That sinking feeling . . .

In between bouts of feverish hoovering and waiting around for plumbers to turn up I have recently managed to sink into my new novel. I use that phrase purposefully, as it seems like some stories take time to evolve in my head and its been a slow process with this one. But now I feel I'm beginning to get going, sinking into the world I'm creating and seeing characters and events fully. The interruptions for research are diminishing by the day with the help of my expert email contact, Tom, and my own improving knowledge.

Now I'm beginning to set myself little targets, like writing 5,000 words this coming week and another 5,000 the next week so that by Christmas I'm on about 20,000 words. At this rate I might have a first draft ready by the end of February.

This is when I'm happiest, when the story is beginning to flow out in a (largely) effortless way. The bit I'm still slowly learning is the self-editing, which is the hardest skill of all.

Slow, slow, quick, quick, slow . . .

Two months since the last post. Something must be going on. Or maybe not.

Last time I talked about research, how difficult it can be. It takes time. I mentioned I'd decided to set the story in the middle ages in Galicia.
'But I've never been to Galicia so I think I'll stick with Britain,' I said to a trusted editor.
'You've never been to the middle ages either,' she replied.
Brilliant answer.

So, I changed it back (to Castile-Leon in the end) and off I went. Two months later, I'm nearly ten thousand words in. I love the concept of the book and although plotting is not a strength, I think I'm developing a plausible mystery story. But every time a thousand words spark through the keyboard to the screen, a historical point crops up and I can spend half an hour trying to find the answer.

So it's slow, slow, quick, quick, slow.

Today I got bold and emailed a university expert. And I got a reply on my first question. The floor in a 13th century abbey would have been earth, except around the high altar / chancel area where it might have been ornately tiled. And I can ask him more, he says.

I suppose the other option is to write the story and then do the research afterwards. Maybe next time I'll try that.

Research and other stuff . . .

I spend today working on the plot for a children's/YA novel set in the middle ages. I've got a few cheap second-hand academic texts but they only get you so far. So then it's the internet and that's a writer's greatest time-thief. Before I know it I'm reading fascinating stuff of no relevance to the plot.

I turn it off and go back to the strange diagrams that are emerging on the blue paper I'm using, with arrows pointing everywhere and strange little notes that even I will struggle to understand this time next week. By mid-afternoon, I'm veering towards a decision to set the story in Britain, even though I'd thought about Galicia originally, somewhere on the Camino de Santiago. Trouble is, to write about that properly I feel I ought to go there. And we spent all our money this summer. I don't think I could persuade the family to walk the pilgrim road from the Pennines to Compostela.

This is a part of writing I know I'm going to struggle with; the intricate details of a plot for a mystery novel. It's the first time I've tried something like this, and setting it in the middle ages has only complicated the issue further. Still, challenge is the best way to learn.

No clues, but . . . there was a thriving trade in stolen religious relics during the middle ages.

It's been a long time . . .

. . . since I posted anything. The summer has spluttered to a halt, though I'm surprised it made it as far as it did. The man who cleaned the carpets today told me Easter is the new summer, as we waited for the torrential rain to ease so he could load up his van.

Next week I'm getting a proof copy of The Court Painter's Apprentice, due to be published in the new year. It's been a ridiculously easy ride getting this out, compared to my previous experience. And I think that's largely down to the brilliance and energy of my editor, Non at Catnip.

When somebody says 'have you thought about this?' and you haven't, even though you've read the manuscript 100 times, then you know you're onto a good thing. She has the uncanny ability to inspire confidence. And she does what she says she's going to do, which is always welcome because writers sometimes live in a kind of hopeful space, waiting for the next email or rejection slip.

If I ever doubted the idea of a writer needing a good editor, that opinion is now a permanent resident in my mind.

In Between The Showers . . .

Like the weather, nothing much seems settled in my writing head at the moment. I have two novels in desperate need of revision and keep attempting 'research' (ie. idling away an hour on the internet) for a new novel. Today I reread the opening to one of the finished novels, determined to strengthen the motivation of the main character, but ended up deleting large swathes of text instead. I don't seem capable of deciding what's the next best thing to do. Maybe I should take a break from writing for a couple of weeks?

Driving Home . . .

To North Wales yesterday to visit a school. A great time was had talking about writing and reading, getting children involved in drama activities and answering questions. They even invited me to open their library and tell a story at the end of the day. I came away full of enthusiasm. Thanks very much to the staff and children of Rydal Penrhos School.

Then, on the way home, driving on the coast road through rain coming in from the Irish Sea, I listened to a programme about newly qualified social workers and was struck by the sharp contrasts we have in childhood experiences in this country. An hour earlier I had spoken to a group of eager girls, who wanted to be writers, doctors, vets and a whole host of other professions. On the radio, I then listened to stories of children locked in their bedrooms to protect them from dangerous relatives. And governments still want to blame social workers and teachers for not radically changing the outcomes for these children because it deflects from the very real mess in some inner city areas where governments can make a difference. Like Sure Start nurseries, for example. A simple idea, well-executed, that worked and is now being cut severely.

Worlds colliding . . .

My worlds collide today.

Recent emails and phone calls from editors about forthcoming stories have sent me scurrying back to read them again and recall how much I enjoyed writing and revising them. Consequently, I have neglected Mr Sheen and the lawnmower for higher thoughts.

Last night K brought home the reading SAT for 11 year olds from her school and we spent a good half hour ranting, which we like to do from time to time. A child may love reading books, may have read a book a week for most of their lives. Whether this test can sum up their experience and skills, I doubt. A good teacher could do it in a few sentences, but apparently ministers need a number instead. The writing SAT is yet to come, but you can bet your life it'll be a piece of functional writing. Nothing wrong with that, I hear you cry. No, but where's the fun gone in writing? I asked a child the other day when they'd last written a story or a poem and all I got was a blank look.

Which leads me on to the third aspect of my working week - teaching. It seems to me the idea that education can be a transformational experience has all but disappeared now. Government interference with the political football of education is so rife now that career politicians are telling us what to teach and how to teach it. Many schools, under severe pressure, have been forced to view education as only a necessary preparation for entering the working economy as an adult. And that means we risk stifling creativity, independent thought and innovation.

So this morning I planned an author visit to a primary school, determined to do my bit to inspire children to write because they enjoy it, not just because they have to do it.

OK. I've put it off long enough. Back to the Dyson.

Spring Cleaning . . .

. . . and latch on to the affirmative
don't mess with me and Mr Sheen

Going With The Flow . . .

The locusts have been off school and college all week but they're late risers (some days it's barely worth their while) so I've managed three or four hours writing every morning before they rise and point to their mouths.

There are so many pieces of advice out there about writing. Some of them are useful, some trite, some so idiosynchratic that they're only of use to the people who offer them. But one of the ones generally accepted is re-writing.

Usually I re-read what I've written each day and edit it for style, punctuation, spelling and occasionally delete most of it. But this week I've barely read a word once it's passed my line of sight on the screen. Five days, 15,000 words, all in a rush. And I'm scared to read it now.

Why did this happen? Well, it's the first time it's happened, that's for sure. I write in fits and starts, usually about 3 or 4000 words a week. Sometimes it's easier than others, but this week it's been a piece of cake. I knew where the story was going, already knew the characters, had my research all around me. And it just flew out, unhindered, and felt exactly as I'd imagined it.  But now I'm frightened to read it, in case it's a pile of rubbish. In case I have to rewrite it.

Oh, and another rejection letter in the post this morning . . . next to a proof copy of the lovely paperback edition of Winter Shadow.

Feeling rejected . . .

After a few years of practice and a good few dozen rejection slips, I began to write more for children. Not because it's easier, or I thought it would be easier to get published. It's not. Unexpectedly though, my first attempt was picked up by Barefoot before I'd collected too many rejection letters.

That was it. Now the floodgates would open and I would get an agent and be free to publish whatever I wrote. Err . . . actually no. That didn't happen. True I have managed two new contracts since then, but finding an agent still seems almost impossible. The old chestnut of it being more difficult to get an agent than get published certainly rings true with me. In fact, I think I might give up trying . . . I've wasted a lot of time and paper and energy in research and submissions and although they do more often than not ask for the full manuscript these days, I'm still no nearer. I can't afford £300 to have a manuscript edited by a consultancy each time, either. Neither can most writers, so stop putting it on your form letters.

So, how does a writer deal with rejection? Well, first off I would suggest that anyone who writes for money would be better off getting a proper job ( not that there are many around at the moment). Writing is just something I've always done. I remember turning up to school early one summer morning just to finish my first chaptered story in junior school (Mr Hanson, thank you very much). If people told me my stories were awful I'd still do it in secret anyway. So when a publisher or agent rejects a manuscript my heart sinks, like anyone's does, but only for a few minutes. I've even had an agent say she loved one of my stories but couldn't see a place for it in the market. Another wanted me to rewrite a young adult novel more ''like Cornelia Funke''. Well, we live in thrall to the market now, don't we? Demand dictates supply, apparently, not the other way round. But I won't write about vampires or wizards (no offence to anybody who does - it's a personal thing).

If you feel destroyed by each rejection, you'll soon stop writing ( or at least submitting). I comfort myself with the thought that many more eminent writers from the past would never be published today because nobody would take the risk.

So just write. Send it off if you think it's good. Let people read it and offer you an opinion, especially people whose judgment you trust. But most of all, do it because you like doing it.

A Change In The Weather . . .

After several weeks of blue skies and spring sunshine it feels intensely gloomy today. Usually a change in the weather in a story prefigures a plot or character development of some kind or another, but in reality it makes little difference to people. Except . . . I do feel a bit miserable today, for no good reason.

Today was a teaching day. Not a writing day. Or a cleaning day. This afternoon, we made circuits to power a motor attached to a chassis (previously constructed of wood) and connected to an axle. They worked, but were tricky to connect. One girl asked me to do hers.
'No,' I said, 'but I'll show you how to do it.'
She shrugged and walked away. Clearly, I hadn't given the answer she was looking for. Three minutes later I looked round to see she'd persuaded another pupil to connect her circuit to the chassis. Oh well . . .

Waiting For The Post . . .

I've been meaning to start a blog for over a year. A blog about writing.

Not because I want to be noticed, although I'd be pleased for my books to be. I really don't want to broadcast my every movement and inane thought to the world (and there are plenty of those). But on the other hand I like the idea of having a place to communicate some of the thoughts and actions which may possibly, ever so slightly, be of some interest and use to other people interested in writing and reading stories.

So I've started. The post has just arrived. And as usual, it's another rejection slip . . . .