NOTNaNoWriMo

Many brave souls I know are currently involved in the hugely impressive NaNoWriMo – national novel writing month. These diligent writers commit to scribbling 50,000 words of a novel in one tiny month. Not only that, it’s November, national present buying month if my bank account is anything to be believed, where cosy fires and Christmas to-do lists flutter their procrastination-inducing eyelashes and before you know it, you’re wondering where you stashed the Advent Calendar and mild panic sets in that you may, in fact, have forgotten to buy one.

The brilliance of Nano is in its time frame. There is nothing like a deadline to get those fingers typing, those characters inventing a story for you while you sit, almost as a by-stander, and watch your tale appear on screen. At the last count, Nano writers had written over two billion words and we’re only three quarters of the way through the month! www.nanowrimo.org/

Another year and I could be tempted. This November, however, I needed the opposite of NaNoWriMo. 

I had a wonderfully indulgent autumn of total immersion in my novel, following interest from an agent with whom I’d dearly love to be associated. (Yes please! All wafts of fairy dust always gratefully received.) The rest of my novel and an alternative ending, or three, submitted, I finally raised my head from the keyboard and could hardly bare to look at the carnage that the total immersion had left in its wake. The light fittings belonged to a disused stately home, spiders weaving works of art which almost stretched the length of a room; a battered cupboard sat hopelessly in the middle of the study despairing that anybody would ever bother to take it to a better place and it would take three bags to cart off the reams of post I’d saved for unnecessary filing.

Thus, I embarked on my own NOTNaNoWri month whereby I banned myself from any writing of book two until Advent descends. I am still writing short stories, book reviews and teaching but the rest of the time I’m … tidying up. 

It isn’t without some trepidation that I set about my NOTNaNoWriMo. There’s a loud voice in my head which normally prevents excessive expenditure of time on such frivolous past-times as domesticity, by instilling fear. It’s the fear that if I do not keep writing my current novel, I will simply forget. I will forget what I’m writing, I will forget where it’s going and I will forget how to write. 

This isn’t helped by the anti-dorphins, those pesky little destructors which have the opposite effect of the endorphin rush I get from story writing and which need to be firmly quashed by constant busy-ness.

Look! Nothing on the floor.

But it’s going well so far. Three times last week I went shopping. From a mere spot on the post-total-immersion to-do list, my Christmas presents are almost all bought. I’ve had coffee with friends, been out to supper, met with my Mum and my sister, the latter lives five hours away, and even indulged in a full week of illness. Then, I scrubbed the entire house from top to bottom – pictured room above, clearly excepted. This is in preparation for the journey to the Floor Of The Office. 

It may be that I’m blogging now because I’m left with the study project and no decent plan of where to start. But start I will. Today. I have ten days left of NOTNaNoWriMo and, as mentioned earlier, there’s nothing like a deadline for complete strangulation of inertia. If I can make it through to the carpet, I’ve been promised a new desk. I’ll let you know how I get on. 

And to the thousands of NaNoWriMo writers, I wish you the very best of luck - not that you’ll be reading this, of course, as you type feverishly at your desks, in total writing immersion. But I hope we can meet for a cyber mince pie or two together in December?

The Sound Bite Novel

In this crazy world of sound bites, tweets and single character texts –the ‘y’ from my husband springs to mind. He meant ‘yes’, I thought he was asking, why? – the Guardian invited well-known writers to join their Twitter challenge. They asked for 140 character novels and the responses were surprisingly good. I say, ‘surprisingly’ not, I hasten to add, because I don’t love and respect the authors in question but more because it couldn’t be done, could it?

My half-brother had a stab and I was suitably impressed. He’s not particularly known for his musings, incredible artist that he is, his talents are more generally seen in his elaborate, if slightly terrifying, tattoos:

Awake. I'm late, procrastinate. That rat race; a slave, there lies in a hellish place, I hate! I realise with tired eyes, YES! it's Saturday. By Gareth Hares.

So I thought I’d have a go:
 

Her finger hovered over the bell. 8pm, he’d said. She could walk away; he’d never know. She rang it. Better him, than an orphan for ever.

So, over to you! I look forward to reading your novels :)

A Robbery, a Bus and a Bird

So, ahem, not known (as you are about to witness) for my great skill as a poet, I nonetheless had the urge to do something with the brilliant entries into my blog competition to win a signed copy of the wonderful Rook, by Jane Rusbridge.

If the below makes no sense at all (and why ever not?), the entries, listed as comments in my previous post, A Pet Rook and a Competition, might shed a little light.

And they're well worth a read.

Thanks so much for all your intriguing and imaginative entries and well done to June Seghni, our winner as chosen by my esteemed judges - creative writing class students. June, please could you email me your address so that I can get your prize to you.

 

There once was a pupil called Teresa
Who travelled on the same bus as Jane
The two never did meet
Though they lived on the same street (practically)
Because Teresa was too busy getting the cane.

 

Phil’s Dad was a waiter in Brighton
Antonia’s sister was a student there too
Jacqueline’s grandparents lived in Lancing
With her best friend she’s no longer dancing
But the beach she still likes to do (as long as she doesn’t get a parking ticket).

 

Amanda met Jane on Twitter
And then met her again in real life
She has two of Jane’s books
Is excluded from the competition about Rook
But has decided not to put up a fight.

 

Jennie has no connection with Brighton beach
But has a Granny from Sussex called Meg
She blackmailed the local birds
To visit her in hoards
Though the neighbours to stop, they did beg (ouch!).

 

Kate has a pet rook called Bunting
She found her at the end of her tether
She survived the fall
Broken legs mean she’s not tall
But she’ll always be fun and clever.

 

Skyblue is surrounded by rooks and crows
And has a cousin by the name of Jane
She says the sea stopping of King Cnut
Criticised - and unfairly to boot
Should be tried by complainants if they deign.

 

Alison has a son with a penchant for hamsters
Who imagines them rather as fighters
She loves to visit West Pier
To her and Jane held dear
And they’re also well connected as writers.

 

June knows about the Goldstone Robbery
When Edward Howell stole mail from the train
All at Goldstone Bottom
Knew that James Rook was also rotten
But June gets first place for his pain. Yay!

A Pet Rook and a Competition

Author, Jane Rusbridge

Jane Rusbridge is the author of two beautifully atmospheric novels, The Devil’s Music and Rook. I was lucky enough to meet Jane back when she was writing The Devil’s Music as we took part in a course in novel writing in the picturesque village of Heptonstall in West Yorkshire. Talented Jane won her place through the prestigious Ilkley Festival Short Story Competition which explains how she came to be so far from her home in Chichester on the Sussex coast.

We agreed to become writing buddies which means that I get to read various sections of her novels under the pretence of making suggestions for improvement. Really, I just wallow in her rich writing. Jane has the ability to propel you to the centre of a scene and focus in on minute details until you’re there, standing next to the characters. Even first drafts of Jane’s writing have brought me to tears.

With Jane’s second novel, Rook, just out, I thought it was time we had a proper chat for Chase, Rotherham Advertiser's Lifestyle Magazine, where I feel totally privileged to have a regular corner for book reviews and other articles.

Having a personal phobia of birds in confined places (I blame the family cat), I really wanted to know about the bird simply named, Rook. How did Jane come to choose a bird to be a central character in her novel and how on earth did she manage to convince the reader not only to imagine Rook as a pet but also to become so attached to it?

‘I actively disliked birds in cages before I wrote Rook,’ says Jane, ‘although I was quite in love with them in the air.’ She knew very little about rooks but happened to notice a lot of nest building on her way home and asked her husband if he knew where they’d come from. It transpired that his mother had kept a rook as a pet when he was growing up and, being a farmer, he also had a wealth of information on the species. After that, Jane couldn’t stop thinking about rooks and she knew an idea was forming.

When Jane was finishing passages of Rook in the garden last summer, a blackbird grew accustomed to her, perching ever closer. If Jane was indoors, the blackbird would hop along the terrace to be able to peer in the window of the room where she was seated. She’d notice how it would cock its head at an angle as if it was concentrating or listening. One day Jane was able to feed it a piece of cheese from her hand, an act later performed by central character, Nora, and described in intricate, touching detail.

Jane read Crow Country by Mark Cocker, a non-fiction book which features the great swarms of rooks and crows which roost at Buckingham Carr in Norfolk. Mark’s love for the beleaguered birds further cemented Jane’s and when he spoke of them as the most mis-understood of species because of their synonymy with death and superstition, Jane saw great scope for parallels with Nora’s complicated past.

Buckingham Carr became the location for daughter, Natalie Miller’s three day photo shoot which produced an array of stunning photos of rooks, one of which Bloomsbury’s Greg Heinimann used for the jacket design and shows a thoughtful figure staring upward at a sky festooned with rooks. One of Natalie’s rook photographs was shortlisted and exhibited in the Pallant House Open Competition. More of her striking photography can be seen here

Rook is part historical fiction touching on King Cnut and the mystery behind his illegitimate daughter. Like many of Jane’s ideas, this was a chance observation that started a tumble of ideas which grew into a theme. On a visit to local village, Bosham, for a pub lunch, Jane took a wander through the church and its grounds as she had done many times before. This time she noticed a memorial stone set into the slabs of the church floor above the coffin alleged to belong to the drowned daughter of King Cnut. The stone had a drawing of a raven on it which looked remarkably like a baby rook to Jane. She launched herself into the church records and what she found helped her form a brilliant link between Rook’s historical element with all its family secrets and Nora’s 21^st century world, a theme which results in a wonderfully climactic ending.

Much of the history and description of Bosham and the Sussex coastline today is described accurately in Rook - from the pub which sometimes get flooded and the dispute about Harold’s burial place to the concerned citizens of Bosham who feared for the village being overrun with tourists should such a documentary about the village’s historical mysteries ever be made. All the characters however are fictitious and, ‘great fun to write,’ adds Jane, who particularly enjoyed writing Ada, the not particularly pleasant mother of troubled Nora. She doesn’t conform to the stereotype of the ageing woman and although frustrating in her interpretations and dismissive attitude of her daughter, she’s certainly a ‘character’.

So, with Rook now on sale, I wondered what Jane was doing now, writing number three? Jane laughs, ‘I’m gardening,’ she says, ‘and I’m enjoying my first grandchild.’ Yes, Jane is thinking about her third novel and says that it will certainly involve the Bayeux Tapestry. I ask her if she’d like to say anything else about her next project and she smiles and says, ‘No, I’d rather not.’ But then she adds, ‘Forests, I’m researching forests and the dawn chorus.’

I have a signed copy of Rook up for grabs. I've stolen the idea of a Top Tenuous from the legendary Chris Evans, I'm sure he won't mind, and I want to know your most well, tenuous connections to Jane, Sussex, rooks, Bosham or, indeed, King Cnut. My totally impartial better half will choose the winner. Answers by midnight October 5th, please.

And for a second chance to win a copy of Rook, pop over to this interview in Chase magazine and answer a simple question over there. Click here (pages 48-52) Good luck!

You can learn more about Jane and her work at http://www.janerusbridge.co.uk.

Rook (RRP £12.99) and The Devil’s Music (RRP £7.99), are published by Bloomsbury and available in all good book stores and as e-books. Rook is published with new literary imprint Bloomsbury Circus who aim to produce books as collectible objects. Learn more at http://www.bloomsburycircus.com.

The writing charity, Arvon, runs a wide range of writing courses to suit all levels of writing experience across four residential centres in the UK. Grants are available to help with course fees. For more information, please visit: http://www.arvonfoundation.org

What Would You Like?

It was my birthday last week. Regular readers will know that I have an acute case of ‘Hackaphobia’ which prevents me from stating the exact date but I can say that I love birthdays and those that fall in September are every bit as enjoyable as in any other month. I enjoy the fuss and the cake and feel the only place for being depressed about getting older is from the fluffy clouds above (God willing) even if the time spent in front of the mirror plucking out grey hairs is so significant these days, I’m going to have to promote it to the To-Do list.

If I’m asked what I would like for my birthday I tend to answer, ‘a publishing deal, please’ but whilst I am thoroughly spoilt by my wonderful friends and family, I’m afraid this particular item has eluded me thus far.

However, this had me thinking of other more abstract ideas for presents I’d be happy to accept and I came up with the following list. If you would be so kind, I’d like:

… the tidying fairies to sort out my study while I sleep. First of all, I need extra storage space, about twice the amount which would fit in the room should suffice. As a priority, I could do with extra shelving for my ToBeReads as hubbie is soon to notice that the book purchasing has exceeded the read of speeding over the past few months. My lapsed one book in, one out rule of foisting much loved missives on un-suspecting fellow readers, needs to be revisited.

Next, I’d like the four black bags of old clothes to be disseminated amongst parents of younger children. The fitness ball and hoola hoop should disappear from view, only to miraculously reappear should I ever decide to use them again. Could the old computer have its own desk please? It has to stay, it has three billion six hundred thousand photos stored on it but viewing is currently restricted as the path to it is strewn with un-hung pictures and large, children-generated (very good, actually, but we’re running out of wall space) pieces of artwork. That would be a good start.

… the government NOT to allow the selling off of school playing fields. Hello! Olympic legacy?

… a self-cleaning bathroom. Nay, a self-cleaning house. And car. And cases which unpack themselves. I’ll stop there.

… my children to be totally unmoved by all negative peer pressure. (Ok, I didn’t say my requests had to be feasible, nor, in the long term perhaps, desirable but for now, in my dreams, it would make parenting so much easier.)

... my children to eschew all trashy tv and replace it with literature. See also the addendum to the above.

… winter to be resplendent in crisp, white snow which has not a jot of impact on traffic or journey time and bi-passes the slushy stage before giving way to a snow-drop be-speckled, blue-skied  spring.

… the time difference to be banned so that I could ring my sister in America at 8am our time and she be happy to hear me.

Oh, and did I mention the publishing deal? Although, ever the optimist, I can say that I am a whole heap closer to getting one than I was this time last year so I shall accept that as an extremely acceptable birthday present, thank you.

So, now it’s your turn. You’re not allowed to ask for World Peace because that’s a given. But other than that, sock it to me, what would be your perfect birthday ‘present’ this year?

The Dark Side

Frightened of my own cyber shadow, I go to great pains not to reveal publicly when I’m away, just in case the ‘dark side’ visits my home when we’re not there. I know, I know, chance would be a fine thing that my missives had gone viral but, well, with the need to tell stories comes a slightly warped imagination and you wouldn’t believe the control room of villains I see plotting to pounce.



my new writing buddies from Swanwick

But, now I’m back so it’s safe to safe to admit that the silence is due to an inspirational week at the Swanwick Writers’ Conference where stimulus, loveliness and laughter were rife, where I wrote 10,000 words and where I found myself an agent who’d like to see the rest of Glass Houses. So yes, thank you Swanwick, it was wonderful. Click here for more information Swanwick Writers' School. This was followed by a fabulous family holiday in Croatia where we all fell in love with the country and its people. If I ever truly go missing, please look for me there first.

The great news is that none of my party broke anything other than a glass, although, in reality, it was actually three.

We’ve had some momentous holidays where we’ve become acquainted with the workings of a few European hospitals. When other people equip themselves with their foreign abode’s word for ‘thank you’, first on my list is ‘hospital’. It’s ‘bolnica’, in Croatian, if you’re wondering. There was the dislocated-elbow-screaming on the French camp site, not to mention the infamous arm smashing incident, already well-documented in this blog. But I say, if you’re going to break too many bones to count, do it on the final night of an amazing action packed two week holiday in the Swiss Alps and bag yourself the best room in the hospital at the foot of the Eiger, dosed up with morphine, contemplating the blue sky and snowy peaks through the almost picture window of your own ward.

I only remember one holiday being so bad that we almost came home early. It was 2006 and, somewhat unbelievably, a heat-wave of a summer. We’d taken ourselves off to North Wales in a borrowed six man tent, a luxurious upgrade to our usual 3-berth.

The weather broke. When I say ‘broke’, imagine trying to keep a hot air balloon anchored in a typhoon and you get an idea of how much the wind had picked up; tip a bucket of cold water over your head every time you exit the house and you are some way to understanding the inundation we were confronted with if we ever dared to leave the canvas. One by one, all the tents disappeared from the site. It was us and the caravans. At least the tents left of their own accord, I was so convinced ours would up and leave us in the night, despite guy ropes tied to the car, and I would be found next morning snoring in my sleeping bag, the rest of my possessions and family strewn across the field, that I slept in my clothes to protect my modesty. Worse! As it was my friend’s tent, I was petrified about returning empty-handed so any sleep was fitful at best. My friend laughed when I told her. ‘You’re joking,’ she said, ‘I’d have been so happy to be shot of the thing.’

That particular camping trip is probably the closest I’ve come to not enjoying a holiday. Cold feet, a punctured mattress held together with the contents of the first-aid kit, wet clothes slapping you in the face as you walk through the doorway, mud in the showers and soggy boxes of cereal aren’t top of my list of prerequisites for a great getaway. But I do have pleasant memories of being forced to do different things - such as going to the pictures three times in one week, learning card tricks from our equally marooned neighbours and eating two cream teas in one day. Suffice it to say, our youngest has lusted after camping ever since so it can’t have been that bad.

How was your summer? Dare I ask, did you stay dry?

Ps If you like watersports and fancy Croatia, I can't recommend these people highly enough (and no, I'm not on commission ;)) Raftrek Travel, Croatia

Definitely recommended...

Packing my 15 holiday kilos recently, playing see-saw with my ToBeRead pile, as I begrudgingly acknowledged  that there could be a place in my life for a Kindle, I decided that whatever doom and gloom we hear about the publishing industry, the quality of accessible writing is just as good as it ever was. I packed:
* A Cupboard full of Coats by Yvvette Edwards - lovely writing style, this one’s to finish
* A Parachute in the Lime Tree by Annemarie Neary - I liked the look of this under the guise of research into the war period for a novel I might write
* The Sacrificial Man by Ruth Dugdall - because I’m a big fan of The Woman Before Me (see below)
* Love Gudrun Ensslin by Simon Corbin - no, I don’t really understand the title either but my respected writer-friend wrote it and he’s waited long enough for my thoughts.

I shall let you know what I think of this little collection, but for now, here are just some of the books which have blown me away over the years.

The Devil’s Music by Jane Rusbridge
Oh dear. How destructive family secrets can be. Andrew's had a difficult life at the hands of his angry father and grieving and absent mother. He isn't the easiest of characters himself but the peek into his life shows that he deserves some happiness. Will he achieve the closure needed to affect this?
One word springs to mind: lyrical. This tale is so beautifully descriptive and emotional, the characters incredibly complex and believable. I read this twice which is unheard of for me.

Room by Emma Donoghue
So much has been written about this Man Booker and Orange, amongst many other awards, nominated novel that I only really need to say that I feel its adulation is absolutely justified. Seeing five year old Jack’s captivity through his eyes is not as distressing as it may seem because his young and equally damaged mother has done such a good job of trying to give her child an acceptable existence in the most disturbing of circumstances. I’m not generally a fan of sequels but I would love to know how Jack and his mother got on in the ‘real’ world.

Simon’s Choice by Charlotte Castle
I read the first part of Simon's Choice on the writer's site, Authonomy, and once I could get my hot little hands on it, read the book in two nights. The premise is so clever. It's such a ridiculously illogical answer to give a child, particularly when you think that most parents will try not to lie, just give answers as tactfully as possible. But how on earth would you answer a dying child's desperate and scared plea for a hand to hold in the unknown world to which they're headed? Simon said what so many of us would have said and then he had to fathom out how to deal with his promise.
This is a gripping read with an ending I found very satisfying.

Alphabet by Kathy Page
A wonderful psychological drama. In-mate Simon is terrifyingly pleasant some of the time, the rest he's just terrifying. He admits he committed the crime and he's trying so hard to find redemption but he, and those trying to help him, are struggling to get into his mind. I was blown away by this book and when I learnt that author Kathy Page was a writer in residence in a men's prison it wasn't a surprise. Her attention to detail is brilliant, the picture she draws of prison life in the 80s in Britain is enlightening.

Glasshopper by Isabel Ashdown
Talk to anybody who’s read Glasshopper and they will pout and remember wistfully how adorable 13 year old Jake is, and how they wish they could give him a hug. Told expertly through Jake’s voice and that of his troubled mother, Mary, Glasshopper is the story of her descent into alcoholism. Jake tries his best to care for her while coping with the fact that his father and older brother have left home.
If you are someone known to weep at novels, you will not escape wet eyes with this one. However, the way most characters deal with, and accept, their own and each other's demons and failings makes this a strangely upbeat kind of read.

Also great in this genre: Hide and Seek by Clare Sambrook.

The Woman Before Me by Ruth Dugdall
Cate, newly returned to work as a single mum after a period of depression, is the ultimate decision maker in whether convicted murderer, Rose Wilks, will be let out of prison early. Cate must decide if Rose shows remorse for her crime but this requires Rose to take responsibility for a crime she claims she did not commit. Fragile Cate’s few unsatisfactory meetings with Rose and the people from her past form the basis of a terrifyingly subjective decision process. Will she make the right choice? Rose is pivotal in her getting it right but she’s playing games.
This is a page-turner with heaps of character observation to chew over. Wait for the twist at the end before you decide if justice has been done.

Another favourite psychological drama is, Chosen by Lesley Glaister.

Flying Under Bridges by Sandi Toksvig
I’ve sneaked this one in as one of my all-time favourites, I just checked to see that it’s still in print, which it is, and Amazon tells me that I bought it in May 2003. As you might expect, it’s absolutely riddled with dry humour and wry observation – even though the central character is talking to us from Holloway. It’s satirical writing at its best.

Tea With Guppies by Marika Cobbold is a similarly witty-serious drama I’d highly recommend.

I’ve also read and loved the mind-messing, Defending Jacob by William Landay, the beautifully atmospheric, Rook by Jane Rusbridge, the desperately sad and yet uplifting, Salvage the Bones by Jesmyn Ward and the ‘Marmite’ book of, Before I go to Sleep by SJ Watson but as reviews of these are due to be published in Chase Magazine soon, I shall let you read them there first ;)

I’d love to know your favourite reads.  Until my TBR pile reaches the ceiling, I’m always open to suggestions.