Tag Archives: Word Birds

‘What kind of language is this?’ *

20 Sunday May 2018

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Island Life, Word Birds & Process

My ability to ignore distractions is pretty good. So long as I’m at home writing, as opposed to hanging in a cafe or suchlike, I can concentrate reasonably well on my current work in chaos. The world at large is far too interesting & full of shiny. Paradoxically, silence is a complete no-no too – there’s no such thing when you live in even a small town & distractions abound. When I’m writing I need familiarity: a touch of Radio 4 in the background, music that fits my mood; add the view from Withering Heights & I’m good to go.

Background is the operative word. I don’t need to be able to distinguish particular words. My own are what count. So long as I’m where I belong, the lyrics to songs turn into a sweet humming & I can crack on happily.

What interests me though is how, when I’m editing, some words do get through. It’s only certain songs that can do this. I don’t have a play list – my choices are pretty random. Or are they? An album I return to over & again while editing (& writing) is Kate Bush’s Aerial. In particular, the second CD: A Sky of Honey. I know the words to every song almost by heart. If I could only take one album to that desert island, this would be it. And this week, as I began the first important pass on Book 3, I returned to these songs once more. In the background you understand, but as present as the real, word birds still edging their way into my consciousness. (They have shiny too & secrets.) More often than not they know far better than I how this editing process needs to go.

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Oh, editing… What fresh hell & all that. What gibbers (thank you dear Juliet Greenwood for this perfect expression of the editing writer’s almost constant state of mind.)  What terror as you approach The Bit You Know Will Need A Vast Amount Of Work Because You Kidded Yourself You’d Nailed It When Clearly You Have Done No Such Thing. That said I enjoy editing. For me, in the first instance at any rate, it’s the smell of printed paper, sharpened pencils & a different outlook. Literally – I hard-copy edit in my sitting-room rather than my study, sofa bound & cushioned & very familiar.

Five days ago, having rescued Book 3 from the Dark Drawer after a month of marinating, I began. And when I get fed up with Jenni Murray chatting earnestly about vaginas, when the state of Bob Flowerpot’s compost & Pippa Greenwood’s sweet peas lose their allure, when the news stops being news & sounds more like coffee adverts, I reach for Kate.

And even though I have the volume turned down, some of the words do get through. I pause & listen: What kind of language is this? / I can’t hear a word you’re saying… And yet somewhere I can. In some part of my edit-addled brain, the right words exist. If I try really hard, make sure I have enough tea & chocolate to sustain me through the gibbering, I’ll hear them. My best words are in there somewhere.

Better get on then – see if I can find them.

*Kate Bush

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Writing in the margins – somewhere in between

06 Sunday May 2018

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Island Life, Word Birds & Process

In spite of a lush sun trying to burn it off, the mist sticks. The swallows are back, Mistress Crow is in her tree & all’s right with the world. My bit of it at any rate. And for that I’m grateful.

With Book 3 still resting in the Dark Drawer, I’ve been busy Harassing the Hovel & restoring ten months of disorder. Apart from general cleaning, I’ve been decluttering, frightening the filth into submission & chalk-painting furniture. Larks galore! And not much writing done, frankly. I’m between [drafts], so to speak.

I don’t believe writers ever stop writing mind, even when they aren’t physically wielding a pencil, they’re at it in some form or other – ‘not writing’ their little socks off. ‘Not writing’ takes many forms, from actually not doing it to scribbling in your head. This is what I’m currently doing. With a Big Fat Edit looming, I’m already harking back (& forth) to scenes I know I’m going to play with (aka: mutilate.) The word birds are in whisper mode – they know how this works far better than I do. As I paint & clean & tidy, they slip notes into the mental chaos in the margins of my mind.

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I slipped in a few of my own too, last Sunday. As part of the Llandeilo Lit Fest I attended a poetry workshop run by the poet Kathy Miles. My admiration for Kathy’s work is huge. And the title of the workshop – The Changeling Poet: Writing Out the Narrative Voice – intrigued me enough to sign up. As did the description: A workshop which explores the persona poem, and how we can write ‘out of ourselves’. We will look at different ways in which the poet can write as animal, object, ghost or mythical figure, some of the techniques used to transform the narrative voice, and use these techniques to produce a piece of writing.

The persona poem form wasn’t unknown to me – it was absolutely not a motif I’d ever explored. (My forays into poetry pursued the patriarchy & shouted, ‘Watch out, the feminist is cross! Again!’) I wasn’t mistaken in my certainty that Kathy’s workshop would be useful. It exceeded my expectations & not only did I leave with ideas galore, I even wrote a poem that wasn’t livid & snarky.

A goodly number of the whispered words in my head involve my ghost. She’s different from Angharad in Snow Sisters & nothing at all like wee Dora in Ghostbird. Her voice has a quirky edge & I like the idea that I can play with it, perhaps create something unusual. The workshop definitely gave me food for thought – mine & my ghost’s.

I’m still working on it – Kathy has kindly offered some tips & I may one day be tempted to share my poem. Then again, I may not… In the meantime, I’ll keep writing in the mind margins, translate the whispers. Once the painting & housework are done, I’ll delve into the Dark Drawer & dig out Book Three.

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Island Life & catching up

18 Sunday Mar 2018

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Island Life, Word Birds & Process

Not only are the hills shrouded in mist this morning, they’re littered with whirling, sideways snowflakes. Trés pretty, but yes… I think all that needs saying about unseasonal weather has been said. And having written about it at length in Snow Sisters,* I feel my work here really is done.

I didn’t write a blog post last week – largely due to the nature of the current Work in Chaos which required my attention. ie: My obsession with wordcount needed taking in hand. Mercifully, it’s a thing of the past & I’m returned to writing terra firma. And a satisfying session with my mentor gifted me a new bag of breadcrumbs. The wood now feels more manageable; the last leg of the narrative less haphazard.

My inner excited writer is delighted. Sometimes, all we need is to be asked a few pertinent & thoughtful questions: ‘Would she want to do this?’ And ‘ Why doesn’t she do that?’ (Sisters you see – tricksy creatures…) And so forth. All grist to my proverbial & something for the word birds to think on too, while they cwtch down to wait out this unexpected snow. (It’s not giving up…)

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I shall dance in it – metaphorically you understand – & wait for them.

* “Sometimes it snows in April”
~ Prince

 

Writing by numbers

04 Sunday Mar 2018

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Island Life, Word Birds & Process

Those of you who keep up with my ramblings (thank you, dear reader – you are my favourite) may have spotted a recent hint of wordcount mithering. Once upon a time, it hardly concerned me. I am my mother’s daughter. She was a great one for saying things took as long as they took. Driving to Rhyl on holiday for instance: ‘Are we there yet?’ And Ma insisting that knowing how many miles we still had to cover didn’t help one bit, so my sister & I may as well give over.

For years, wordcount struck me as something similar: it wasn’t how many words I wrote each day, it was the process that mattered. Showing up & writing what I could happily conjure. I was almost dismissive of wordcount. It was a hindrance to creativity & could wait until it became important to someone. Like an editor.

Perhaps the pressure of writing a third book was what changed things for me, saw me gradually getting caught up in wordcount worry. And an actual numbered goal. (90 k to be precise.)

Recently, I’ve found myself far too hung up on numbers. At about 70 k or so, I began eyeing the thin blue line that is the Word toolbar, checking the damn thing every five minutes. If I didn’t get a minimum of 1,000 words a day down, it felt like a fail. And it was at pretty much this point I lost my way for a week or two. I ran out of breadcrumbs & found myself running round the wordy wood in circles.

The plot was quite literally lost.

For a while, frankly, writing became a chore. This has never been the case with me. Never. I was still showing up & banging away but it felt like pressure.

Yesterday I had an email conversation with a friend. As we chatted about our ‘next book’ & the usual concomitant pressures, she reminded me that the most important thing was to enjoy the writing, for it’s own sake. And it occurred to me that I was in the process of becoming my own worst enemy. For a short precious time, I’d stopped enjoying myself.

And it was the wretched wordcount doing it. What I’d lost sight of was that I’m on track to finish this book & to do it fairly soon. As things stand, it’s coming out at roughly the same length as the other two. And that’s the magic. There’s an instinct at play – mine – & it’s been there from the beginning. My story knows the way. All I need to do is show up. Get the words down & enjoy myself.

Listen to my mummy – my very own Irish word bird, gone these past eighteen years but still whispering in my ear.

‘It takes as long as it takes, acushla.’

BIRD HAIR mags phelan stone
Picture © Mags Phelan Stones

Up the down staircase (with a parachute?)

25 Sunday Feb 2018

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Island Life, Word Birds & Process

It’s highly likely I’ve used the above title before. (Sans the parachute reference.) No matter – if the cap fits & so forth.

Two weeks ago I was feeling a bit aimless. After waffling on about Saggy Middle Syndrome (Except it’s Further On & a Bit Of  a Worry) & my options, I knuckled down. That was the plan at any rate. Monday morning found me knowing what I wanted to write (what I needed to write) only quite lost because the way in alluded me. It’s a thing with me – every now & then I find myself armed with a good scene or chapter & stumped, because I have no opening line.

It took me two days to write a single chapter.  I was all over the place – the words were there but without that essential first line, it had no heart. Good first lines aren’t confined to the opening chapter of a book. Every chapter needs to entice. (Closing ones are pretty important too.) My enticing skills had deserted me until – in the end (so to speak) – it was a simple as this:

She hadn’t closed the curtains.

Who knew? And don’t ask me where those five words came from – I have no idea, only that some dear bird took pity on me & left them in the edges of my hair. I was off & it’s been a lovely week. Writing early each morning – still in my PJs – putting in the hours before my bit of the internet woke up.

I still have no idea if this story is a flyer – I think it is but there are no guarantees. It’s well quirky & in places quite off the wall. Bits of it please me hugely – lots of it will need serious attention.

Above all – I’m mad about my new sisters. I love them, even though a good deal of the time they lead me a merry dance & it is like going the wrong way up (or down) an escalator. If I hang on to the invisible parachute though, I’m fine.

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As for my ghost, dear reader, I adore her. Would you like a little more?

   It isn’t my job to make things easy for you, Ida – I am not yet at peace. Until I am, I’m tricksy. I’m the tick of that old clock and the wordless whispers in your cobwebbed sleep. I’m the scent of apples and soot and feathers. I slip through open windows, in and out on your whim now, not mine. I drift through woman-shaped keyholes as easily as breathing. Slip and smile and you taste me on your bitten lip.
© Carol Lovekin

And that, as they say, is your lot!

Dust – & writing about nothing

11 Sunday Feb 2018

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As it’s Sunday, my first thought was – after tea & my morning read – what could I conjure by way of a blog post? With the best will in the world, I have virtually nothing. I’ve reached the stage with my Work in Chaos that some writers refer to as Sagging Middle Syndrome. As I’m well over half-way I’m not sure whether to panic or relax. Relaxing feels like a bit of a risk & I’ve never been keen on panic. Takes up too much precious energy.

I could ignore the whole thing & do the dusting. (You could create bas-relief on my furniture right now – no really, you could.) My bet is I’m not alone when I say, housework is the first casualty of the First Draft. I’m disinclined though – it is Sunday after all…

As you were then – as I was. There’s only one thing for it. Summon the word birds & perhaps, prove to myself that if I can’t tap-dance on a tightrope – which is why I took up writing in the first place – I can cycle on a telegraph line!

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Writing about nothing is a piece of cake.

…time to write…

28 Sunday Jan 2018

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Island Life, Word Birds & Process

There are several ways to interpret those three words. Prefixes abound & the writers among you will know them. You, dear reader, can almost certainly guess & guess well.

Having, needing, making, finding & the ubiquitous: I don’t have… twin sister to: there is no… 

There are more of course & you are welcome to reply & add to the list. In my world though, the one that most resonates is the one I wake up to each morning: This is my time to write…

With my birthday on the horizon & the knowledge that another year has flashed by (Hello?) the urge to write doesn’t flag. I’m over half way through Book 3 & have another one sitting, like a patient bird on an egg, until such time as I can give it my full attention. There is a completed first draft of another story, set aside too many times albeit for good reasons. And in the outer reaches of my thoughts, caught in the ends of my hair, are more. I sense these stories like ghosts, not quite ready to reveal themselves. (Like most ghosts, they need only kindness & a little attention to be heard.)

It isn’t always easy to find time to write – make space for your craft. Women (mothering & bread-winning ones in particular) have the day-to-day to deal with. I’ve been there & largely done that. I waited a long, long time to get to here: twice-published, a little more confident, hungry to be a ‘real’ writer rather than one making excuses not to take the risk; to say, I have a story & I’m going to submit it. Now I’m writing to keep up. I have no time to waste, so yes, this is my time to write.

Thank you for listening.

And by the way, I collect bird frocks & I wear them…

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And so forth…

17 Sunday Dec 2017

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Island Life, Word Birds & Process

Another of my random, insular ramblings…

I’m mired in delicious muddle. I ought to be terrified but I’m not because I can smell this story – deep in the seams of the forty thousand words I’ve written so far: a sweet scent I can’t quite identify.

And Mistress Crow is indefatigable, overseeing my days & keeping me on my toes like a feathered slave driver…

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I always know how my stories begin & usually, how they’re likely to end. That said, even if I have a fair idea about the bit in the middle, I still have to make it work: find a way to get the narrative to carry me from the opening to the closing chapter.

My writing is rarely linear & although I always create a detailed outline, as I get the bit between my teeth & my characters begin to let me in, I often find myself writing extended scenes in isolation. By definition, there’s little or no continuity to them, & not much structure. Which is both part of the problem & exciting. Each one is an unconscious exploration of both my characters & my various plot scenarios. Some are random conversations which can occur to me in the unlikeliest of places. (Often in the bath.)

Speaking of the unexpected, having decided to change from an experimental Third Person Present back to plain Third, I ‘wasted’ several hours of writing time this past week ‘resetting’ my manuscript. The upside was an unavoidable but joyful ‘edit as I go’ scenario which reinforced my conviction that I’m on to something. The ‘voices in my head’ are becoming clearer – the way untangles, one chapter at a time…

One step at a time

03 Sunday Dec 2017

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Island Life, Word Birds & Process

Returning to the theme…

Mistress crow is in her tree, gazing out across a mist-laden wintry sky. A run of glorious red-sky mornings has given way to grey & the mystery is upon me again which suits me down to the ground.

Unintentional segue but yes, a bashed up foot has meant rest – & me very grounded. As a result, I’ve put in extra hours at the typeface. My word birds have been making merry & process has been achieved. I’m heading for the halfway point.

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I love this story but from the beginning, one thing has been niggling me. Names. I think a lot about names. They have to work on every level, not least in the eye of the reader. I’d given my two main protagonists gorgeous, Welsh names. One uncomplicated, the other less so & not necessarily easy for a non-Welsh speaking reader to pronounce.

Last weekend, a conversation with Darling Dau made me question both names. She pointed out that not every Welsh person has a typically Welsh name. Not everyone in a Welsh story has to have one. She threw a random, English ‘such as’ into the mix for character #1 & I pounced! I knew within seconds that quite unconsciously (or was it?!) she’d given me the right name & within minutes I had the other one too.

As can often happen, when a writer makes a fundamental change halfway through a draft, the entire feeling of the story can alter. Changing names in particular. These new ones are perfect & my relationship with these two central characters has now shifted onto a new level. It’s as if they, having been given their right names, have decided to let me in a bit more, show aspects of themselves I hadn’t yet spotted.

I’m chuffed to buttons. Thanks, lovely Daughter Person! And what with one bruise & another I’m making the most of my enforced rest, propping my foot on two cushions & cracking on.

 

The art of not writing

19 Sunday Nov 2017

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Island Life, Word Birds & Process

Two weeks ago I was felled (I love it when word usage genuinely fits) by an upper case Damned Bloody Virus upon which I now wish every level of Hell. It’s a fortnight of my life lost to misery, moping & mucus. For several days I couldn’t read never mind write – drifting in a pastiche of every tragic ‘heroine scenario’ you can imagine & in which the chaise longue took centre stage.

I know…

In my head however real story scenes floated, not all of them useless. It’s writing but not writing as we know it… And it’s a trick most writers manage in spite of the obvious obstacles. Like forgetting stuff because the DBV has Taken Over Your Brain.

The problem with not being able to write anything down means my notoriously unreliable memory has put to the test. After the first week I was able to begin scribbling notes again & miraculously much of what I conjured in extremis appears to have survived. Mostly ghostly, slightly surreal, but given my state of mind, hardly surprising.

And the DBV may have done me a sideways favour. I knew before it hit I’d been consciously searching for a different internal pattern to the voice of this new story. It’s a tale concerning identity, on a deeply fundamental level. The echoes of motifs I recognise from my reading of books steeped in Gothic Romance are refusing to be silenced. I’m digging deeper & my characters will surely follow suit, into the shadows & cobwebbed corners of my imagination.

My word birds have been kind & patient but they’re getting restless & I love them for it. Taking it easy is still A Good Thing but cobwebs notwithstanding – & a new moon on the rise – I’m determined to return to my story very soon. Because, damn – I can sense it & it’s whispering – like my ghost, like the birds…

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