Editing

Well, I "finished" the first full and complete good draft in time for my daughter's birthday - but I haven't let her read it yet because I'm still editing.

So she's diligently reading her other birthday presents without complaint, which I think is down to her innate kindness and understanding, rather than a happy-to-put-that-off strategy...

Work is busy, which means I'm getting little time for the editing, and I keep waking up in the early hours mumbling "the painting!" or "the window!" or "the oven!" as some hidden extra-bit-I-need-to-do-to-The-Book emerges from my subconscious. Weird this writing lark, isn't it.

So today is a Writing Day, but first I have to go and help some bees settle in at the bottom of my garden with a nice feeder sloshing with sugar-syrup, and then meet the designer Helen Ashworth for lunch - Helen designs and makes the most fabulous bags and cushions and notebooks using old letters and postcards as templates and uses old fabrics - which makes it sound as though I move in very elegant circles but really Helen and I both worked together in a library once...

... and then I'll get on with the editing.














Helen Ashworth "Vacances" purse, picture courtesy http://www.notonthehighstreet.com/rosiesarmoire

The Book is Finished!

- well, finished the first full draft anyway.

Having said that, I don't do "rough" drafts at all but work and work at each section until it's as good as I can get it before I can move on to the next bit. Then the next time I'm working on it (in those snatched moments of calm between working at my real jobs and living in a somewhat lively household), I re-read the preceding section, inevitably tweaking and editing while I do, then move on to the next...
...although my writing tends to move into my head so that I'm thinking about it while eating, sleeping, and washing up and that's often when the next bit starts to take shape - and when the not-previously-spotted mis-shapen nature of what has already been written raps me sharply on the skull too so that I have to revisit it for a rewrite.

So now the first book in the Witherstone series, called, er Witherstone surprisingly enough, is now a complete 13 chapter - 150 pages of A4 - book which only needs a top-to-toe edit to get rid of those irritating little typos and writer's tics which you can't see for toffee when they're on the screen no matter how many times you read them, but jump up from the page and blow raspberries at you as soon as they are printed on real paper.
Weirdly, each chapter seems to have ended up being roughly the same length as one another, although this wasn't intentional, so that's either good fortune, a sign of sheer writerly brilliance, or, as I suspect, an indication that I've done something terribly wrong...

The first port-of-call with the book is my harshest critic - my daughter. I wrote the book for her and managed to get it into its current "finished" state in time for her Birthday on Friday 16th, although having looked at the first couple of chapters since it's been in complete paper form, I desperately want to edit out those irritating typos first! - if she'll let me... My Writing Day is coming up on Thursday so fingers crossed she won't have finished her current read by then and I can sneak her Birthday Present off for a quick editorial first.

Having said that, I'm not sure I'll ever feel that it's really finished - I'm a real devil for picking at a piece of writing and have to tell myself that if I'm at the stage where I'm spending more than 20 minutes dithering about whether to use "said" or "whispered", I have Finished.

Probably one of the most interesting things about the book is that the germ for its inception all began with an encounter in my brother's garden shed last summer - with a hoard of spiders. When I asked my daughter to design a book cover for it though, she came up with a great picture with no spiders in it at all...

Goosebumps of the Literary Kind

Literature is a strange space. The arrangment of words on a page can leave you laughing, crying, gasping, breathless. The first words on a page can pour through your eyeballs and be scorched into your brain forever.

One of the most remarkable opening moments of a novel I've ever come across is Anne Michaels Fugitive Pieces. My friend Julia held it out to me in the University library and whispered 'I've bought this as a birthday present for Ria. Do you think she'll like it?'

I glanced at the Prologue quickly: a suggestion that the novel is based on retrieved texts - 'memoirs, diaries, eyewitness accounts' or perhaps is one of those other lost stories 'concealed in memory, neither written nor spoken' - hidden during the Second World War. It sounded interesting.
I turned to the first chapter, read for less than five minutes then packed up my half-arsed essay and went down to the bookshop and bought the book and took it home and read and read and read.
Years later I use different sections of the opening pages of this novel when talking to my own students about literature and memory and questions of truth, literary criticism and literature itself as a kind of archaeology, the strange place of literature where we can tell the untellable, speak the unspeakable, examine our humanity, and the way in which the words on a page can burrow into your brain and seep into every pore of your being so that you carry that arrangement of words around inside you for the rest of your life.


Time is a blind guide.
Bog-boy, I surfaced into the miry streets of the drowned city. For over a thousand years, only fish wandered Biskupin's wooden sidewalks. Houses, built to face the sun, were flooded by the silty gloom of the Gasawka River. Gardens grew luxurious in subaqueous silence; lilies, rushes, stinkweed.
No one is born just once. If you're lucky, you'll emerge again in someone's arms; or unlucky, wake when the long tail of terror brushes the inside of your skull.
I squirmed from the marshy ground like Tollund Man, Grauballe Man, like the boy they uprooted in the middle of Franz Josef Street while they were repairing the road, six hundred cockleshell beads around his neck, a helmet of mud. Dripping with the prune-coloured juices of the peat-sweating bog. Afterbirth of earth.
I saw a man kneeling in the acid-steeped ground. He was digging. My sudden appearance unnerved him. For a moment he thought I was one of Biskupin's lost souls, or perhaps the boy in the story, who digs a hole so deep he emerges on the other side of the world.



You can click on this link to read reviews of this novel on Amazon.

In this novel, Michael's uses poetic language to examine the profound impact of loss, the importance of remembering, and the redemptive power of human love. In part she does this by defamiliarising the murder committed in war in ways which lose none of the horror whilst at the same time foregrounding the enormity of what is lost - those unique and individual lives, the lives of the survivors, and humanity itself. Her use of language evokes similar layered depths of love, humanity and ethical truths as Michael Ondaatje, another writer who just about blows you away with the intense beauty of his language; both writers, for me, poetry in motion.

It's true to say that I'm one of the readers of Michael's novel who finds it in some senses a novel of two halves, preferring the first half, Jakob's half, to the second half of the book overall, although that isn't to say the second half isn't well worth reading because it is, and Anne Michaels' truly beautiful use of language permeates the whole book, but I guess what I'm saying is that the first half of the book has lodged itself in me - has "entered me through my pores and been carried through my bloodstream to my heart" to paraphrase Michaels.
~

Dragon

backyard bramble by http://www.paulsantoleri.com/

The ant ran across the palm of her hand, and Beth watched its tiny antennae wave in the air when it stopped at the end of her index finger. It ran on, and she turned her hand to keep it in sight as it ran over and over her hand in an endless loop, criss-crossing its own tracks but getting nowhere. She sighed and lowered her wrist to the mud below the grass so that the ant could find its track back to the rest of the colony. It wouldn’t get off, stupid thing, so she blew it and shifted over onto her back, sliding her hands behind her head to keep the ants out of her hair. The sky was forget-me-not blue, receding away forever. Small puffs of cloud swept occasionally into view from behind the tall sycamore trees and drifted steadily away. The birds were chirruping and singing in the trees, and darting across the eternal blue like stones, only the occasional blur of their wings disturbing their perfect streamlined bodies.

The small clouds puffed out across the treetops like the soft white exhalations of a dragon’s breath, and Beth drifted slowly across the sky with them, until a blackbird began a loud chack! chack! of alarm above her head. It was calling in agitation from the uppermost branches of the nearest tree, and her eyes searched around for the threat of a magpie but could see none. As the blackbird suddenly fled from the tree and shot away across the sky, its warning slicing through the air, the huge dragon rose silently but laboriously up from behind the trees. Beth could hear the leathery creak of its wings as it heaved itself over the canopy, and she found herself turning and scrambling for the thick island of brambles behind her before she had even become fully aware of what was coming, her body moving as though bound in glue as she fled.

She tried to plunge straight into the deepest part of the thicket, but the branching arms resisted her, holding her back, and she had to force her way in, the thorns tearing at her clothes and hair and ripping threads of blood across her arms and legs. She turned her head back towards the dragon as she pressed herself further and further away from it, and saw through her hair the glinting coppery sheen of its scales as it swooped down towards her and landed heavily on the grass. Beth forced herself backwards into the brambles, managing to put branches between her and the beast as it folded its brown leather wings down behind it and lunged forwards. Beth kept moving, further in, further away, but the dragon’s breath fouled the air in front of her face as her arms, legs and body struggled and pushed against the resisting arms of the thicket. Her hair was almost completely covering her eyes now, pulled over her face like a mask by the thorns which ripped and gouged at the back of her head and her body as she tried to press herself further away. Beth kept forcing her body back, brambles growing and thickening between herself and the dragon, until she lost sight of it altogether.

She stopped and tried to quieten her whimpering breath. She tried to turn her head from side to side but it was tightly bound, and her eyes strained to see around her as far as she could. Glimpses of leathery skin flickered between the branches, and she could hear a grunting breath which was not her own. She could smell the dragon’s odour, like sour dough and bitter almonds, and found its golden-brown eyes glinting at her through the thorns. Beth closed her eyes as its shadow loomed closer, knowing she was trapped, and the branches bent and swayed and creaked around her.

When she opened her eyes again, Beth pressed her head back to look up through the tangles of hair and branch to the sky. It was still blue, a glorious day, the sunlight dappling through the thicket all around her, but the birds had fallen silent. Listening. A breath. Whuu. Silence. Whuu. A long, drawn-out sigh. Whuu-uugh. The sky darkened suddenly and the grunting breath became a creak of leather and a swoosh of air. As the dragon passed over her head, Beth’s whimpered breath finally became a scream, but the dragon kept going, up and gone, sunlight and blue sky and silence streaming suddenly in through the thorny branches as the sound of her scream died away. After a moment, her breath drawing shakily back into her tensed and trembling body, Beth collapsed and wept into the thorns which still held her, a rag-doll of arms and legs and hair.

Beth stayed in the bramble thicket for a long time. After she had stopped crying she hung there, listening to the birds singing and chirruping in the trees around her once again. She heard her mother call. Beth looked down her body at her arms and legs, the bloodied scratches drying and crusty. She crawled and picked her way back out, adding new wounds. Weak and trembling, she got to her feet and ran back through the garden to the house as quickly and as quietly as she could.

As she stepped into the kitchen, her mother tutted at her appearance and told her to go and wash for lunch. In the bathroom, Beth washed the blood and dried sap from her arms and legs and looked at her face in the mirror. A pale, freckled face looked stonily back at her, hair tangled with leaves and thorny twigs and stuck down to the dirty forehead with dried sweat. Beth shakily pulled the twigs out of her hair and dropped them into the waste basket under the gleaming enamel sink. Washing her face straight under the cold tap, she wiped the grime onto the fluffy pink towel hanging by the side of the bath, then went into her bedroom to change. She screwed the soiled dress into a tight ball and pushed it into the furthest corner under her hearts and flowers bed, then went back downstairs.

Looking her up and down briefly, her mother nodded her head towards the dresser, and Beth opened the drawer to take out the cutlery and set the table for lunch. She set three places, two at one end of the dark, gleaming table and one at the other. Her mother moved the further set back up the table next to the other two and positioned the three place-mats then the steaming bowls of thick, fragrant soup. Beth dragged her chair to the table as her mother opened the back door and shouted “Lunch!”

Beth had already finished her soup by the time her father entered the kitchen, and she watched him at the sink, washing his soiled hands and his leathery arms, tanned to a copper sheen. She left the table quietly to find a new place to hide while her parents discussed the gathering clouds, and the potential for more gardening that afternoon, while they ate. When they had finished, Beth's mother leaned across her daughter's empty chair to clear away the remains of her husband’s meal.

rock pool

seaweed courtesy of static.zooomr.com - images - 851606


Robert couldn’t wait to get out of the car. He jiggled up and down in his seat, his face close to the window so that he didn't miss a thing.
‘Can we get out now? Are we parked?’
‘Just wait. I need to get a ticket’ said his mother, and she undid her seatbelt and opened her door.
‘Can I come too?’ he asked, but she slammed the door shut without answering and walked across the car park. Robert craned up to see where his mother was. She was at the ticket machine. She was coming back to the car. Excitedly, he undid his seat belt and picked up his overstuffed rucksack from the seat beside him and tried to open his door, but it was locked.
‘Mum! Mummy! I can’t get out!’
‘Just wait!’ she said as she opened her door. She peeled the backing off the ticket, stuck it half across the back and pressed the ticket to the window. She slammed her door shut again and opened Robert’s door from outside.
‘Don’t go running off as soon as we’ve crossed the road.’
Robert held his mother’s hand as they crossed, trying to stop his rucksack from banging into his leg as it hung awkwardly from his other hand. When they reached the pavement, Robert tried to run onto the sand but his mother kept hold of him.
‘You’re hurting!’ he said, trying to free his hand.
‘Just wait!’ she hissed.

Robert looked at the curve of the sandy beach with the huge boulders all along one side, tumbling down towards the sea. The sea. The tide was out past the rocks and some children were already down by the rock pools, their fishing nets waving as they ran from pool to pool. Their voices sounded far away and Robert felt as if he would never get there. He looked up at his mother. She was slowly surveying the beach. She let go of Robert’s hand and started to walk the other way, away from the rocks. Robert walked behind her, awkward in his shoes in the soft, dry sand. He watched it dust up onto his shoes and socks as he walked. There were tiny stones and shells lying in dry waves along the tide-line, framed by parched seaweeds which stretched away in long, tangled mounds across the sand.

After walking an endless way along the beach, Robert’s mother finally stopped and started to unpack her bag. She unrolled her beach-mat, took off her sandals, sat down and stretched out her legs. She began to unscrew the top from a bottle of sun-tan lotion. Robert watched her, trying to wait until she was ready to let him go, but his impatience butted in.
‘Can I go to the rock pools now? Please mum?’
She waved him away without looking up.

Robert fumbled with his shoe-laces and impatiently prised his half-unlaced shoes off his feet. His socks quickly followed and his feet found themselves at last in the hot, loose sand. He opened his rucksack and emptied it beside him. He left the plastic spades, picked up a small bucket and started to run across the soft sand. It was hot and soft but rough on his bare feet. Sand-shrimps jumped out of the tangles of seaweed as he quickly picked his way across them. As his feet met the smooth wet sand, he ran faster, his footprints lighter behind him slowly darkening as the water reclaimed them.

As he reached the rocks, he slowed. Walking as slowly as he could force himself, he reached the first pool. He looked into the water and the sun rippled across the sand at the bottom. A dart of movement. Fish. Robert held his breath and slowly crouched down to see. Tiny fish, the colour of sand, swam without moving in a patch of sunlight. Robert slowly let out his breath and watched them, their tiny fins blurring like wings. He gently eased the bucket into the water towards the fish. At the last moment, the translucent creatures darted away, but when he pulled the bucket back towards him, he saw that one fish was hovering in the water of the bucket. He carefully sat down with the bucket in his hands and watched the fish. It was so transparent he could see its darker organs through the skin. After a while, he slowly got up, lowered the bucket back into the pool and encouraged the tiny creature out towards where the other fish had swum.

Robert walked from pool to pool, his shadow following him. He saw the small empty skeleton of a crab, moving gently to and fro in the soft motion of the water. Feathery fronds of bright green weed held motionless in the smaller pools amongst mop-headed bladderwrack. Red anemones on the submerged rocks glowed like rubies in the deeper pools, and black sea-snails glided silent tracks across the sand at the bottom. He stepped into the warm water, watching the sand rise in slow little puffs around his feet.

Further on, surrounding a huge rock which jutted out of the sand, was the biggest pool yet. It was deep, and deeper still where the sea had excavated around the base of the grey-black stone, the pool sloping down into the shadows where long strands of reddish seaweed floated out like underwater hair. He stepped into the pool, and a shimmer passed across the surface of the water. Looking down into the water, he saw more of the tiny transparent fish, hovering in the long red strands of weed which floated out from the deepest part of the pool.

He slowly walked down the sea-carved slope into the deeper water and let his fingers float in amongst the fish. The fine strands of weed caressed his fingers, clinging slightly to his skin. His toes sank into little clouds of sand, and he saw a silvery sheen behind the flowing weed, stretching right along the underside of the rock.

Robert leaned in more closely, adjusting his head to avoid the glare of the sunlight on the water, and in the shadow of the rock he saw a long fish tail, longer than his own legs. His eyes followed the tail back up towards the long strands of seaweed, where the scales gradually evolved into silvery skin. The mermaid’s arm moved gently in the motion of the water, fingertips caressing the tail, its scales shimmering in silvery rainbow colours where the sunlight found them. Behind the floating hair, which still tugged gently at his fingers, a silvery oval slowly resolved itself into a face. The mermaid’s dead fish eyes were open and staring blankly, while a tiny transparent fish nibbled at the still, grey lips. Robert tried to untangle his fingers from the mermaid’s hair. His feet were held by the shifting sand, and the mermaid’s dead fingers brushed against his feet as he struggled to get away. Freeing his feet and hands at last, he stumbled from the water, fell to his knees and was sick into the wet sand.