I started a novel a couple of years ago. I got well in but never finished it because I was not a master of craft in those days, (as I am now, ha ha!) but I instinctively knew I was digging myself into a supersized pit. In those days the acronym POV meant nothing to me, or,  if I was pressed for an answer, I'd probably chance People of Vulcan . Also incorrect use of flashbacking and info dumping and showing and telling were giant obstacles to my greatness.

However.

I did know my characters. All of the characters in that story, I know them, well, just like people. And one day I will return to it. But not yet. Because I'm now totally committed to this other story  I must  write first. And the story is here. Mostly. But my character has not arrived. I mean I know her rough age and many key events in her life. But I realised yesterday that I don’t know her spirit at all. Most of my characters turn up and I get a sense of them straight away. But this lady is hiding her essence from me. I wonder why. Maybe I have been underestimating her trauma. Maybe what’s she’s enduring is more numbing and destructive than I’ve allowed for. Maybe I need to write a short story with her in it just to get a better feel of her. Although I have written loads about her. Loads, and nothing seems to pin her down. Anyway, I’m just musing aloud here. She won’t even tell me her name. (We're on name three at the moment but I still don't think that's it.) But I won’t give up on her. I’ve a feeling she’ll crack soon. J

I’ve always thought  those stories about putting your foot into a shoe with a “creature” of some sort in it were a little bit unlikely. Not any more. After staying in the family home this Christmas, I woke up in the morning realising I hadn’t packed any slippers, so I sleepily put my bare feet into the pair of shoes I wore yesterday. Everything OK so far. Yes, there was a little tickle. The kind that might make you think that a stray carpet fibre had made it’s way into the shoe with you, but it was difficult to pin down, sometimes there, sometimes not there at all. Eventually I made my way to the living room and while taking to my mother, I decided all was not right with my shoe/foot relationship. It began to feel like maybe a piece of shoe lining had come loose, but I didn’t think my shoes had lining. I decided to investigate. Such was my lack of belief in the likelihood of there being a minicritter in my shoe that I didn’t hesitate to stick my hand blindly into it. Aha! There was lining coming loose up at the toe, no, down by the heel, now it was loose and on my hand. I think my brain just got in ahead of my eyes. It realised there was something living in there just as I withdrew my hand with a humongous spider on it. The beast was solid and substantial, had a fair bit of leg height to it, and strangely, despite having to share shoe room with my feet, was curiously springy and uncrumpled looking. It was a spider aglow with rude health. I only note this retrospectively. At the time all I could do was throw shoe and spider away from me fairly strenuously and run for the door, not screaming or being loud or anything, in fact just about able to whisper, “spider in my shoe.”

My mother put him outside, which he’s not going to like as I doubt a spider could grow to that size without the benefits of central heating. Actually looking at it from the spider’s point of view he’s had an all round miserable morning. First he got rudely awoken from what probably seemed like dream sleeping quarters, then he had me wriggling my toes around, probably squishing him against the side of my shoe, then he’s flung very unkindly onto the floor and finally he’s turfed out of the house he probably grew up in. I feel a little sorry for him. I don’t dislike spiders, I just don’t like them crawling around in my toes.

My brother came to visit later. He greeted me with , “I hear Incy Wincy got ya,”

I console myself with the superstition that if a spider crawls on you, money is coming your way. By the size of that one, I’m due a lottery. J

I am tired but tomorrow at twelve o clock I will be getting my holidays. That is what I am happy about today. Tomorrow I will be happy because I will be actually on holidays. Holidays provide me with a lot of happiness. Eight days worth, at least.

As I promised, a quick writing update. It’s difficult to write a post about how it’s going, hard to pin down the process or even quantify the results, but I‘ll try. I’ve returned to longhand. That’s concrete. I’ve finally realised that I type way too badly for anyone who’s taking writing seriously. Therefore I have bought a copy of Mavis Beacon Teaches Typing and I’m working my way through it. Although I’m a pretty fast typist, I make a deplorable amount of mistakes and the time wasting involved is considerable. So hence the return to longhand. Plus longhand means that I can’t really edit as I go. Plus I find it kind of freeing. Also I can write anywhere I want, no special equipment required.

It’s hard to say what I’m writing at the moment beyond that it is somehow part of the novel. Sometimes I wonder is it usable first draft or is it just outline. For example in one scene, which is definitely a scene, I make reference to three other smaller scenes which are not written, but I wonder would I be better writing them than just referring to them. I guess what I’m asking myself is, is it a bit telly when it should be more show? But I have decided to leave all such questions to percolate and plough on regardless. I have a good feeling about this. Maybe not about the quality so far, but definitely about my own ability to finish. It will be done. Plus I’m always way more enthusiastic about reworking than getting the first draft down. There’s something way less terrifying about sitting at the computer with a few written pages to work off even if they’re utter tosh, and what you finally end up with bears no relation what-so-ever to what you began with. Maybe that’s because the first draft/outline is so terrifyingly bad, but if you stop to perfect you lose the momentum and the magic,  but at least when you’re reworking you have captured (a word I use loosely) the essence of what you want to convey and so you can stop to take the time to make it more closely resemble publishable prose. Maybe. So on I go, mud wrestling snakes in a fire pit, which is how I heard novel writing being described once except that person didn’t mention fire pits so I guess she found novel writing easier than I do. J

However there is a complication. We are being inspected at work. This is an event which takes place every five to ten years though with the shortage of inspectors as with everything else, the event is more likely to take place at ten year intervals than not. I’m not going to say too much about it except to say that’s it’s stressful, paperwork heavy, and there’s even more added complications that I won’t go into here. If you really want to know, drop me an email and I’ll endeavour to explain a little further. So, yes, it is a little, (a lot) energy draining, but the worst will be over within a fortnight although it will start up again in the New Year, but that, I’m hoping will be less head wrecking.

I have decided not to stop writing though, as if a person was to stop writing every time there was a half decent excuse, well, there’s be no writing done in this world at all.

Oh, and one other thing, when ever a chapter/scene refuses to cooperate, (be born) I try and name the chapter before I begin. That somehow seems to make me focus on what is important about this event(s) and helps me pull it together. The current chapter is called “Shame.” It was called “Shame and Guilt,” but then I couldn’t see what Guilt added to the equation.

I number each handwritten page as I go, I tend to write about five at a time, that seems to be my writing distance, and then I give them a number equating to the order I wrote them in, slip them into a clear plastic A4 folder and then into a file. I know, from past bitter experience, how difficult it is to sort out longhand sections afterwards if a person hasn’t kept on top of them from the beginning.

In other news, I have received no acknowledgement that WOTF received my story. I emailed Joni last Tuesday as this is what I was advised to do on the WOTF forum but no response there either. So now I don’t know whether they got it or not. Oh well, double crossed fingers.

And finally, my hair seems to have turned a corner. I no longer weep at my own image. The only aspect of it that puzzles me still is a particular layering section cut into the area over my left ear. It’s bizarre. That’s the only term for it. I can’t imagine why anyone would think a clump of hair over one ear is a beautifying feature. Anyway, now that I have accumulated some hair again, I may return to the hairdresser’s chair and try for more unified look while it’s still winter and any disasters can still be covered with a cap. That’s all for now. When next I update, Inspection Mark One shall be complete and I shall more closely resemble a writer.

Wish me strength. J And Grace.

Last night I almost stole a car. Well, not really almost, but as tempted as I’ve ever been. While I was out walking, a young man roared up to a shop in an old banger, and got out, leaving the engine running. As it happened, I had to cross the road at that moment, so, as I did, I looked at the car, just wondering why he’d left it running and whether there was a passenger left inside to assure it’s safety. This glance took perhaps half a second. There was no passenger, but as I looked up, I saw the young man, walking backwards, staring at me, as if now doubting that it was really safe to leave his car with the key in the ignition. He interested me. I wondered whether his nerve would now crack and he’d go back and lock his car. He didn’t but he walked slower, all the time watching me, while I watched him. At the door of the shop, it became obvious to him that he’d have to go inside and leave me out there with his now vulnerable car, so he stood in the doorway and watched me until he thought I was a reasonable distance from the car. It was dark so he couldn’t see my face but I could see his (tough and threatening but oddly anxious) in the shop lights. The second the shop door closed, I got this giant impulse to run back and get into the car and drive it a few hundred feet down the road. I don’t know how I resisted the urge. I’m not sure if I should have. J

Writing update later. Yes, I have been good.

I’ve managed to solve a gaping great plot hole in “The Book.” I’m sitting here in a bit of a daze thinking, did I really do that? Is it done? Can it be true, or will I wake up tomorrow morning and go, “ah s**t, it’s not solved at all.” But I think it is. I’m stunned, because I’ve been carrying this problem around with me for as long as I’ve been thinking about this book almost, knowing it was there and trusting I would solve it, but coming up against a wall every time I tried.

Tonight I solved it. I feel weak. And happy. No, thrilled with the solution.  It’s a teeny weenie bit like winning the lottery, I imagine. J

So I’m doing my first of November check in. And check up on you all.

First a great big congrats to  xanthalanari for winning WOTF. I know I’ve congratulated her on her blog but it’s WOTF. How can there be too many congratulations?

Next, my story is up at Flash Me Magazine. Seeing as it’s the feature story you can read it here.

There is no point attempting to gather the events and insights of the days since I last blogged into anything resembling a coherent seamless post so I think I’m just going to list things as they occur to me in a completely random way.

Writing has been slow but I don’t mind. I’ve had a few nice moments, characters popping up in the early hours of the morning to tell me their names, a serendipitous documentary about exactly what I needed a serendipitous documentary to be about. Mostly I’m glad I’ve decided not to blog too much about it. J

I’ve decided not to do Nano although I have signed up, but mainly because I enjoy getting the emails from famous writers. J

The plot bunny struck just as I was winding down my short stories efforts. “Just write me,” it whinnied (momentarily morphing into the plot pony)” I’m practically fully formed and missing no pieces and besides I’m exciting and all conflictius." I resisted bravely, bleating (there is apparently a little known prize for referencing animals while talking about short stories, that I’m trying to win) that I would be sure to scribble down the its bare bones and get back to it in the next decade or so. Then my seven year old niece came to stay and insisted we both write stories and draw pictures out in the sub zero garden shed(playhouse in her language.) I outlined and drew illustrations (at her command) of my plot bunny story and guess what? Yup. The b*****d had lied. It was missing two legs and an ear. Excellent! I put it in the “next decade” pile without even the slightest elements of guilt.

I sent a story to Strange Horizons. Not sure it’s their thing but hey! Won’t know till I try. They had a beautiful story up there this week, “Nine Sundays In A Row” Just beautiful.

Back to the niece. She stayed over this week. We drew, froze in the shed, made magic ponies, fed seagulls, went for a misguidedly long walk, took out library member ship, went for lunch, etc. Yes it was lovely but I slept for twelve hours straight when she went home and apparently sounded like a zombie (or should that be a mummy J ) on the phone the next day . How do parents still live? Surely, by my calculations, all the life should be squeezed out of them by the time the first child is four and three quarters.

I’ve told her she can stay over again at Christmas. I should just about have recovered by then.

I had a remarkably complete science fiction dream. In it I was man. ( I caught a glimpse of myself and I was pretty good looking too, all blond wavy hair and an angst filled determinedly rugged (yet artsy) kind of face. I would have made a good romantic hero if my dream was about being a romantic hero, but it was not. It was about staying alive in a galaxy where there was a question mark over my human status. Apparently I was on a team-building mission with two others where we had to solve some relatively trivial challenge in order for my team to earn a place on a particular ship (When I say ship, I mean the ocean going kind. Seemed like a military vessel now that I think of it.) However because of my doubtful human status, my team were not too thrilled with me for even being on their team, never mind solving the puzzle. Neither was the crew of the ship apparently. My solving the puzzle drew their attention on to me and suddenly I was being chased. However I had a friend it seemed, and he quickly sent a yellow self propelled motor bike to my aid. Then my questionable human status became clear to me. Apparently my mother was from another galaxy and all machines (including the yellow motor bike) were keyed in to only operate when trigged by the particular DNA of humans from that galaxy.  I woke up with the line, “My mother was from another galaxy,” ringing in my head. Hey! Analyse that. Wonder will I ever write the novel set in the world that dream suggests.

So that’s about all. I’m off to check what you’re all up to. See you all next month.