Of Whizz-Bang Fizzle March 5, 2010
Posted by Jen in : Journal, Novel , 19 commentsOk, ok, I confess. The novel-writing has sort of ground to something of a halt. I’ve been, ahem, a little distracted with what I laughingly call ‘real life’. There has been rather a lot of it lately. Work is ridiculously busy. Tweed Clad Colleague mysteriously gets louder in direct proportion to workload. I am wearing ear plugs and wondering whether people have forgotten there’s supposed to be a recession on? Working 72 hours a day is not conducive to fabulous novelling you know.
Excuses excuses. I know. I have, however, managed to produce yet another short story. I struggle and struggle with them though no one in my lovely writing group has laughed yet. Well, not in a mean fashion. All I need to do now is summon up the courage to start subbing them. Voices rumble in my head. All aboard the nine-eleven fast train to Rejection City. Mind the gap, you clumsy berk. Eek. Editors should be like the Chitty Chitty Bang Bang child-catcher. Not that my stories should be caged, or even tied up. I’m just not convinced they’re ready to be free? But I will. Oh yes, I will for it is written on the blog.
Anyway, my novel is fermenting. Festering. Whatever. This weekend will see a tumble of words. No really, it will! If not, you are permitted to chase me round Tescos with a pointy stick while I stuff weak platitudes into my trolley along with some Bicarb of Soda and a bunch of tulips. The tulips are to make me happy (they will be purple) and the Bicarb of Soda is to sparkle up the words wot I have writted already. I’m not sure they have the right flavour. They don’t taste of string though, which is a good thing. I’m just not sure what they should taste of? Strong black coffee? No… vanilla cheesecake? Nope, too sweet… oh, I’ve got it. Space Dust. Sweet but bitter with a lingering fizzle on the tongue. Yes, that will do nicely. Or Flying Saucers – the orange ones. Ah, those were the days.
What d’you mean I haven’t told you about meeting Man from the Past? What can I say? It was better than a Wham bar. Even better than Gold Nuggets bubble gum. ‘Go easy on me on the blog,’ he pleaded. This means he may read what I say. I’m saying nothing. First rule of theatre, darlings, always leave them wanting more. Leave you wanting more, I mean. Not him. But actually… oh dear. Perhaps it will another 22 years until we meet again. (Him, not you.) I do hope not. *Blushes*
Must dash, she said, changing the subject. My aubergines are griddled. This is not a euphemism. What flavour will your day be today?
Of Reckless Reinvention February 16, 2010
Posted by Jen in : Bit of a Mid-Life Crisis, Journal, Novel , 28 commentsI used to be terribly quiet you know. When I started work I felt perpetually sick, my stomach lurching every time the phone rang, so nervous was I of ever having to speak to anyone. I realised, somewhere along the line, that I was embarrassed about being so shy, so introverted. It wasn’t sweet, it was pathetic. So I pretended. I looked at how the other girls I worked with interacted with people and I copied them. I did it so much it became a habit. It became who I am.
Also, I used to smoke. A lot. I started when I was 15 – I thought it would make me cool. It didn’t. It made me cough. Trying to give up the fags after 40 a day for 5 years was a killer. Especially when combined with endless nights out. The new gregarious me took socialising to Olympic competitive levels. I did give up the ciggies though, not by ‘trying’ but getting up one day and telling anyone who’d listen that I didn’t smoke anymore. Instead of a cajoling ‘oh, go on’ they looked impressed and put their packets away. That was another new me. A me who was a non-smoker.
I don’t know why I’ve suddenly started thinking about all this stuff. It was, after all, twenty-odd years ago. I’ve been thinking about life too much lately. Making decisions. Mostly wrong ones, it seems, since I’m not that keen on them. Today is the first day of the rest of your life. Being a practiced procrastinator, of course, tomorrow always marks the start of the rest of my life. But it’s time now. I decided on Sunday that tomorrow would indeed be the start of the rest of my life. If I could become a braver me, a non-smoking me by pretending and adopting those facades, then I can become a writer by doing the same. 6 weeks. That’s long enough for new habits to become traits. That’s how long I’ve given myself. There are other departments of myself I want to change too. There will be no wine, for a start. Oi! Stop laughing! There won’t. I mean, there isn’t.
Reinventing yourself in 6 weeks? Can it be done? Who knows? I’m doing it though. It appeals to my obsessive nature. And, best of all, it’s vital research into Novel II. I can’t tell you more than that or I’d have to kill you. And that would be a shame, wouldn’t it? Murderous urges weren’t on the list of ingredients for the new flavour of ‘me’.
Of Splendid Serendipity (and Sprawled Out at Square One) January 9, 2010
Posted by Jen in : Bit of a Mid-Life Crisis, Journal, Novel , 23 commentsWell then. Did I mention that Novel 2 will be jigging about in the little-known genre of Philosophical Comedy? The only laugh so far is that, as you will see (eyes right, if you please) the word count is now back to zero. But that’s ok. Until this morning, I had the setting, some dizzy but delectable dialogue and a handful of charming characters. Sadly, the characters were all wandering about with torches strapped to their heads in search of the missing plot. If editing means killing your darlings, I’ve just beheaded all mine and stuck ‘em out in the snow to decompose slowly but gruesomely.
Bizarrely, as I read an early email today from An Unassuming Artist which mentioned Scott’s Antarctic adventures, I clicked on a song in iTunes that I’d never heard before. I’ve no idea where it even came from. The song is now adopted as the theme song for when the novel becomes a film. Here you go… a song about Columbus and following your dreams… it’s pretty much what the novel’s about. I think. Er… sort of. Fictional adventures will be better than the real ones I’m currently craving. Plus I won’t have to go outside ever again. Anyway, the song has inspired me. So there.
In other serendipitous news, one of my New Year resolutions, since you were probably wondering, is to spend less money on food. Ok, we do like to eat well and love our treats and I do have two teens but, between the three of us, we’re munching through one hundred and fifty Great British pounds a week. I mentioned the new economy drive to Son 1.
‘I’m assuming there’ll be less buying of wine,’ he replied, employing the use of sardonic eyebrow positioning. Bloody sod.
The weather, however, has meant that we’ve had to exist for a week now on what we already had in store. There has been no M&S indulgency. Instead, I’ve thanked my lucky stars that I bought a whole lamb from my lovely boss last year which went from farm to my freezer in less than a day. I felt like a proper hardcore country girl that day, I tell you. I won’t confess of course that I *had* to check with him that it would be ‘chopped up’. I had visions of it crammed into the chest freezer like a stuffed toy, its legs poking out and its gentle eyes staring up at me in surprise. Instead of giving the dog the remains of a leg of lamb, I’m positively yearning for Leftover Lamb Biryani. Balti paste has changed my life forever. Who knew?
The barmy weather has also hooked me out of routine. I read in one of my hippy books, several years ago, that it’s important not to do the same things in the same way every day. If you have to take the same dog-walking route, walk it from finish to start instead. It’s amazing how different the world looks the other way round. Seriously, you should try it.
Right then. Back to the novel writing. Buying a camper van for storyline research purposes and inadvertent adventures? No, I’m not even thinking about that. Honest. Not much, anyway. Ahem.
Of Distracted Dithering December 4, 2009
Posted by Jen in : Journal, Novel , 14 commentsCan you see my teeth from there? No? Well, I can reliably inform you that they are a-gnashing. My fingers are a-twitching. The words for Novel 2 are bursting to tumble out onto the page, the characters jostling for prime position. But. Novel 1 was very much character-led. I loved my characters, had my setting sorted and wahooo, off I went. I took the organic instinctive approach (aka making it up as you go along) and it was fun. Well, fun until I got mauled by the RNA critic lady. She was right about one thing though. Novel 1 lacked plot. And now, of course, I’m obsessing. I actually feel a little bit sick about launching in and letting the story scatter itself. I’m not sure what the story is. I have some of the characters, some of the theme and that sort of thing. But that’s not the story, is it? The characters have to actually ‘do’ things. This is, I suspect, bothering me more than it should. I’m too scared to write without knowing everything in advance. But I don’t want to know everything in advance. It’s like life (innit) (she said, philosophically). It’s tempting to have everything mapped out, and possibly know where it’s going, rather than lurch along uncontrollably, falling down potholes and being surprised by sudden gusts of stuff.
Perhaps I’m thinking too much. I know what you’re going to say. Just. Write. The. Words. Perhaps the plot will become apparent as I go. As with life, I can make sense of it in hindsight. So yeah. Abandon ye The Thinkingness.
This blog post didn’t turn out quite as I intended at all. But maybe it doesn’t matter. That’s life, I s’pose. Sometimes it turns out better than you thought it would. So that’s nice, isn’t it?
Of Sensational Serendipity November 25, 2009
Posted by Jen in : A210, Journal, Novel , 24 commentsIt’s funny. I always think I write in my journal on a regular basis. This is, in fact, not true. It never fails to amaze me that quite often a whole month – sometimes many months – have gone by without me jotting down where I am in life. What I think. What I feel. What I think ‘now’ never seems that interesting, you know? But then, when I read back over old entries, it’s like reading the words of a different person. Strangely enough, when I started this journal I didn’t write down the year. Just the date. February 27th. I suppose I thought it would be obvious which year it was. It wasn’t. It took me a while to work out that it was 2006. I was a different person then.
Last week, I was deep in indecision. Head or heart? Heart or head? I read through all your comments on my last post. I pondered my future. I decided that I’d made the right decision to finish my degree and put the writing on hold for a year. I’m sensible like that. And then I changed my mind. I’m fickle like that. On Friday, I was missing writing. Missing it a lot, I mean. No, even more than that. I wrestled and wrangled and scowled a lot. And then serendipity charged in. Did I want a place in the short-story group I’d been grovelling for? Grovelling for over a year, in fact. Too bloomin right I wanted it. And then, an unexpected but lovely comment about some of my photos sealed it. I’ve withdrawn from my OU course. It’s not copping out, I keep trying to convince myself. It’s a positive decision. I want to write. I’ve taken the day off today to make friends with Novel 2 again. I shall shake the characters’ sketchy hands and apologise for neglecting them. I’d somehow become the wrong person over the past few months. But I think the ‘real’ me is back now.
There has also been a new addition to my life. I’m quite cautious about new relationships but he seems lovely and I admit, I’ve fallen for him already. It’s a shame I’m allergic to him and have to mainline anti-histamine to enjoy his whiskery kisses. He likes me to write in bed and is fascinated by my words, especially when smudging them with his nose.
‘D’you want a cat?’ Tweed Clad Colleague bellowed at me down the phone.
‘No, not really,’ I replied in my determined voice. ‘I’m allergic to cats.’
‘No, it’ll be fine. He’s a hardcore farm cat. You’ll never see him.’
Three weeks later, Tommy is stretched out on my pillow. ‘Oh yes,’ he purrs, ‘I used to be a farm cat. It’s a mug’s game. Is it salmon or duck for dinner?’
Ok, that’s enough of the soppy cat talk. I’ve got to go order a new journal. My sporadic entries have meant that it’s taken since February 2006 to fill this one but it’s nearly time to tuck it away. It seems apt that it’ll be time to start a new one soon. Not just a new journal, but a whole new chapter. Life’s a funny old game, isn’t it? I really love it though. I’m purring, just like the cat, today. For lots of reasons.
Of Indecisive Identity October 9, 2009
Posted by Jen in : Bit of a Mid-Life Crisis, Journal, Novel , 25 commentsIs there a doctor in the house? A brain doctor, to be precise. I’m afraid mine has broken down. I have made the disastrous discovery that there is a large leap in mental activity (or the lack thereof) between vegging with Emmerdale and a drop o’ the red stuff and doing academic study. I know. It’s really quite a revelation. Last weekend, my latest OU module began. Needless to say, after a week, I am a week behind. I am, if nothing else, consistent.
Life’s a funny old game, isn’t it? A couple of Sundays ago, I stood on the sidelines of a rugby pitch in Haywards Heath, surrounded by posh mums and hungover dads. As the opposition limbered up, grunting and stomping their way round the field like inarticulate gladiators, I caught the eye of one of ‘our’ mums. ‘Oh my God, just look at ‘em. They’re massive. They’re gonna kill our babies,’ she worried. We gave each other theatrical looks and sighed, Britishly. And then our own little darlings came out. Oddly, they were just as huge, with hairy legs and six packs. When the bloody hell did that happen?
Now, I’m sure there was a point to all this. The sort of point I’m contemplating for Novel 2. Perhaps along the lines of us not noticing change, because of its sneaky nature. The trickiness of time. But perhaps we don’t see ourselves clearly until we’re reflected through others’ eyes? I’ve met some new people recently, made some new friends. I have even talked to people in ‘real life’. And, of course, it’s weird to see yourself as other people see you. I study literature. I’m writing a novel. I play in an orchestra. If I didn’t know me, I’d be quite scared of me. And scaring yourself by the sneakiness of change and time is weird. And more surprising than a sudden onslaught of grey hairs and an urge to listen to The Archers.
What I’d like to know, in the interests of plain nosy parkerness novelicious research is this: what single aspect of yourself do you think comes across most strongly to other people that you haven’t noticed for yourself? Go on. Indulge me. I’m intrigued.
Oh, and in case you were wondering, I’m not the bird who was talking drunken twaddle in my local last Friday. No. That was someone else. Tonight, Matthew, I’m going to be swanning about at the Sevenoaks Literary Festival, listening to the rather marvelous Patrick Gale talk about clever things. Jealous much?
Of Creative Claptrap September 22, 2009
Posted by Jen in : General Shame, Journal, Novel , 26 commentsCrumbs, I’ve been ever so busy lately. Busy sleeping; busy becoming friends with new people; busy not writing short stories. I have, however, started writing my second novel. I know, I know, I said I wouldn’t. But there you go, I’m fickle like that. You wouldn’t think anyone in their right mind would leap out of bed with a novel title and whole new genre based on a random, early-morning text about porridge, would you? I scribbled down the first few hundred words which somehow completely grabbed the essence, the feel, of how it might be. ‘Breakfast Under the Bodhi Tree’ will be on the shelves under… um… philosophical comedy. Nope, it’s not a genre. Not yet. But you get the idea. Of course, after the first morning’s wheeeeeeeeeee I kind of ground to a halt and put the whole thing down to a hangover. But no. It bubbled away, fermenting. And those always turn out to be the best ideas, don’t they, the ones that won’t go away. Unlike my usual dive-right-in tactic I assume for everything in life, I’m actually plotting, making notes; ploughing through Plot & Structure which is the best book I’ve found so far on such things. It’s rather exciting, having fun with possibilities and character sketches before the actual writing begins. I wish I’d done this with the first novel.
I must confess, this philosophical flim-flammery is not quite a direct result of the Mindful Living/Creative Writing course I signed up to. The class is… um… different. There are only 6 of us and the teacher man is very calm, very quiet. Sometimes he’s quite funny, even though he is An American. The writing exercises we do are basically freewriting – taking the prompt and scribbling mindlessly mindfully for 15 mins with whatever comes. No right or wrong. Just going with the flow (man). Easy, yes? Oh, yes, very easy until it transpires that you have to read the piffle out loud to the others. With your mouth. *Sigh*
Sitting around the pushed-together tables, we went painfully round the circle. I listened to the others’ words, in which we had to introduce ourselves in a way we wouldn’t usually. They were all quite normal. Needless to say, I had to go last. All the better to make a mockery of myself. The lady before me explained how she had battled and conquered cancer with homeopathy rather than chemo so that she could conceive a child. Cue all eyes to the super-cute kid in the corner, playing angelically. And me?
‘I am not a lion-tamer,’ I announced, trying to make this sound like a revelation. Spiritual. Trying to think that I should make something up instead of reading the utter tripe that included the tragic ‘I am photographer of weeds and commenter on bendy biscuits’ not to mention the cringeworthy ‘I am the invisible sea spray that leaves a taste on your lips’… Oh, God, the utter, utter shame. I didn’t go to the second class. I pretended I’d been eaten whole by the untamed lion.
Of Bird-Brained Burblings June 23, 2009
Posted by Jen in : Bits and Pieces, Novel , 30 commentsI woke up at 5am this morning. Through the outside sounds of crowing cockerels and bickering chickens, a thought came to me. I must confess my sins. Well, actually, there’s only one. I have not *gulps and looks around shiftily* written any words since I moved. Not one. But there is a reason for this. A reason that has pervaded my very being. I… um.. fell in love. Only a little bit. But it distracted me. The recipient of this had been around for a while, waiting, it would seem, for the right time to sneak into my life and change me. *Sigh*… It wasn’t even a bloke. It was Rose Tremain’s The Road Home. It was such so stylish, so irresistible. As I read, I turned down the bottom of pages I wanted to come back to, seeking out delicious phrases and caressing them as you would a lover’s cheek. And then I realised.
I want to move people, make them cry. And I’m not going to do that by prattling on about hippies, bongos and Paul McKenna. Sorry Paul. You can hunt me down and get me with your googly eyes and velvet voice if you like. But I can take the concept of my idea. It just needs a different vibe, voice, whatever. I have fallen out of love with Novel 2. And, to be honest, I’ve fallen out of love with the idea of writing another novel.
My writerly bits are ready for change. I need to fill my creative well. To let my pens potter and find a new direction. Create snippets and scribblings. Let these technicolour seeds germinate and see where the rainbows form. The novel-writing will be back. It’ll just be wearing a grubby mac and dark shades rather than a Jordan-esque bikini under a transparent top.
I didn’t think my teeny tiny cottage would change me. Not really. But I am changing. And as we change, our axis changes and the world whizzes about at a different angle. Oh dear, I’m talking tosh. I blame the chickens. But there’s something bubbling away, something thrilling and undefined. Festering, perhaps. Who can say?
Crumbs. Don’t I sound grown-up?
