There’s something to be said for taking your time

I am about to begin writing the first chapter of my new book. It is, for me, the second most exciting moment in writing something (the other being finishing). The whole Word document sits before you, white and inviting, just waiting for those little characters to make their way across the page in that magical combination that will get it onto a bookseller’s shelf.

I can still remember my first book-writing sessions. I was at university studying arty subjects, so had more than enough time to work on my book idea, all eagerness and excitement. Of course, I did prepare somewhat before I began. I still own the notebook (the cover shows the Hogwarts school crest from JK Rowling’s Harry Potter books), filled with my excited scribblings that I had to “get out of the way” before I could begin the real work of actually writing the thing.

It’s a funny thing to look at now. Near the beginning, after some brief character descriptions, there are six A4 pages containing 20 chapter breakdowns that were supposed to make up my first book. I soon realised, however, that books tend to develop a life of their own and well-meaning breakdowns often have to be put aside as the action of writing takes you off in directions of which you never dreamed. Consequently, the book I eventually wrote has only a little of what I originally intended. But that’s okay.

The rest of the notebook is filled with maps and history and ideas that I figured out as I went along. There are parts sellotaped in and loose printouts slotted between the pages. As I look at it, I remember just how disorganised I was and how, were I to try and write the whole book again, I would start by doing a little more work before I wrote a single word.

Which is what I have done recently. For the last month I have written nothing on my new book, save for some post-it notes. I have been over my ideas in my head, discarding those I eventually decide won’t work and keeping the ones that I return to again and again. It helps. I have a clear idea of where my book is going and, when I came to sit and write a short overview of the book today, found it quite easy. I know where it’s going. I know what’s going to be included. I know how it will end.

Sure, along the way I’m bound to have new ideas. As I’ve said, that’s how writing works and I’m sure most authors will agree. But I have my notes and my research and I feel there is enough to keep my book close to the lines I have chosen. I think that had I begun to write my book straightaway, it would have floundered somewhere in the middle, as too many ideas squeezed in at the beginning and there was little to surprise the reader towards the end.

I am excited. For the first time in a long time, I have found my enthusiasm again and my fingers are itching to type. It’s going to be a long road, but one for which I feel prepared.

The fun will be had in finding out just where it is going to take me.

Starbucks and writing… Part 3

Ah, my favourite place to write, it truly is.

I spent many years writing The Sillow Orb, sitting every evening in a room on my own, listening to Lord of the Rings or Harry Potter soundtracks and imagining myself to be a great writer. However, I’m fast becoming of the opinion that actually writing can be a little more social than that. While I haven’t yet progressed to joining a writing group or actually being able to give up work and rent a desk in a little office somewhere, I do enjoy sitting in my local Starbucks and watching life.

People are interesting and it’s a great place for picking up ideas for characters. My current book, a non-fantasy adult book, will require some realistic characters and I’m more than happy to drink the delicious vanilla lattes and do a little people watching. (Now, I’m not saying that the characters in The Sillow Orb aren’t realistic! I just find it far easier to give characters in a fantasy book characteristics, as you can play around with reality a little more. If a character isn’t from Earth, it makes sense that perhaps their idea of how you should live is different to yours or mine.)

So, I’m looking at people and trying not to make it obvious that I’m doing so. I don’t want to be branded a weirdo, after all. And I’m hoping no-one is looking over my shoulder and reading what I’m typing. It’s one thing to make observations about anonymous people, but I wouldn’t like anyone to think that their entire description and odd habits will turn up in a newspaper anytime soon. I certainly don’t want them frisking me for hidden cameras.

Let’s take a look around at who’s here and I’ll invent a little backstory for everyone…

1. A lone guy on a laptop. Blue jeans, black shirt and very dark hair, possibly Mediterranean. He’s leaning close to the screen, perhaps short-sighted but too proud to wear glasses? Or maybe he lost his contact lenses this morning and doesn’t have a back-up pair? The coffee he’s drinking is in a takeaway cup, which is a bit naughty because he’s sitting in and he’s been here since before I entered. His fingers are quite still and he’s reading intently, sometimes rubbing the black stubble on his face. Occasionally he nods. He doesn’t give the impression he’s working, but likewise he’s not looking at Facebook. He looks as though he’s answering emails, perhaps from his parents living in Greece. Back home, he was working in the family restaurant and he’s moved to the UK to open and run a similar restaurant here.  His parents weren’t entirely happy about him moving over here and they keep hoping he’ll come home and settle down. But he’s loving living in London and knows this is the life he always wanted.

2. A couple with big coffee tastes. She’s white, speaks with an accent and has amazing curly brown hair, caught up in a seemingly-effortless style. She’s drinking something hot and speaking quickly, gesticulating with hands, leaning forward and looking at her companion intently. He’s black, sitting quietly and in a laid-back fashion, leaning against the wall beside him. He has a mug infront of him but is sipping from a frappuccino cup with a straw. He says little, sometimes looking at her, sometimes gazing around the room. They have been together about two years, ever since she came over from Spain, and met while studying at the same university. They realised they both enjoyed coffee and come here every week to enjoy a drink and have a chat. There is love there, but they have grown comfortable with each other and he is content to listen while she talks. He loves her for her intensity and passion, she loves him for his quiet stability.

3. An odd couple. He’s a little rough-around-the-edges; scruffy pale jeans, scuffed Converse shoes, an untucked shirt. He carries no bag and wears a jean jacket that’s seen better days. His red hair, however, is perfectly styled although his facial hair looks like he hasn’t shaved for a few days. “Designer stubble”, perhaps. She, however, is the kind of girl I would have been scared of at school. Her hair, long and clearly straightened, is a perfect mix of blonde and brown. Her patterned black-and-white leggings perfectly emphasise her slim legs and she carries her brown bag in the crook of her arm. She exudes a confidence I have never had. As they wait for their coffee (hot for him, frappuccino for her), they joke around, looking at each other but  not touching. They are old friends, having studied drama in the same A-level class. Even though he went on to study drama at uni and she did languages, they remained the greatest of friends. People have always suspected they are lovers, but the two of them have never felt that way towards each other. Currently, they are both single, but the dynamics of their relationship will change as soon as one of them enters a serious relationship with someone else. They are both a little worried, which is preventing them from letting each other go in that way.

4. A lone woman, sitting down with only a drink and a phone. She looks a little anxious and fiddles with her mobile, as though she’s expecting someone. Her drink, a frappuccino with caramel-looking sauce but no cream on top, sits almost forlornly in front of her. She is Japanese, with a positive waterfall of beautiful black hair. Her shirt is a vibrant blue and she wears a chunky necklace of black and white stones. She has lived in this country for many years, having come over to study the piano at the Royal College of Music. For many years she has practised continuously, not being a child prodigy but having parents who took her small talent and produced it into something much bigger. She has friends here, other people from the College, but it is an intense life and she is close to getting her first solo performances at big venues in London. She is nervous and unsure of herself, but determined to make her parents proud.

Perhaps my next task will be to put all of these characters into a book… How might their lives intersect? Would they be friends or enemies? Is there potentially love there?

Task Nine: If Fate Hands You a Rattlesnake, Make a Handbag

Or making the best of a situation. Books about characters who take what life gives them and make something good from it are compelling reading, not least because we’ve all had times like that. You know what I mean, a time when you were prevented from going somewhere but ended up having a better time where you were. Or when you didn’t get that job but it meant you could apply for your dream job a little later.

At the time, these things hurt. It feels as though you’ve been thrown a curve ball and now you don’t know what to do. You eff and blind at those who have seemingly prevented your life from improving and then mope for days on end.

But sometimes, good things come from these knockbacks; a new opportunity, or a fresher outlook on life. Then, with the benefit of hindsight, you can see that what felt like a terrible thing has actually given you a second, better chance.

*

When he called, I was lying on my bed. Not in it, you understand, just on it, although I was still wearing my pyjamas. It wasn’t laziness that kept me there, but pain. A big, throbbing pain that made any movement nearly impossible without tears springing unbidden to my eyes. My right knee wasn’t the skinniest of things usually, but anyone looking at it would have realised something was amiss.

It was huge. And blue. And purple. And puffy.

For someone who’d thought the evening before that it was her ankle that was the problem, it was with some surprise that I awoke early the following morning to my monstrosity of a knee. I rang work, glad for once to have a valid excuse for some time off. Then it was a question of waiting for the other telephone call, one I was most anxious to receive.

You see, the day of my injury I’d been in London attending a job interview. I was moving back in with my parents due to a lack of funds and had seen the opportunity for a branch transfer at work. It had been good. I’d been into the interview and then met my mum for a coffee before getting the train back to Cambridge. I hadn’t had any sense of foreboding. In fact, I rather like interviews and thought I’d done okay. The job was as good as mine.

Leaving the train that evening, I waited for the bus that would take me back to my poky little flat. I was glad to be leaving it. Sure, it was my own space and the old lady, Olive, who lived across the hall was nice and would take in parcels for me if she knew I was out. But I was lonely there, so lonely. Living with my parents again, in a new place, would be a good fresh start.

I climbed on the bus, paid, and then headed up the stairs. Just as I neared the top, a tanned girl with black hair poked her head round the top step and asked if we were in the city centre.

“Not yet,” I replied. “It will be announced when we do, you can’t miss it.”

“Thank you,” she said and I continued my ascent.

What I hadn’t bargained on, however, was the fact that the driver had started moving. Now, do me a favour and go to Google maps. Type in ‘Cambridge train station, uk’ and place the little pegman guy near the red letter ‘A’  pin. Have a quick look around. Hopefully you’ll see the bus stop and a nice, big roundabout just in front of a tall, single-storey brick building with lots of arched windows.

See that roundabout?

Okay, so the driver started swinging around that roundabout just as I was nearing the top of the stairs. The movement was so sudden that I lost the grip of the one hand that was holding on and…I fell.

So it’s not so glamorous.

But it was like a film. I don’t think I actually turned a somersault, but I did fall back down the whole of stairs to land, inelegantly, sprawled at the bottom. I remember thinking at the time, I’m glad my trousers haven’t split. I also heard the gasps of the other passengers. Slowly, I got up. I realised the bus was stationary as I hauled myself onto the nearest available seat with my bag. For the remainder of the journey I sat, facing the other passengers, feeling the pain in my ankle grow worse.

Finally, it was my stop and as I got off, the driver apologised. In my befuddled and pain-filled state I replied,

“I think it was my fault.”

With that, I dragged myself home. It wasn’t far, but the pain was becoming almost insurmountable. I have never been more relieved than I was to finally ascend the stairs by my front door, let myself in, and throw myself on the bed.

So, I was lying there the following day, feeling sorry for myself, when my phone rang. I tensed. It was the job!

I answered and listened politely to the man tell me I was a close second, but that I hadn’t given enough personal examples. As I politely thanked the man and hung up, I wanted to scream at him But I’m lying in bed in agony because of an injury I got coming back from your interview! You have to give me the job!

I managed to get hold of the only person I could think of nearby with a car, to come and collect me and take me to the hospital. It turns out I had torn the cartilage in my knee and I was on crutches for four months. After I moved, I was depressed and living as a recluse, only seeing my parents in the evenings and not stepping outside the house.

But a good thing came from the fact that I hadn’t got that job. Another opening came in a different branch, this time in a concession in a large department store. At first I was excited, but as time moved on I realised that I didn’t want to work there much longer. The whole store was prescriptive, from what you could wear to what the displays should look like to the fact that you could only take see-through bags actually into the shop.

So I made some decisions.

The first was to go travelling and an adventure was born (see this post for a snippet). The second was to do something I’d always wanted to do – train to be a teacher. I put my application in a couple of months after starting there, went on a road trip, came back and got onto a PGCE course and I’ve never looked back. I’m now entering my fourth year of teaching and have my first management position.

All through those bleak, bleak months when I spent all my time on the computer, staying up until 2am and sleeping in until midday, I was sad. The whole time I was making friends with people with similar interests on forums and practising my writing skills by writing Harry Potter fanfiction and all that definitely helped, but I was unhappy. I never imagined that just a year later I would have done some travelling, started my teacher training and met my future partner.

And that’s my lemonade from lemons. If you think about an experience you’ve had that didn’t go the way you wanted it to, try and see what good came from it. It sure makes you feel better!

(Tasks are taken from The Five-Minute Writer by Margret Geraghty.)