older students needed to know that learning had a purpose. For some it was enough to enjoy a text or love writing their own stories. Yet, for others,in order to escape the cycle of poverty they lived in, learning was their way out - the key to a successful future.
These two stories in Saturday's Guardian were a stark contrast between two worlds and views on education.
School has a purpose first and foremost to give our students the tools they need to learn and be successful. If taught well, students will also develop their citizenship - becoming moderate, tolerant, kind, caring, intelligent and creative adults of the future.
Frank Boyce would do well to remember what good educators do best. We educate through every which medium we can to meet the needs of our students. I'm sure if Frank Boyce were to spend any amount of time in a good school, he would be reassured that we read for fun and children enjoy their lessons. Yet, it is sobering to remember that many children in our world walk through deserts or danger just to sit in on hard benches or dusty floors to listen to someone who may be able to change their lives for the better.
Saturday, October 20, 2012
All is not as it seems ...
Life has a tendency to amble on in its own sweet way while its participants frantically scrabble in the dirt to keep on track. My last year has been testimony to that. Plans are made, opportunities are grabbed with both hands, yet while life is experienced to the full, I often amaze myself that I manage to move forward with my life at all! Treading water feels like all there is some days, yet from time to time, I reflect on my present and realise that, perhaps, my life is moving in the right direction after all.
Over the last twelve months, I've turned my back on one life and braved the new. New in so much that I have embraced a new way of living my life - independently and by putting myself and my children first, allowing us the time and energy to nurture relationships with friends and family. Allowing myself to move on.
Teaching at one time seemed to be an avenue closed to me, yet as my health improved and the fog cleared, I saw that teaching, writing and being a mum to my boys was everything I needed.
And so, I have moved forward. My own teaching career and writing career running tandem, I am workshopping again and writing at every opportunity.
Recently, at a residential weekend in Essex, the students sparked with ideas and enthusiasm as we used Driftwood and Amethyst as a stimulus for children's own writing.
I saw myself in so many faces as we ran through a forest where benevolent Mother Nature attempted to scoop them up and keep them safe, as we stumbled along dark cobbled back streets to a puppet shop, where Zauberer, as only true evil can, stole their childhoods and trapped them, ever after. All without leaving the workshop floor.
As with many students, their planning and talking skills were sophisticated, wry and funny, yet when we talked about writing these young writers struggled to translate these ideas to the page. All that was required was the scaffolding, the guiding, the molding of th thoughts
We spent our day building characters, settings, plans before weaving together a rich tapestry of tales, soon to be published for the school as an anthology inspired by Driftwood and Amethyst and the imaginations of some promising young writers.
How I quite found myself sitting with such an enthusiastic group of young writers discussing my first novel, is almost beyond me, as life hasn't always been so generous. But by having a little faith in myself and surrounding myself with those who believe in me, life can now be enjoyed rather than merely endured.
Over the last twelve months, I've turned my back on one life and braved the new. New in so much that I have embraced a new way of living my life - independently and by putting myself and my children first, allowing us the time and energy to nurture relationships with friends and family. Allowing myself to move on.
Teaching at one time seemed to be an avenue closed to me, yet as my health improved and the fog cleared, I saw that teaching, writing and being a mum to my boys was everything I needed.
And so, I have moved forward. My own teaching career and writing career running tandem, I am workshopping again and writing at every opportunity.
Recently, at a residential weekend in Essex, the students sparked with ideas and enthusiasm as we used Driftwood and Amethyst as a stimulus for children's own writing.
I saw myself in so many faces as we ran through a forest where benevolent Mother Nature attempted to scoop them up and keep them safe, as we stumbled along dark cobbled back streets to a puppet shop, where Zauberer, as only true evil can, stole their childhoods and trapped them, ever after. All without leaving the workshop floor.
As with many students, their planning and talking skills were sophisticated, wry and funny, yet when we talked about writing these young writers struggled to translate these ideas to the page. All that was required was the scaffolding, the guiding, the molding of th thoughts
We spent our day building characters, settings, plans before weaving together a rich tapestry of tales, soon to be published for the school as an anthology inspired by Driftwood and Amethyst and the imaginations of some promising young writers.
How I quite found myself sitting with such an enthusiastic group of young writers discussing my first novel, is almost beyond me, as life hasn't always been so generous. But by having a little faith in myself and surrounding myself with those who believe in me, life can now be enjoyed rather than merely endured.
Friday, August 10, 2012
Olympic Dreams and Daydream Believers
As I write, the Olympics are in full swing. I have been swept along by the giddy rate with which Team GB have maintained a daily triumph of medals after medals - more silver and gold each day and as a Yorkshire girl, I have been rather proud to tally the number of medals this fair county has accrued. I know at one point, Yorkshire had more medals than Australia, though I didn't like to boast to my friends over there, instead maintaining a dignified, muted pride occasionally hinted at through various social media updates.
Watching these dedicated athletes displaying their glinting discs so proudly, I've been considering the time and persistance, the sweat and the emotional hurdles they must have gone through before achieving this level of excellence so desperately strived for. Note that I say strive, not crave or desire. Semantics matter.
How many other great swimmers, gymnasts and athletes started out with them so many years ago? How many others attended the Saturday morning swimming sessions at an early age and raced along side them, showing the same kind of talent? Those who succeed are the ones who keep trying. The Olympics are evidence of this to anyone who may still be looking for an easy route to success.
Craving and desiring are all very well, but they belong in the land of daydreams. While I spent many years wanting to be a published author, craving the buzz of seeing my name in print within the pages of a magazine or newspaper, I found myself no nearer my goals as time ticked along.
For years, I had filled notebooks and the most elegant of hardback journals with poetry, musings, diary entries and short stories, rarely sharing them and only to the most select of audieces, namely my doting parents and my ever enthusiastic grandmothers. Sharing with them was my safe option, as I knew they liked my work - they loved it in fact, often exclaiming that I should send it off and one day we would drink champagne at the first of many book launches. But that was their job. my parents and grandparents were wired to love my stories, to encourage and motivate me, for without them I may falter and give up on my dream.
Yet,deep inside I always knew that until I sent my work to agents and publishers, how would I ever know if my work was really any good?
By stepping outside and allowing others to see us at this most vulnerable of times as we try to succeed in something that means so much to us, we then step closer to our goal. One step braver, one step closer.
As Olympians bring home the fruits of their labours, I see many around me inspired to step outside and be seen - cycling, running, swimming - one step braver and one step closer to being who they want to be.
Not everyone wants to achieve such levels of greatness, but by being inspired and allowing these rolemodels to help us come closer to our own goals, we can all learn from their dedication and commitment.
So be brave and be bold. We must let ourselves be inspired. That's what makes life so interesting. Acting on our ambitions separates the brave and the bold from the daydream believers. As life ebbs away, I want to be able to say that I acted on my ambitions. I don't want to say I was just a fabulous daydreamer.
Watching these dedicated athletes displaying their glinting discs so proudly, I've been considering the time and persistance, the sweat and the emotional hurdles they must have gone through before achieving this level of excellence so desperately strived for. Note that I say strive, not crave or desire. Semantics matter.
How many other great swimmers, gymnasts and athletes started out with them so many years ago? How many others attended the Saturday morning swimming sessions at an early age and raced along side them, showing the same kind of talent? Those who succeed are the ones who keep trying. The Olympics are evidence of this to anyone who may still be looking for an easy route to success.
Craving and desiring are all very well, but they belong in the land of daydreams. While I spent many years wanting to be a published author, craving the buzz of seeing my name in print within the pages of a magazine or newspaper, I found myself no nearer my goals as time ticked along.
For years, I had filled notebooks and the most elegant of hardback journals with poetry, musings, diary entries and short stories, rarely sharing them and only to the most select of audieces, namely my doting parents and my ever enthusiastic grandmothers. Sharing with them was my safe option, as I knew they liked my work - they loved it in fact, often exclaiming that I should send it off and one day we would drink champagne at the first of many book launches. But that was their job. my parents and grandparents were wired to love my stories, to encourage and motivate me, for without them I may falter and give up on my dream.
Yet,deep inside I always knew that until I sent my work to agents and publishers, how would I ever know if my work was really any good?
By stepping outside and allowing others to see us at this most vulnerable of times as we try to succeed in something that means so much to us, we then step closer to our goal. One step braver, one step closer.
As Olympians bring home the fruits of their labours, I see many around me inspired to step outside and be seen - cycling, running, swimming - one step braver and one step closer to being who they want to be.
Not everyone wants to achieve such levels of greatness, but by being inspired and allowing these rolemodels to help us come closer to our own goals, we can all learn from their dedication and commitment.
So be brave and be bold. We must let ourselves be inspired. That's what makes life so interesting. Acting on our ambitions separates the brave and the bold from the daydream believers. As life ebbs away, I want to be able to say that I acted on my ambitions. I don't want to say I was just a fabulous daydreamer.
Friday, July 06, 2012
Conflict, Plot Holes and Loose Ends: All in a Day's Work!
I read with interest 'Don't Lose the Plot' in August's Writing Magazine. Lorena Goldsmith's article outlined many difficulties writers face when developing their manuscript from a basic outline to the fully formed manuscript.
Within the article, Lorena writes about weak conflicts and contrivance, two issues I am struggling with in my latest children's novel - my prequel to Driftwood and Amethyst, currently known as Before Driftwood (working title).
I, too, am constantly striving to ensure that the conflicts faced by my two main characters, Holly and Ethan, are believable and uncontrived - within the story's universe of course. I so hate it in novels when a character suddenly stumbles upon a hidden trap door or finds a book with the hidden key inside within five seconds of entering the mansion's library. I strive to weave a plausible storyline where plot points seem to occur organically.
Sometimes, my story will spin out itself and the troubles faced by my characters come naturally out of prior situations, but it is when I find myself needing to arrive at plot point D while languishing at point B with no real sense of direction, that situations can seem contrived and have to be heavily edited if not axed at a later editing stage! I love to hear writers who find this process happens naturally for them, but I suspect that blood, sweat and tears are shed at some point in the story-writing process. It's never that easy!
In my case, I currently have Ethan needing to be caught in a situation he will not be able to escape from but where Holly will find him, unaware that her efforts to save him are futile. It is a situation they have learned other children have been caught up in, yet in their attempts to solve the problem the boy has become the latest victim. I have outlined the plot, sketching over this, and after writing the section when Holly realises where Ethan has gone, I have leapt a few chapters and am currently writing from the point where Holly has found him. I have no idea how he became trapped. Maybe, my weekend outing to Derbyshire with my dear Dad will inspire me. He knows the area inside out and is prepared to show me landscape features similar to those stumbled upon by my main characters. I'm hoping that walking in their footsteps, so to speak, will help the story evolve or maybe this will remain a problem for some time to come. For now I have no idea how I will get from A to C. B just is not happening for me yet.
I'm learning that I can't always write from beginning to end, as I have done previously, in fear of the story creaking and spluttering along with unnecessary fluff to move the reader along.
My writing style is starting to resemble building a tapestry, section by section, with no particular order, but in sections, with layers of colour being added to complement each other. This way, I'm finding that if I am struggling with the chronology of a story, particularly when more than one character is central to the story, I am writing one character's journey section, then perhaps flick to another section. However, this is within a detailed outline within which I've not yet worked out the cause and effect. A little messy at this stage, but the edit is where the picture becomes clear. (I hope!)
I write on my lap top chronologically, then as soon as the structure becomes more complicated, I focus on one line of the story, writing in my notebook, in seperate files on my laptop, on post-it notes and diary pages, then compile them each week as they find their way.
I'm not even sure I enjoy this rather fragmented framework as it is building, but it certainly allows me time and space to develop my plots and strengthen my characters' motivations behind their actions.
I love to see the full story emerge and the twists and turns finally come together, yet at this point it seems such a long way away.
Lorena suggests writing a very detailed synopsis of the story. When I have my first draft, I will certainly do this, in a bid to see the story outline in full. By sharing it with a few key readers, their responses will guide me on the next edit. Her guide to their responses should stand me in good stead:
If the reader says: My next steps are to . . .
Is that it? Suspend disbelief and
strengthen story
Give me a break! Make more realistic,
convincing
But what happens? Get to the plot sooner
Hang on, but you said ... Make story consistent
But what happened to ... Tie up loose ends
Right. I'd better get back to Ethan - he's trapped deep below ground and time's running out!
Within the article, Lorena writes about weak conflicts and contrivance, two issues I am struggling with in my latest children's novel - my prequel to Driftwood and Amethyst, currently known as Before Driftwood (working title).
I, too, am constantly striving to ensure that the conflicts faced by my two main characters, Holly and Ethan, are believable and uncontrived - within the story's universe of course. I so hate it in novels when a character suddenly stumbles upon a hidden trap door or finds a book with the hidden key inside within five seconds of entering the mansion's library. I strive to weave a plausible storyline where plot points seem to occur organically.
Sometimes, my story will spin out itself and the troubles faced by my characters come naturally out of prior situations, but it is when I find myself needing to arrive at plot point D while languishing at point B with no real sense of direction, that situations can seem contrived and have to be heavily edited if not axed at a later editing stage! I love to hear writers who find this process happens naturally for them, but I suspect that blood, sweat and tears are shed at some point in the story-writing process. It's never that easy!
In my case, I currently have Ethan needing to be caught in a situation he will not be able to escape from but where Holly will find him, unaware that her efforts to save him are futile. It is a situation they have learned other children have been caught up in, yet in their attempts to solve the problem the boy has become the latest victim. I have outlined the plot, sketching over this, and after writing the section when Holly realises where Ethan has gone, I have leapt a few chapters and am currently writing from the point where Holly has found him. I have no idea how he became trapped. Maybe, my weekend outing to Derbyshire with my dear Dad will inspire me. He knows the area inside out and is prepared to show me landscape features similar to those stumbled upon by my main characters. I'm hoping that walking in their footsteps, so to speak, will help the story evolve or maybe this will remain a problem for some time to come. For now I have no idea how I will get from A to C. B just is not happening for me yet.
I'm learning that I can't always write from beginning to end, as I have done previously, in fear of the story creaking and spluttering along with unnecessary fluff to move the reader along.
My writing style is starting to resemble building a tapestry, section by section, with no particular order, but in sections, with layers of colour being added to complement each other. This way, I'm finding that if I am struggling with the chronology of a story, particularly when more than one character is central to the story, I am writing one character's journey section, then perhaps flick to another section. However, this is within a detailed outline within which I've not yet worked out the cause and effect. A little messy at this stage, but the edit is where the picture becomes clear. (I hope!)
I write on my lap top chronologically, then as soon as the structure becomes more complicated, I focus on one line of the story, writing in my notebook, in seperate files on my laptop, on post-it notes and diary pages, then compile them each week as they find their way.
I'm not even sure I enjoy this rather fragmented framework as it is building, but it certainly allows me time and space to develop my plots and strengthen my characters' motivations behind their actions.
I love to see the full story emerge and the twists and turns finally come together, yet at this point it seems such a long way away.
Lorena suggests writing a very detailed synopsis of the story. When I have my first draft, I will certainly do this, in a bid to see the story outline in full. By sharing it with a few key readers, their responses will guide me on the next edit. Her guide to their responses should stand me in good stead:
If the reader says: My next steps are to . . .
Is that it? Suspend disbelief and
strengthen story
Give me a break! Make more realistic,
convincing
But what happens? Get to the plot sooner
Hang on, but you said ... Make story consistent
But what happened to ... Tie up loose ends
Right. I'd better get back to Ethan - he's trapped deep below ground and time's running out!
Tuesday, June 26, 2012
Writing the Novel - A Seminar by Millie Johnson & Victoria Howard
Attending a seminar run by Millie Johnson and Victoria Howard a couple of weeks ago in Barnsley, South Yorkshire was, for me, a chance to indulge in an afternoon meeting favourite authors, like-minded creatures and partake in a little complementary afternoon tea. It became, in short, nothing less than a series of lightbulb moments.
With newly purchased novels and a goody bag of booklets,magazines and a delicately packaged silver bookmark, we were ready to begin.
The afternoon was split in to two sessions; each author giving a talk on their own distinct process of writing, then the methods they employed to achieve publication - in the 'traditional sense' rather than the self publication route.
Millie's seminar: 'Writers Write (Dreamers Procrastinate)' took us through a history of Millie's career from her early days as a copy writer for card companies, a divorce, house-move and years of night time writing sessions as her children slept. She shared with us the reality of writing two or three books before an agent takes you on and the frustrations felt if pursuing publishers fruitlessly. We were warned away from that avenue and told that an agent will get the work for you, find your deal, rates and support your fledgling career. They work very hard for their 15%. It was all starting to sound rather complicated.
"Writing isn't easy or everyone would be doing it. The first 2000 words are a doddle. It's the next 118,000 words which are slightly more difficult."
Millie gave everyone hope as she told us how she worked hard and often through the night while working a day job as well, but with a small plan to write 250 words a day, we could achieve 91,000 words in a year. A novel! Of course that's the first draft, then comes the fun part, the edit.
"It doesn't matter what routine you've got, as long as you've got one."
With newly purchased novels and a goody bag of booklets,magazines and a delicately packaged silver bookmark, we were ready to begin.
The afternoon was split in to two sessions; each author giving a talk on their own distinct process of writing, then the methods they employed to achieve publication - in the 'traditional sense' rather than the self publication route.
Millie's seminar: 'Writers Write (Dreamers Procrastinate)' took us through a history of Millie's career from her early days as a copy writer for card companies, a divorce, house-move and years of night time writing sessions as her children slept. She shared with us the reality of writing two or three books before an agent takes you on and the frustrations felt if pursuing publishers fruitlessly. We were warned away from that avenue and told that an agent will get the work for you, find your deal, rates and support your fledgling career. They work very hard for their 15%. It was all starting to sound rather complicated.
"Writing isn't easy or everyone would be doing it. The first 2000 words are a doddle. It's the next 118,000 words which are slightly more difficult."
Stephen King
Millie gave everyone hope as she told us how she worked hard and often through the night while working a day job as well, but with a small plan to write 250 words a day, we could achieve 91,000 words in a year. A novel! Of course that's the first draft, then comes the fun part, the edit.
"It doesn't matter what routine you've got, as long as you've got one."
Millie Johnson
This has been a long standing issue for me, having the time to write, but I had been setting myself the goal of 1000 words a day, then feeling frustrated when the targets weren't reached. Already, a plan was forming to get back in to the habit of writing every day.
"Discipline is a learned behaviour, not a natural one."
Millie took us through examples of her own writing and then a few "How not to's" to illustrate her methods when developing pace, character and tension.
"Keep the pace fast. Every chapter should progress the story and not be mere padding."
We broke for a rather pleasant afternoon tea: cuppa and a scone with all the trimmings and tiny portions of every cream cake imaginable. Thankfully, I was in the company of like-minded individuals and everyone had a few trolly trips to sample the varied delights.
My friend and I met with Jo Robinson who is a journalist with the Sheffield Star and before we knew it we had been interviewed and photographed (much to my horror - but if I make it in to the feature it will be a little welcome publicity for Driftwood & Amethyst!)
I thought Victoria's seminar would be much more about romance fiction. Initially, I squirmed at this after recently being subjected to book one and half of book two of Fifty Shades (I know - I gave up!), but apparently that is erotic fiction. However, while she currently writes romance fiction in the main, she quickly clarified that her seminar would apply to all fiction genres and would also touch on the romantic genre.
Victoria encouraged us all to read, read, read - for fun, for analysis, for awareness of modern and classic writers in your preferred genre.
She was quick to explain that her and Millie plan very differently, write very differently and have trodden different paths to achieve traditional publication. She was keen to point out that there is no one formula to creating a novel - if there was, someone would have developed a computer program which would write the novel for you after your input of name, place, plot etc.
Victoria spoke often about being an observer at all times, taking notes of interesting little moments as each day unfolds - these may come to nothing but the may start a germ of an idea for a later novel.
Victoria outlined her main points as follows:
- In order to plot, you must have conflict - something bad has to happen.
- Reveal a twisting plot slowly, with the stakes high and the end always in doubt.
- Start with a bang - something that will hook your reader in to turning the pages.
- Build tension, and then offer a few resting moments, then add complication after complication, until all appears to be lost.
- What arises in one scene should cause something to happen in the next, so that your story flows. Ifit doesn't, then your story becomes episodic. Think of conflict in a scene as the cause and the character's reaction as the effect that the conflict has on her./him.
- When all seems lost, your main characters should refuse to give in and then launch their final try/attack and emerge triumphant (perhaps?)
- Satisfy your reader with a solid ending resolving any mystery.
Victoria went in to much detail about character development, which for me, is where her seminar became particularly useful. Her main points were as follows:
- character development makes or breaks a novel ( I'm well aware that I've given up on many books when I've not believed in or cared about the characters)
- Every character should have something personal at stake in the emerging conflict, something that motivates them to achieve their goal
- Their external goal drives the plot and is usually something obvious to the reader such as seeking revenge or finding a child etc
- Their internal goal is usually an emotional goal and something every reader could relate to, such as winning respect or approval. This reveals your main characters' weaknesses and vulnerabilities.
- On that note, every character should have a vulnerability, a moral code (something they would never do) and should evolve through the course of the novel.
- Names should reflect the character and not jar with it and be appropriate for the time period and style.
Her section on tension was equally as interesting and has informed my more recent writing over the last few weeks.As tension is what 'hooks the reader' we were told, it is of paramount importance that you get the following details right:
- A time limit
- Emotional tension
- Dialogue written well can cause tension
- Pace - a well written novel abbs and flows
- With each crisis point the story speeds up
- Short choppy sentences with active verbs signal tension while long, meandering sentences imply a leisurely pace.
- Sexual tension exacerbates tension - what is this relationship?
Victoria's thoughts on developing a setting for a story:
- changing a location moves on a story and develops pace.
- planning the location references is key
- draw a map if necessary or take photos to keep a real location true or an imagined location realistic.
- let the setting be explored through the characters' eyes. Show don't tell.
We were taken through examples of character sheets, story planning ideas and were treated to a very generous Q&A session at the end.
Many concerns were raised and answered sensitively, positively yet with a realistic note. We were told that not all writers became novelists, not all writers wanted to publish more than one book, yet some of us, those of us who were prepared to do the 'graft', the hard work necessary and were persistent - with every novel - until taken on by an agent, there would be a place for our books on the shelves of bookshelves everywhere.
Writing is certainly not a soft option,we were told. No fluffy pink stories of publication here.We were warned of the shortfalls, the late nights, the constant re-edits, redrafting and the alarming timescales for publications sometimes. Tempered with the early low incomes to be expected until you have a few published books under your belt and the warning that writing may only ever be your second job, Millie and Victoria pulled no punches. The audience sat in silence as the seminar drew to a close.
"But if that hasn't put you off", Millie Johnson smiled, "you might just make it."
N.B - A Selection of Bookshelf Musts - (I was on eBay the minute I arrived home from the seminar to purchase On Writing by Stephen King as this one was mentioned throughout)
- On Writing - Stephen King
- The 38 Most Common Fiction Mistakes - Jack M Bickham
- Goal, Motivation, Conflict - Debra Dixon
- Conflict, Action, Suspense - William Noble
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