Tag Archives: Book 4

My lockdown novel

10 Thursday Jun 2021

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Exactly two months since I scribbled anything here. Largely because I haven’t had much to say. I’ve been busy though – scattering words onto the page for a fifth book & for the past month or so, editing my fourth, Only May, which is penciled in for publication next year.

Only May began life about two years ago, several months before the pandemic hit. I’ve mentioned before, the genesis of this story: how I was driving home from the dentist, dazzled by the glory that is the May blossom. It seemed to have a tinge of pink & felt magical to me. I imagined a girl, born on the first day of May & named for the blossom; wondered, for no reason I can now recall, what if she could tell when people lied to her? If, when they looked her directly in the eye & lied, she knew. And that was the small beginning.


As I was still editing my third novel, Wild Spinning Girls, progress was sporadic. I’m an inveterate note compiler however & write my stories erratically anyway, so I was getting something down. It wasn’t until after the launch of WSG just weeks before the first lockdown, that I settled in to write the book proper. It’s been a fabulous process. With no distractions, I listened for the word birds, cracked on & wrote it.

Image: Gareth Lucas

That said, it still took me almost eighteen months before I felt the manuscript was good enough to submit. I know writers who can create a book in a few months. This both impresses & amazes me. I am not one of them! I’m a plodder. And I don’t put in impressively long hours either; not on a regular basis. (When I’m editing mind, I nail myself to the PC & only emerge from my study to eat & sleep, but that’s another story.) I do show up pretty much every day though & for me, that is the secret. Show up & write. Even through a pandemic. Particularly through a pandemic? My work has kept me sane, kept me connected to what brings me joy. And I love this new story more than I can say.

Only May is a slight departure from my previous books – it’s more intimate, on a smaller scale & written mostly in first person present.

Image: Toma Joksaite

It’s my lockdown novel. And it has bees. Watch this space!

   “I’m the girl who sees beyond the glint in your eye, around your over-confidence and through to the truth and I can hear the earth hum, the way the bees do. Ever since I was a tiny baby and they started talking to me, it’s seemed rude not to take notice.
   Bees don’t lie.”

Lost & found

14 Sunday Feb 2021

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The Welsh talk about ‘hwyl‘ – meaning motivation – & I confess, over the past months mine has disappeared down the back of the sofa a bit. Not least with regard to this blog. Mislaid is perhaps a better description. And ‘found’ is laying down an expectation so all in all, the title of this post is a total misnomer! Whatever, I miss it; three months is, I think, the longest I’ve left it so today I shall scribble.

In those three months I have finished my fourth book – Only May – submitted it & been told by my delightful editor/publisher that she ‘likes May very much’. As in lockdown, so in publishing & the wheels turn slowly. To be honest, the pace has always suited me. Waiting to be ‘liked’ notwithstanding, working with a small press does mean a slower turn round than with bigger, busier presses. Because it takes me ages to write my stories, I’m perfectly content to wait.


While I do, I write. My word birds have been busy & although me & my hwyl are in ongoing negotiations, I have been showing up. (Writing a book is at least 75% showing up in my view.) The last few months then have seen me working on Book 5. It’s another ghost story. Gothic as all get out, it features a lady undertaker, a creepy old house, twin girls, a ghost & lots of sparrows. The hedge below my window hasn’t been cut through lockdown & the resident sparrows are revelling in their enhanced living quarters. They are defiantly, gregariously glorious! Who needs crows? they cry. Who needs magpies & rooks when they can have sparrows? Look at us – are we not magnificent little birds?

Quite. Hard to resist & once I began to map out the story I realised I wanted to include them. There is a magical thread involving these charming birds too; a story within the story if you like. Watch this space? Quite.

Only May is set in the 50s. Reluctant to write a book set in the present day (I have no desire to write a pandemic novel) for this new one I decided to go even further back in time. Between the wars to be precise. 1923. It’s another challenge. In no way am I a historical novelist (or a historian!) but I do find the era fascinating. The ‘Roaring Twenties’ & ‘Bright Young Things’ notwithstanding, after WW1 women were beginning to feel more empowered & confident. In Book 5, the Representation of the People Act, giving women like Lydia – my central character – the vote is still five years away. It doesn’t mean she isn’t brave & feisty; prepared to fight for what is her birthright. Or, when her life takes an unexpected turn, test her courage when her innate pragmatism is confronted by a ghost.

Nothing is truly lost – we may have lost a year (it could be another – who knows?) but for the writers, our imaginations never completely stop offering story ideas. I know mine doesn’t. It may be some time before I write here again, mind. On the other hand, it could be tomorrow. In the meantime, I shall do my best. Show up, scribble, read & ponder. Listen for the birds. Thank you for reading. Stay safe, be kind, & if you haven’t got one, be your own Valentine*! xXx

Mrs Woolf, the word birds & moments of fear

01 Sunday Nov 2020

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In the interests of honesty, the following quotation isn’t one I ‘randomly’ came upon during my morning dip into Mrs Woolf’s A Writer’s Diary. I deliberately searched for it. I know the book well enough to roughly recall where to look for what I need when it’s specific.

Two chapters away from finishing my fourth novel, Only May, I’m acutely aware of how I need to take it slowly and get it right. This is the shortest book I’ve written, the most compact in terms of scale. It takes place over the course of the month of May. Four weeks to tell a story doesn’t afford a lot of leeway to create a viable plot. It’s easy to obsess over the minutiae, at the expense of moving the story on. And because it’s a little lighter, wordwise, the temptation to rush is ever present.

“I shall solve it somehow, I suppose. Then I must go on to the question of quality. I think I may run too fast and free and so be rather thin.“

What with one lockdown and another, I’ve found it easy to stick to a writing schedule. In fact, I’ve been up with birds these past few weeks, eager to see what my feathered friends have left for me. They haven’t disappointed.

The best thing about writing a novel is the way, in spite of the fear, there comes a point when you allow yourself to believe it might be working. For a while, when I hit the halfway mark I’d convinced myself I was kidding myself. And it was a character who saved me – one who I had initially introduced simply as a convenient hook to hang my central character’s dawning realisation on: her conviction that things were not as they seemed. She has developed into a crucial reality and a woman of solid substance.

The fear by the way is real. I’ve scribbled about it before. How sneaky it is, how insidious. And yet how necessary. Once we begin believing, because we’ve had three books (pick a number) published, we might be a legend in our own lunchtime, we’ve lost our way.

Which bring me neatly to ‘the question of quality‘ Mrs W refers to. She means editing. She means structure and shape and how the thing sits on the page. Wordcount notwithstanding, once I have these final chapters down, I shall have to mess it up. (Technical publishing term – honestly.)

May is my new favourite (sorry Other Characters) largely because she has challenged me. For a while I wasn’t sure where we were going. She did. I’m so pleased I trusted her.

Staying afloat

06 Sunday Sep 2020

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Yet again, I write this largely for myself. Keeping this somewhat random record of my writing process does help keep me focused. And afloat.

A few weeks ago I went wild swimming in a beautiful lake with an island at its centre where swans breed & raise their young. It was both idyllic & therapeutic. I’ve missed swimming & it was a treat to be in the water. Good for my body & my psyche.

Swimming is like riding a bike – you really don’t forget how to stay afloat. And staying afloat as a writer is a similar experience. As I’ve mentioned before, owing to unexpected health issues, my hwyl for my craft has taken a few knocks recently but as not writing is only ever a short, temporary option for me, it does come back.

The plan I mentioned in my previous post worked well. New Moon. Show up. Crack on. I’ve even taken to word counting again, mostly to encourage myself. I’m now past the halfway stage – ‘over the hump’ as a sister writer calls it. Out of the shallows, I say, swimming not floundering.

And I’m ready to tell you what I’ve finally decided to call this new story: Only May, a tale of lies & liars, secrets & bees… There may be ghosts…

I love it very much & wish only to do my characters justice. And finish it! In particular, I want to do my best for May herself. A girl who charmed me from the moment I ‘met’ her, last May, driving home from the dentist when the hawthorn was in bloom. For the most part, May is telling the story. Her voice above everyone else’s leads it. So yes – show up, crack on, etc.

If I’ve done it three times, surely, I can do it again? This then is my world. These are my words; these are my books.

 

Instances of the abandoned blog & ghosts of words already written…

16 Sunday Aug 2020

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‘Hello Book 4 my old friend…’ are words I have uttered over the past month, on too many occasions to record. Each rekindling of the relationship with my newest story has been brief. The ups & downs of my personal hibernating life mean there have been too many days when my current story has languished. The result: too few reasons to write a blog post. I guess it’s a symptom of the current zeitgeist; like everyone else, writers are under pressure of one kind & another. Add unexpected drama into my particular mix & is it any wonder I’ve been tardy?

In précis: I’ve been hors de combat.


Unexpectedly & not without a little drama. The one is boring, the other – well, dear reader, who knew one small fall could result in so many bruises! Recovering well now, I finally find I need to chat, to myself if to no one else, about my newest foray into storytelling.

Had I been told, in 2016 when Ghostbird was published, that four & a half years later I’d be writing my fourth novel, I’d have imagined someone was kidding. And yet here I am, almost 40k into an odd little tale I’m growing extremely fond of. Considering I’ve been writing it since last year though, 40k is a meagre wordcount. Before lockdown, because I was sure of the story’s simplicity, I believed I would have a first draft done in a few months. Ha!

Another thing I’m learning about this writing lark is, when a story exists on a very small canvas, the intricacies become more crucial. Intimacy requires as much attention to detail as any sweeping saga. In addition, I’m being ‘told’ by my characters what they want to do (it was ever thus.) Plot tangents have flung themselves into the mix with gay abandon; new characters charm me & a far better version of the end lifts my heart. But even though I have all this – literally: a beginning, a middle & an end – I somehow find myself stuck on pause. I’m back & forth through what I have already written, faffing & rewriting, endlessly (unless I’m not – cos ‘drama’) playing with ‘perfection’ rather than moving the story on. I am continually haunted by the ghosts of words already written: ones sitting nicely on the page, thank you very much.

For goodness sake, woman, be brave! Write another, fresh, 40k!

Essentially, I’m elevating my ‘edit as I go’ inclination to new & ridiculous heights. Fear of failure is a factor for sure (sorry/not sorry: excessive alliteration.) Goes with the territory. Largely, I suspect it’s a case of ‘drama’ in a time of lockdown causing creatus interruptus. I may have to conjure a plan.

Just checked diary. It’s a new moon on Wednesday.

That’ll do it. Fingers crossed!

Odd numbers & beautiful spaces

28 Sunday Jun 2020

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Checking my desk diary, I see the number “99” – circled. (I was never going to make a thing of an even number now was I?) Day ninety-nine then, in my personal cycle of hibernation & I also checked how long it’s been since I wrote anything here. Two guest posts notwithstanding, the last time I scribbled a word about my writing was 26 April!

Nine weeks then & I’m still avoiding words like ‘isolation’ & ‘lockdown’ simply because I feel neither isolated nor locked down. After however many weeks ninety-nine days add up to, some days I do feel alone. And much as I insist (truthfully) that being this way is second nature to me – I’m a writer, it’s what we do – ninety-nine days in, I’m missing certain people.

Mrs Woolf had a few perfect words for it. On the matter of ‘certain friends’ she wrote: I love them when they aren’t there – they leave beautiful spaces behind them.’

Family notwithstanding (when I finally get to hug my daughter, she will need to check her ribs) it’s my friends I miss. Not least the ones who write, those whose idea of heaven is hanging out, over tea & cake, nattering about writing.

With the plot of my newest endeavour flinging itself off on the inevitable tangents, I miss my writing group so much, Thursdays now feel like lost days. Not entirely – Janey (Eliza Jane Tulley) & I converse regularly. But it is never going to be the same as sitting opposite one another in our favourite cafe, notebooks on the side, ready to disseminate our latest offerings. That ‘beautiful space’ at our special table, is hers & mine.

And so I press on – by myself – occasionally startled by the moments my imagination conjures for this new story. It’s so off the wall quirky anyway, the digressions barely faze me. Being able to explain them (or ask Janey for her input) is still a true frustration.

Okay – this new one. I was going to say I thought long & hard about writing a story largely in First Person Present. It isn’t true. I thought about not doing it for as long as it took to rewrite the first chapter in Third Person & realise my instinct was right. FPP it is. And I love it. It’s challenging & even though the going is far, far slower than I first envisioned, I am making progress with my quirky story.


Image © Adam Oehlers

It too takes up a beautiful space, the writing space I have to fill because not writing isn’t an option. A space I know, were she around to see me loving this story, Janey would get.

Less a resolution … more a plan…

05 Sunday Jan 2020

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I’m an Aquarian – I love a plan. And it is this: after some thought & a number of steely glares from that there Janey Stevens, I’m committing to the book that’s been abandoned so many times it’s now in therapy.

At midwinter, at our last writing group of the year, Janey asked me what was stopping me writing the book that has, for several years, affectionately been known as RiverBook. She was having none of my, ‘Well, there’s this other story & it won’t leave me be…’ nonsense. Conscientious writing partner that she is, she challenged me to look at why I was prevaricating.

In the end, it was simple – it was the beginning.

I’ve changed the trajectory of this story many times, abandoned great swathes of it: plot lines, format & so forth. Introduced a new & relevant character. And simplified it. What I hadn’t done was pay attention to the beginning. I thought I knew where this story began but I’d missed an important trick.

Magic notwithstanding (if you hang with witch women who write, expect spells, dear reader) I’ve learned many valuable lessons since I began this writing lark. Not least from my mentor & my editor. One is to know the provenance of my stories – the root of them if you like. Most of mine offer some sort of nod to legend or fairytale. RiverBook is no exception. In it, I’ve played with the old selkie tale & given it a different slant. I like my version & that aspect – the essence of the story – has never been in dispute.

Once I knew (what I’d always known because we do – we just need a nudge from a friend) it was easy. Begin at the actual beginning. And why would I abandon over 80k anyway? You only do that if the story has no legs. This one can swim… And that’s where I must begin: in the water…

Now I have it, that’s my plan. Finish RiverBook & call it by the name I conjured some time ago: Underwater the Stars Shine Brighter. It’s a bit of a mouthful so I may opt for an acronym… A hashtag even. #UTSSB – go me.

Choices

05 Saturday Oct 2019

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Opening Mrs Woolf’s A Writer’s Diary the other morning, I spotted this.

‘I write here: and note that the authentic glow of finishing a book is on me.’

And, as occasionally happens, the blessed Virginia nudged me. I say ‘nudged’ rather than ‘I am filled with an irresistible urge to crack on poste-haste stopping for nothing less than food & sleep’, because it would be a fib. That said, with approximately a quarter of this reimagined, remoulded, ripped-apart-&-put-back-together-again manuscript left, it’s a no-brainer really.

Also me…

I love Book 5 a lot. Even with sleep & food breaks, I’m pretty confident if I sat down now & wrote every day for three months, I could conjure a passable first draft. On Wednesday then, after two days recovering from the wonder that was Narberth Book Fair, I opted for the stab-in-the-dark method of choosing & literally held my cursor over the documents (Book 4 next to Book 5) closed my eyes & clicked.

Book 4 then… Search for the glow & finish it.

Apropos aforementioned Book Fair, what larks we had last weekend! This, perhaps, is my favourite memory of the two-day event.

From (L) Janey Stevens, Janet Thomas, Me

And this one with the talented writing goddess that is Juliet Greenwood.

It was a delight to spend quality time with the fabulous Anne Williams from Book Connectors & Being Anne fame.


The fair was a triumph. As one of the organisers, albeit the person faffing about on social media, my thanks to everyone who participated. As an author, there were some very special moments, not least with the woman who bought a copy of Ghostbird last year & chose to wait a whole 12 months to buy Snow Sisters so she could get me to sign it in person! 

And I cannot speak too highly of the downtime Janey & I spent with Juliet. Bates Motel shenanigans notwithstanding, more larks were had! And Miss Phoebe came too.

Judith & Thorne’s decision to cease running the fair is one with which I have an immense sympathy. Having organised more than my share of events over many years I know how easy it is to hit burn-out. Far better to choose to step away before this happens.

Huge thanks to you both – dear, good friends & amazing women who put the fair on the map & gave so many authors a fantastic opportunity to promote & sell their books. We are indebted to you.

A couple of days to wind down & I’m back at work. The choice is made & I’m good to go. Possibly…

Where to now?

28 Sunday Jul 2019

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With Wild Spinning Girls waiting her turn with the woman who makes me a better writer, my thoughts turn to what comes next. My current Book 4 has had an erratic passage. It was first usurped between Ghostbird & Snow Sisters then again by WSG, getting periodically abandoned like an unwanted rag-doll in the process.

I’ve always believed some books aren’t meant to be written. As writers we have to learn this & know when to let go. In the past I’ve had no qualms about discarding stories & stuffing them in a dark drawer, or worse, killing them off completely.

This one though – the one I call RiverBook – simply will not be silenced. Regardless of several long interludes, it’s survived. At one point I was a hair’s breadth from dumping it. The main protagonist – a woman I think I may be slight scared of – was having none of it. She knew what was wrong with ‘the story so far’, but better still, what was right with it. She knew what was missing & what needed chucking.

A while back I did a big rewrite & decided yes, this is the one. I have 75,000 words which is almost a complete manuscript. Be rude not to finish it, frankly. No problem then…

You think?

One of the reasons for writing this down is so I can’t easily back-track & abandon the book yet again. And the reason I could be tempted is because there’s another one. A new story that excites me so much I can’t stop thinking about it. An altogether new way of writing, an almost entirely character driven story with virtually no plot, written in first person present…



I know… mad or what?

The plan – for plan I must have – is to potter until the New Moon on Thursday. See which of the word birds offers up the best pitch… They clearly love RiverBook & have stuck with it like a precious egg baby in a nest.

But they have a rival.

Yesterday, out & about, there was a wee spider in my hair. A friend spotted it & grinned when I said to leave it be; it was probably writing stuff. About her… the new one…

Onward & sideways…

The cup with the golden bird

19 Sunday May 2019

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Once upon a time, my oldest friend insisted mugs have personalities. She had (& still does have) a superstitious nature & wouldn’t dream of drinking her coffee out of a boring brown earthenware mug for fear of repercussions.

I’m not quite so choosy although I do have favourites. In one of my kitchen cupboards sits a selection of mugs with very definite personalities. The Virginia Woolf one, the sweet narwhal one (“I am not a unicorn” – quite), the bee one & several decorated with birds. And my “Girls Are Best” Girl Guides mug discovered in a charity shop a decade ago. Best of all though, are the cups. And saucers. I’m my mother’s daughter & I like a cup & saucer.

My writing rituals are many. And my first daily one begins in bed.

B BED 2

With a tray of tea. Because I wake early, I can usually manage a good half hour with my current book before the lure of notebook & pencil claims me. None of this happens without the tea though. Made in a teapot with different cups for different days.

Weekends tilt to the laissez-faire edge of writing – no one likes a swot – & the cup & saucer combos reflect this. On Saturday it’s the red rose one with forget-me-not sprigs idling like a lazy summer day. On Sunday I take tea from a charming old china cup & saucer, decorated with violets & a slender golden filigree of stems. My daughter bought me this set & I adore it. It’s tiny & delicate so of course, it gets saved for Sundays.

Come Monday though, it’s an entirely other cup of tea. (Sorry not sorry.) Monday through to Friday, I take my tea from the cup & saucer gifted to me by my writing sister, Janey. She knows me well. A golden bird is painted on the side of this cup: a golden hummingbird in full, fanciful flight through blue flowers.

hUMMONGBIRD

And as I drain each cup of good English Breakfast, scribbling & anticipating the morning’s work, there’s another one, a small blue bird in the bottom of the cup. I like to think she’s the golden bird’s sister, a less showy word bird, reminding me to get up & get on with it.

BLU.jpg

And to that end I must. To those of you who ask about these things – thank you. #Book4 has taken a tangent. A satisfying one & currently, the writing word of the day[s] is ‘immediacy.’

In word [birds] & deed.