I had a plan for this year. It wasn’t hugely ambitious, but it wasn’t laid-back either. It was a good plan, an achievable plan with enough challenge in it that I’d feel pleased with my self at the end of the year.
Somewhere about April, the plan went off the rails and there’s no way I’ll get back on track now. Things happened that took me away from writing, I completely lost my focus and now I’m sitting here, looking at the plan and sighing deeply. I don’t want to concede defeat, but if I don’t, I’ll be pissed off for the rest of the year as I try to catch up and fail.
So I drew up a new plan:
Finish novel the first.
My WIP is still without a title and needs a lot of editing, particularly towards the end, but apart from that – and about 500 words – it’s done. And months and months behind schedule.
Start punting novel the first.
There are some parts of the original plan I do not want to allow myself not to do this year. This is one of them.
Draft novel the second.
I had an idea, and I really like it but I need to develop it before I start writing. That’s annoying because I was going to use the first chapter for an application. There is no first chapter.
Write one short story a day for the first week in September.
To make up for the stories I haven’t written this year, and get something to work with, I’m writing seven stories very quickly. This project will hopefully give me material that I can then forge into short stories. Or it’ll give me seven pieces of rubbish. We’ll see: it’s an experiment.
And that’s it. I’ll continue to send things out, and I’m attending a one-day writing course later this year, but apart from that, all I have to do to be OK with myself for this year are four little things.
Yesterday, the wind swept the plot for a short story I’m planning to write out of my office window. I saw the A4 sheet, so white in the sun, turn a couple of times and then it was gone.
Two hours later, working day done, I flip-flopped down the stairs and out on Gorgie Road to look for it.
I checked our parking lot. I walked a block that way, and then back again on the other side of the street, looking over walls and into people’s front gardens. For possibly the first time since I moved here, I really looked at the houses and streets around me. I looked at people too, in case my sheet had stuck to their backs. People were walking home, enjoying the warmth and sunshine. Neatly arranged pots showed the pride some people take in their front gardens. There are flowers in the grass around here as well as discarded bottles.
I walked a block the other way, and back again. Then I walked around the corner. And there it was.
In the gutter, under a crisp packet, a little torn but not in much worse condition than when the wind took it, I found my plot.
I picked it up, read it, laughed when I realised I didn’t need it and carefully carried it back inside.
I learned three things from this experience. One: don’t keep paperwork on the windowsill when the window’s open. Two: keep notes in digital form, or make sure they are written on something heavy, like a notebook. Three: sometimes the process of looking is more valuable than the thing you’re looking for.
Over my ten-day holiday, I read my manuscript, deemed some of it OK and some of it rubbish but all of it mine. On my return home, I filled in all the bits that I didn’t quite finish in the first flush of writing: places marked [BRIDGE] and [ADD CONVERSATION HERE].
Then some stuff happened and the harsh realities of life took over for a few weeks. That stuff has now settled a little, and I’m back to working on my novel. I pledged to Gavin that I’d finish it on Tuesday and almost did – typing frantically in sunlit Harrison Gardens, C., strawberries and tea at my elbow – but not quite. I now owe him 25 burpees and myself a two-hour writing sprint to close out that last hole: [DENOUMENT HERE].
That’s the plan for this week: to finally finish the first draft of my first novel. Then, I’m letting it rest for a little while so I can get on with plotting and writing the first chapter of my next project. I had another idea, you see, and I want to develop it for a particular application. I do love a deadline.
If all of the above sounds vague, I’m not surprised. Everything is a little fussy at the edges. My writing to do list is a mess and my quarterly plan evaluation is almost three months overdue.
I’m going on holiday. I’ll be away and then I’ll return, probably tired, but hopefully sun-kissed and relaxed. I can’t quite decide whether to pack one pair of flip flops or two. If we were going to Tennessee again, I’d definitely pack two. But we’re going to Winchester. Maybe one pair’s enough.
I’ve learned, the hard way, that a holiday is a holiday and not a time for hard work or achievement. The principles of relaxation and attention on your loved ones and personal achievement clash spectacularly if you try to combine them. Each to their own, they are laudable and create happiness. Together, they are a guilt and stress cocktail that ensure that you come home frazzled and dissatisfied with yourself, your work, and the people you wanted to spend time with.
I say I’ve learned.
I’m writing this to the irritating sound of my printer printing the last two thirds of the first-ish draft of my novel. I am really, really close to finishing the thing but I need another read-through. Not of the whole novel, this time, just the bits less polished or missing.
Yes. I’m taking my manuscript on holiday. And I intend to read it. But it’s OK: there are no goals associated with the print-out, no expectations.
I just packed sticky index notes (in fluorescent colours). Still. No expectation. I know better.
Today I was reminded of two important things by posts I saw on Facebook and Twitter.
Firstly: there are no shortcuts. This came from an article about what editors want to see that Kirsty Logan shared. It reminded me that I have a long list of magazines I need to read because I think I want to submit stories to them. But more importantly, it reminded me that there’s no quick way of finding markets, or writing stories.
Secondly: stop agonizing and get on with it. Chris Scott, who took my lovely profile photo, shared a video with advice to artists. Watching it reminded me to stop worrying about whether my stories are original, or whether my novel’s the best thing since The Cloud Atlas*, and just get on with the task of writing.
Last week, I wrote about generous editors and clichéd plot lines. I mentioned a story that I’d written and then promptly retired after I saw a description of the story in a list of unwanted plotlines. I can’t find that exact list – I think it was one of the several shape changer or werewolf markets I’ve looked at. I’m not going to send it anywhere, so I decided to post it here instead. (This is not the story that was rejected last week – there’s still hope for that one.)
I enjoyed writing Julia’s Dream because it uses two voices and let me playing with senses. I don’t think I did that last part particularly well but I learned something in the process. The thing I enjoyed most, however, is that I could use a dream I had as a teenager. I’m not going to tell you which scene is from my sleeping head but you can probably guess. The scene stands out. It has detail. It was one of those really odd dreams where I woke up happy but aware that the dream I just woke up from should have been a nightmare, not a joyous romp. But that’s what it was. Joyous. Fun. Happy-making.
So, here goes. Written about two years ago, and officially retired since last year because it’s been written again and again and again. I also saw it in an online comic, Sherbet Lock, and really enjoyed the story. There’s still mileage in the idea, but I’m not going to pursue it further.
Julia’s Dream
The night is warm and dark. The forest is dense with life, not just the pack running with me, but other life too. There are birds in the trees, mice hiding in hollows as we run past. There’s a foxes den with a bitch and four, no five, cubs under that tree. But we’re after bigger game than foxes. Killing them is not worth our while.
Ahead we can hear the crashing of our prey as it flees. It’s a buck, a big strong animal. I look forward to taking it down. We’re getting so much closer. I can almost taste the blood in my mouth and I growl, low, in expectation. All other life is still, holding its breath, as we chase our quarry.
I love the hunt.
#
Julia has always had problems sleeping. After years of lying awake at night she has found a kind of peace in routine. Her going to bed routine starts two hours before she wants to be asleep and is the same every night. The sameness helps her calm down, go into sleep mode. After a warm bath she has cup of extra-strong chamomile tea on a seat in the living room, or, if Kevin is watching television, in the bed room. She’s learnt that she can’t read or watch television, do cross words or sudoko. She has to avoid all of the things that people seem to think are relaxing but that sets her synapses firing. She needs to close down her brain, bit by bit, until she can get into bed, put on her mask and count her bones until she slips under.
Everything has to be just so. The bedroom must be completely dark and silent. The duvet has to be warm but not hot, the room should be on the cool side but not so cold she can’t let her feet hang over the side of the bed. She can’t abide having her feet tangled in bed clothes. She doesn’t take sleeping pills. Herbal ones don’t work and pharmaceutical ones take her dream away.
Most nights Kevin slips into bed after her, pulls her tight and kisses her shoulder. It makes Julia feel safe and loved. And then he falls asleep with a contented little grunt and a twitch and she’s wide awake again. Wide awake and trapped under the protection of his warm, heavy arm.
Sometimes Kevin opening the bedroom door is enough to wake her but she always pretends she’s still asleep. That’s part of the routine too. If she acknowledges that she’s awake she will be. All night.
Timing is important. It works best if Julia is asleep properly when Kevin comes to bed, or when they go to bed at the same time. Then she sinks, slowly, into dreamland. When she wakes up before she’s started dreaming, when her brain is still looking for a reason to go over the day, she cannot fall asleep again.
Some nights she gives up. There’s no point in worrying about not sleeping, it just makes it worse. After listening to Kevin’s breathing in the dark for a few hours, she gets up. There’s always something to do. Marking is good, it makes her fall asleep with her head on her desk, but if she doesn’t have marking there’s always ironing or a long, long walk. The park is pretty at night. She feels at home in the dark and the fog.
Julia sometimes wonders why she bothers with her elaborate routine, why she doesn’t just give up and let sleep come or go as it wants, but then she remembers. Julia wants to sleep because she wants to dream.
#
We’re still running, still following the heady scent. There are two animals running ahead of us now. I am so close that I can feel the air move where they have been. The scent of their fear is delicious and it makes me feel so alive. But the forest is changing. The trees are growing sparse, square, tall. The leaves and moss that cover the ground morphs into black asphalt. We still run. The scents change too, as the forest turns into a city. The smells of mould and mushrooms are replaced by stone and fossil fuels. The prey separate and the pack splits in two.
The sound of the man’s feet slapping the pavement and his panicked breathing is easy to hear despite the noise of the city. The lights above us hum and there’s traffic but too far away to matter. As we run past closed doors I hear snatches of music and arguments from open windows. The man ahead of me is too winded to call for help. My feet beat the pavement with a lighter sound than those of the man running ahead of me. My breathing is less ragged than his. I sound excited, hungry, keen, where he sounds close to accept that I will catch him. Another female is running next to me. I can smell her excitement and it matches mine. We laugh and lengthen our strides just a little. I can almost touch him.
#
The first time Julia dreamt that she was a wolf she was five years old. It was just a glimpse of a dream, really, a panting, running sensation of joy and power. It was such a strong feeling, that she has never forgotten it. Instead she has dedicated her nights to having that dream again, and again, for longer and with more detail.
The dream changes. The wolf she is in the dream has grown up, just as she has, and learnt where she fits in. She has a mate, in the dream too, and he runs with her. Sometimes they change from wolves to humans. That does not affect the hunt: they continue running, following the scent and getting closer and closer to their prey.
Julia and her pack never catch their prey.
They’ve caught small things, mice, rabbits and foxes, but they don’t count. Things you can bring down on your own are for cubs, for children. Only the large animals she hunts with the pack count.
She wakes up, a jaw’s length from felling a deer, two steps from grabbing a woman they’re chasing. While the hunt goes on she is perfectly happy. Everything is just as it should be. Her joy would reach a crescendo in the kill. Then, just before her moment of glory, she wakes up.
Some mornings the disappointments makes her cry. It is not a good start to the day. She hates coming in to school with swollen eyes. Despite the dream’s hangover she wants to dream it again. Every night, she takes her bath, drinks her tea, counts her bones, in the hope that she’ll be running with the pack and that this night, they will bring down their prey.
#
I’m in a changing room, covered in blood and feeling great. The other female is covered in blood too. We’re trying to wipe some of the gore off, giggling like school girls whenever our eyes met. I know that in the sports hall, on the other side of the wall, is a mess of blood and body parts. We caught him and tore him to pieces. I can’t quite remember what shape I was in when we finally got him but I remember enjoying the kill more than anything I’ve ever done. I’m still enjoying it. At the end of the greatest hunt of my life, I feel so strong, so full of light. The man’s screams were flirtatious, the tearing and splattering was joyous. Blood smells so sweet compared to the other muck in a human’s body. The man’s flesh was even better than his blood. He tasted so good and I smell of him now. I’m covered in him and I love the feeling. I want to do it all again. I smile at my friend and we burst out laughing. Then we’re running again. Someone is coming and we’re laughing fit to burst at what they will find.
#
Julia doesn’t wake up in her usual panic but slowly, comfortably. She feels rested and happy. The bed is just warm enough and the sheets feel soft against her skin. What little light she can see around the edges of her mask suggests that it is early morning but not too early. She stretches slowly, enjoying the feeling. She wants to wake Kevin, to maybe cuddle for a while before starting the day. She stretches out her hand to touch him but finds something cold and wet. She takes her mask off to see what is wrong.
Kevin isn’t there. Instead there is mess. A bloody, gristly mess. Kevin’s side of the bed is covered in oxidising blood and lumps of meat. The mess spills over onto the floor, towards the window, covering the rug and sticking to the walls and curtains. There is so much blood. Julia’s side of the bed is clean except for where her bloody hand has rested on the white linen. For a second she just sits there, staring at the mess that was her boyfriend. Then she puts her hand out and touches the blood again. She brings her wet fingers to her lips.
She recognises the taste of him. He tastes of joy.
Sometimes I almost forget how difficult it is to make a living from fiction. And then something comes along to remind me.
Most recently, the reminder came in form of an article by Sarah Sheridan in the Huffington Post, about what writer’s earn. Not much, on average, is the unsurprising conclusion. It reminded me of a talk I went to at Edinburgh University, about producing cultural product, even if the stats that Sarah quotes are a little more positive (50% of producers get 50% of the money, as opposed to 75%/25%).
Writer’s, even successful writers, don’t just write. They lecture, review, write copy, and hold down all kinds of jobs not at all related to writing to get ends to meet. You don’t write for the money, you do it because you want to. Writing, like nursing, is a calling. (On average, nursing pays better.)
When I found out that there would be a conversation Google hangout with Paolo Bacigalupi, Lauren Beukes and Jesse Bullington yesterday I got really excited. It was at the perfect time to watch with dinner so I bookmarked the page and updated my calendar. Then I promptly forgot all about it and went about my evening as if the internet did not exist.
Luckily, the conversation is available on YouTube. The writers cover several different topics but the first 15 minutes are about world building, a topic that I find endlessly fascinating. They then move on to character, another compelling topic. The video’s almost 59 minutes long and there’s a spoiler or two, but it’s all interesting stuff.
It’s early and the crowds haven’t arrived yet: all he can hear is the sound of the espresso machine. The scent, the rich, inviting smell of coffee is already all around him. He wraps his cold hands around the cup, stroking the click, glassy surface fondly. He takes a sip, enjoying the way the milk wraps the coffee in a gentle blanket, waking up his taste buds slowly. The pattern on top of the foam distorts after his sip, the change in tension makes bubbles burst, like dreams touching reality.
The above is not a great piece of writing. It is what I wrote, in five minutes, when set a writing exercise to work on “sense of place”. The task was to think about a place and write a sentence for each of the senses inspired by that place. I thought of Brew Lab, the café in South College Street, because I like the look of their exposed, somewhat grungy walls.
If you’re here because you searched for me after reading In Woodsmore Village in Scotsman Magazine this weekend: thank you! Thank you for reading and thank you for taking the time to find out more about me. This is my blog. Here, I write about writing, and track the progress of my first novel.
Edinburgh’s a great place to write: it’s got an active and supportive writing community. It also has the Book Festival and it was at the Festival, year before last, that I decided to take writing seriously. That meant writing and sharing what I’d written. Hansel & Gretel, and Me is the first competition I’ve entered and I am over the moon to have won. I didn’t expect to. I didn’t really expect to be on the shortlist.
In my day job, I’m a technical writer and copywriter. (Basically, I write manuals and websites for software companies.) That’s a very different thing from writing fiction. Interesting in its way but necessarily more restrictive. The very freedom of fiction, the fact that you can go anywhere you want, is daunting. It is also what makes it such fun to write – and to read.
If you want to read more of my writing, have a look at the Read me page. It’s got links to the few pieces I’ve got on this site, as well as details of my published pieces.