Tag Archives: Word Birds

“The beautiful vagabonds, endowed with every grace…” *

08 Sunday Jan 2017

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Island Life, Word Birds & Process

Earlier, writing my daily Letter to America, I mentioned the mist (it’s an Island Life this morning, dear reader & no mistake) & that only a small, solitary bird graced the highest branch of the birch tree. It never lasts, this daring do. Sooner or later, Crow arrives, evicts the interloper and claims her place. Today she came with friends, three dark shapes against a rain-drenched sky, elegant itinerants.

They’re gone now. Crow has business elsewhere. If the mood suits her, mine tarries long enough to leave a few words, a line or two I may find a use for. Lately, I’ve sensed her shaking her black hoody head – Kraa – you are procrastinating, writer.

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She isn’t wrong. It is however procrastination thinly disguised as editing. When I set aside my current new story (was Book 2, now Book 3) to write The Snow Sisters (the usurper) it was a vague second draft. I knew it was chaotic, that parts of it were going to need serious attention. In the back of my mind, a confused muse wrestled with chunks of ubiquitous backstory (my nemesis) pronouncing it superfluous to anyone’s requirements.

Knowing I was about to embark on another draft, my first reader (the recipient of my Letter to America), put up her hand. Her eye is astute & she asks the right questions. Checking ahead, I spotted where the chaos began & faster than a rat up a drainpipe, scuttled back to Chapter One. I’ve spent the last week meticulously & very, very slowly, editing the first ten chapters: back & forth like an over-keen copy editor on Kalms. These chapters are so edited they are faint with exhaustion, begging to be left in peace.

And still, Chapter Eleven waits. Or as I like to call it, the place where it all goes pear-shaped, backstory crash-lands onto the page & I have no idea how to deal with it. I’ll work it out – it’s only words, yes? Kill a few (several hundred) off; tidy up the telling, dump the debris…?

If I ask nicely, maybe the words birds – my beautiful vagabonds – will take some of them back…

* John Burroughs

The morning after…

11 Sunday Dec 2016

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Island Life, Word Birds & Process #28

On Facebook I’ve been boring the pants off people with photographs of the view from my aerie. The sky is never the same & some mornings too marvellous not to share: wide Welsh skies festooned with wonder.

Yesterday I attended a book fair in Llandeilo – a day of delights which I’ll expand on (in not too much detail – fear not) shortly. This morning, having slept late, I woke to this view which perfectly encapsulates why there are days when I truly feel as if I’m living on an island.

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No sign of the hills, only that perfect hint of the rising sun & a sense that the trees hovering in the mist might at any moment disappear.

(As for the rest, the process is in stasis as I wait … the word birds do their best, nagging me each morning with whispered pencil songs for book three…)

The book fair was a joyous occasion, not least because in this part of Wales the book writing community is tight. Many of us know each other well; these events are a gathering of supportive friends & colleagues as much as anything. I shared space with two established Honno authors who made me feel like one of the gang, sold books to lovely people & did a reading from Ghostbird to a receptive audience.

As well as catching up with good people, what I appreciate about these affairs is the opportunity to talk about my work & to network. I was approached by someone to give a talk in the spring related to the myth of Blodeuwedd. Having discovered I genuinely enjoy ‘performing’ I’m chuffed to buttons to be asked.

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After ten months as a published author, I’m finally beginning to feel as if I belong.

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First drafts, learning by experience & writing to keep up

13 Sunday Nov 2016

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Island Life, Word Birds & Process #25

I fear I have confused the word birds. Having cwtched down for the past however many months, the ones making up the first draft of my next story have had time to bed in – feel secure and imagine their contributions safe from any mucking about on my part. Yesterday they were rudely awakened. Having opened the document, sadly (for the word birds) inevitably for me, mucking about is what I must now do.

The story was written before book two (which I have recently completed), when I still had a good deal to learn. I’ve known for a while now that a major aspect of it would have to go, that the entire thing is in need of paring down and simplifying. The reason I know is because of the process I’ve recently been through with book two. The structural edits and the rewrite were done far more quickly than I expected, largely because I’m getting better at it. Once I knew what I needed to do, the doing of it came relatively easily.

This next story is a departure – I’m writing an older central character for one thing. Still meddling in the magic but trying my hand at a more immediate story, something rooted in the present and only vaguely referencing the past. It isn’t easy for me. I adore backstory. I love writing it – I like the way the past informs the present and I’m rarely put off by books that make a feature of backstory. I do know there’s a trick to writing it. It’s something I’m absolutely learning and it’s a revelation.

Damn, I love this writing lark – I have a head full of stories, each one more easily conjured than its predecessor. There’s no help for it – I have to keep at it, keep up and live to be a hundred.

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Murder on the dance floor

04 Sunday Sep 2016

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Island Life, Word Birds & Process #19

It’s less about having two left feet and more that I’m putting my dancing shoes on the wrong ones. (And me a trained ballerina … at least I know what bloodied toes feel like…)

In the aftermath of the excitement, the reality of this edit is setting in. I’m still committed and as excited as I was last week. The task is nonetheless daunting. That said, I stuck to the plan and at the crack of Thursday’s new moon, embarked on my new draft. I’ve abandoned an entire plot-line. (It ought never to have been there frankly, but at the time it seemed like a great idea.)  Huge chunks of backstory are being flung out or set aside to be rewritten as good old ‘show not tell.’

And my title has gone, largely because the story wasn’t about … well, it wasn’t… Knowing what it is about makes the possibility of whatever mayhem lies ahead less scary. (The new title is lush!)

My crow is back – it’s September and the leaves on the birch tree are beginning to shed. I can see her – my favourite word bird – on the topmost branch, a reminder that it’s up to me and any time I’m up for it, I can join in.

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In other news – later in the day, the divine Amanda Jennings – author of In Her Wake – messaged me to the effect she’d been featured on BBC Radio Berkshire recommending Ghostbird! She called it ‘poetic,’ ‘a beautifully written hug’ and ‘utterly haunting.’ Being discussed on the radio was a bit of thrill and no mistake.

But, like a ballerina, a writer is only as good as her newest dance. Pass me the plasters, Marjory; I can feel the old fouetté rond de jambe en tournant coming on…

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Homework

28 Sunday Aug 2016

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Island Life, Word Birds & Process #18

Summer mist imitates autumn making me realise how close the end of the season is. Earlier, from my bedroom window, it was a proper Island Life scenario: the hills draped with mist, a sense of dream-like isolation. I drank tea with Virginia Woolf, reluctant to get out of bed.

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Now the sun is abroad, mocking my attempt at authenticity. Frankly, I wasn’t up early enough and the moment has passed. Unlike the weather, the Word Birds don’t vary their activity. They flutter and chatter, a constant murmuration of ideas. Draft three is upon me, dear reader – Process by another name. After a meeting with my mentor and editor, I am filled with joy at the prospect of a fairly intense rewrite of my second book. Weird maybe, but believe me, I mean it.

Janet never tells me what to write, she shows me my real story. It’s a magical process, a conversation driven by enquiries about my intention with regard to this or that character, and their intentions. I am never preached at – I’m asked why and it makes me think and dig deep. And now I have it – the story beneath so to speak – the  one I’m meant to be writing.

After the editorial lunch (I know – indulge me!) the process continued into the following morning, and my bath. (I have a lot of light bulb moments in the bath.) What pleases me most is that although Janet enabled me to see my story more clearly, in the aftermath I’ve worked out another lush strand which could become a recurring motif. One thing follows another and the story unfolds some more.

And at the risk of banging on – this is why writers need editors. Their job is to see what we miss. Not because we’re thick but because we’re often held too preciously in the original story vision. Editors are like school teachers. They dish out homework and if we do it we stand a better chance of passing the exam.

September is my favourite month. It’s the start of autumn and for me the best time to settle into a new writing project. Next Thursday is the first day of the month and it’s a new moon too. I’m taking a day or two to fix the domestic chaos, and write a new outline. Then I’m off into Draft Three with more excitement than I can adequately describe.

Island Life, Words Birds & Process #3

01 Sunday May 2016

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It is a suitably mist-laden day. The sky looks as if it is made of a million feathers. I’m thinking about magic and why we believe in it; if indeed we do.

Yesterday, at Llandeilo Book Fair, I read the chapter in Ghostbird when Cadi – my young main protagonist – first encounters the ghost of her little sister. This baby ghost attaches itself to Cadi and thus begins the search for the truth.

Is such a thing possible? Do ghosts exist and if we resist the notion, is it possible to then go on to enjoy a contemporary story that insists they do? My story relies on a myth, and the suspension of disbelief in fairy tales. I am asking people to accept that the ghost of a little girl could become a catalyst for healing and redemption. That the fairy tale about a woman made from flowers could imprint on the lives of people living in the 21st century.

It is up to my reader of course whether she takes the kind of magic I write about at face value or explains it away as a fancy conjured from my over-active imagination.

I believe there is an intrinsic and emotional truth in fairy tales; nothing in fiction for me comes close. They are the basis for most love stories and the more fearful kind too; the kind that keeps us awake long after the final page has been turned. (Even crime thrillers rely on things that go bump in the night and dreams that turn to nightmare.)

And fairy tales are often allegorical; when unpacked and explored, they can teach us valuable lessons. (Anyone who has read Women Who Run With the Wolves by Clarissa Pinkola Estés will know this.)

The possibility that reality and the world we glimpse on the other side of the veil can coalesce has always been appealing to me. Not everything odd or mysterious that happens in life can be explained away by logic. And many of us are drawn to the dream places we still long for after we have put away childhood notions of wonder. (Or fear.)

Across the hill, the mist lies still as a caught breath. In the distance a lone red kite hovers; searching for her lunch no doubt. Or is she? Has she caught a glimpse of something beneath the feathered mist? A place where birds speak and ghosts find peace…

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In other, more grounded news, the Book Fair was brilliant!

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I sold and signed lots of books and managed to do my reading with only a few stumbles. And answer questions…

I’m getting better at this ‘author’ lark…

The spaces in between

18 Thursday Feb 2016

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I talk quite a bit about ‘not writing.’ I don’t mean writers block – I’m either writing or I’m not – there is no blockage. I mean the times when for one reason or another, the head is distracted and there is little or nothing to be done about it. In recent weeks, with my focus almost entirely on promotion for Ghostbird, I find my writing time severely curtailed and my poor Sisters (working title – book two) languishing in a kind of creative limbo.

It goes, I am learning, with the territory. Published author friends warned me that once the book deal was signed my word count would suffer. They explained how necessary it was to enjoy myself because this ‘first time’ moment would never come again. What they didn’t fully explain was how much more than mere ‘happy dancing’ would be involved. How I would have so little time to work on my next book.

I am fortunate in that I’m being guided through the promotional minefield by an experienced and astute woman – my publisher’s marketing maven. Were it not for her, I would be floundering. Instead, I’m making progress and learning a lot along the way. In addition to the minutiae and nitty-gritty (and the excitement!) of the whole pitch to publication thing, there are guest posts to write for the blog tour and Q&As to answer. Although I love the creative challenge of this kind of writing, it’s not the same as getting on with my next story.

While I muddle through during the day and attend to business, I’m even more thankful for my crack of dawn mornings. By nature (and in spite of writing a book featuring an owl) I’m a lark. Early mornings suit me; I like the way they have no expectations, only the ones I impose. And I impose nothing. I feed the cat, make a pot of tea and return to my bed and my notebook.

These then are the spaces in between, when my mind is seduced by the sweet word birds singing snippets into the tangles of my bed hair. Pencil sharpened, I cover page after page, comforted by the knowledge that my scribbled words are there, waiting for me.

Dancing with the word birds and making jam

01 Tuesday Sep 2015

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Book the Second is resting. Meanwhile, Book the Third takes shape. I have never, ever conjured a story this quickly. One day it was floating at the back of my mind, made up from the remnants of a largely abandoned tale and the hem of a ghost’s frock; the next it was pouring out of me. In the space of three days I had the outline and most of the chapters in précis. 

A friend recently suggested a theory which on reflection makes a kind of sense. Now I have a deal for Ghostbird (which translates as validation) and a publication date; now it’s real and happening, has some creative synapse in my brain clicked into place? Is a new level of confidence emerging and is this what happens to writers once they get that initial confirmation?

Or is it simply the word birds, daring me and flinging ideas in my path? Either way, as a writer, I’m happier than I’ve been in years.

I know I quote Virginia Woolf as if I have her on speed dial. (I don’t – that would be creepy.) I do have a copy of A Writer’s Diary by my bed and treat it like a daily meditation. One of the things Mrs W said was, ‘As for my next book, I won’t write it till it has grown heavy in my mind like a ripe pear.’

It’s as though this new story has landed in my lap in the shape of a harvest of pears. And apples, plums and peaches, and big fat juicy blackberries.

There is nothing for it – I must make story jam.