Stopping and starting

As the dog goes to day care today I decide to scarper off to Exeter again. I don’t feel good about it though. Frog is not happy – he had a boring day at work yesterday and is looking forward to another boring one today. How can I enjoy myself if he’s not enjoying himself? And my hair is horrible – I don’t want to appear in public. Nevertheless I go, telling myself I’m having an ‘artist’s date’.

    Artists’ dates are a recommendation of Julia Cameron (in her book The Artist’s Way). The idea is to have two hours a week on your own doing something you really enjoy in order to refill the creative tank. And it’s true. I do need a break. I get so wound up writing that I need to relax, and I need to prove to myself that I can stop and start at will because then I won’t be so terrified about getting stuck into a novel again.

    I don’t approve of myself shopping (frivolous, wasteful of money, detrimental to the environment etc etc) but after a week on my own with nothing but the dog and the countryside as company I crave bright lights and consumer goods. I want to be with lots of people – preferably ones I don’t know so that I can observe without being observed.

    In the John Lewis café I am fascinated by a seventy-something woman in turquoise with turquoise toenails. Her hair is a rather harsh dyed brown as are her eyebrows. She is eating chips with dainty fingers while talking with her mouth full. She gets out a packet of wet wipes to mop herself down.

    A man gets on to the park and ride bus. He has spiky red-gold hair and is wearing a baggy black suit. He has a worried expression and I see him as a small worried boy. He has been worried all his life, I think. Which is why I am delighted when he answers his phone and says, ‘I got the job mate so I won’t be available . . . Sorry mate . . .Cheers mate.’ As he gets off the bus I see that he has a thick red-gold plait all the way down his back.

    Plenty of fuel there for the creative tank, and here I am writing again – so it is safe to stop.

    I wonder if I can write a novel in the same way that I write my blogs – with a clear idea of overall theme and vague ideas for the next two or three days’ posts, but not really knowing where I'm going in the long term or what I’m going to say until I actually sit down at the computer.

    It would be much more interesting than writing synopses and planning scene progression. Why bother to write a story if you already know what’s going to happen? And on the other hand it might stop me feeling as if the whole novel is arriving at once and crushing me.

Writing to be read?

I’m a social networking virgin but recently I’ve been receiving so many invitations to join Linkedin that I thought I ought to do something about it.

    ‘What is it?’ I asked Gill (www.motecobnutsproject.blogspot.co.uk). ‘What happens?’

    ‘It’s Facebook for grownups,’ she said.

    I was none the wiser.

    ‘I’m e-publishing one of my novels in the autumn,’ she said, ‘and I joined Linkedin to build up my network of contacts.’

    Now she was talking.

    I love blogging. I love the fact that I’m not being paid for it. I love the fact that I don’t even have to worry about publication, that I don’t have a goal in mind when I blog. I do it because it seems to be unblocking a vast reservoir of ideas and opinions. It’s enabling me to speak up for perhaps the first time in my life.

    And for all those reasons I try not to get too hung up on how many ‘followers’ I have or how many comments I get on the posts. It just makes me miserable if I do. I know that a handful of people (well, three) read my blogs in detail and seem to understand what I’m getting at and that another dozen or so dip in and out.

    However, each time I do get a new follower or receive a comment it puts me on a high for hours if not days. What if I were to network and really go public? Isn’t that what it’s all about?

    Well I tried.

    But, quite honestly, I couldn’t be bothered. It struck me as just another way to waste time, to put off actually doing any writing. I didn’t think any of the people on the site would be interested in reading my blogs and I didn’t like giving out personal information.

    I’m not a public person, that’s why I write. And if I do ever get published again in the ‘real’ world, my publisher can blinking well do the marketing themselves.

    Even so, I wouldn’t mind some more blog-readers.

    Or would I? |Perhaps it would take away my freedom.

Nature notes

When we first got a dog twenty-six years ago and I started walking almost every day of the year come rain or shine, I started making little notes in my diary about the things I saw – what wildflowers were around, when the swallows arrived, what the weather was doing. I think even then on one level I was planning for a future career as a fiction writer. I wanted to be sure that if were ever to write about the natural world I was accurate. I wanted to be able to remember what the different seasons felt like.

In the middle of the night on Saturday our neighbour’s burglar alarm went off. As they were away and we have a spare key to their house, Frog trotted down in his caftan to turn off the alarm and have a look round – while I waited nervously at home. When he eventually returned I couldn’t sleep and I started writing things in my head (as I do). I realised that I wanted to do something with my nature notes. I wanted to take them to another level. Another blog I thought.

I’ve described it as ‘An English country diary’ and called it ‘Her Outdoors’. (Did you ever see ‘Minder’ on television and fall for Arthur Daley like I did? If not, you won’t know that he called his wife ‘Her Indoors’.) You can reach it on www.englishcountrydiary.blogspot.co.uk . Whether I can keep two blogs going, remains to be seen. (Right at this moment however the new blog has frozen so many apologies if you come across a half-done post.)

Voice and genre

I carry on with the exercise mentioned in the previous post. First I try to write like Marian Keyes. This is ridiculously easy. I hardly have to change words at all. Her novel is my novel. Her voice is my voice. (And, in fact, often when I’m reading her I think it’s me talking. She makes me laugh and cry like no one else.) Then I try to write like Val McDermid. This is impossible. I love her novels too but I just cannot fit my story into her way of writing.

I do another exercise from the Mslexia website. I print out my entire novel-in-progress in a font I don’t like and in a size larger than one I would normally use. This is to enable you to look at your novel in a detached way. You’re meant to put it to one side for two weeks before looking at it but as I print it out I catch sight of bits. I decide I hate nearly all of it. It doesn’t sound like me at all. It sounds forced. I’m trying too hard. I haven’t found my ‘voice’ – or even my genre.

Marian writes romantic tragi-comedies. Val writes crime novels. Is that telling me something?

All right in the end

Of course, yesterday turns out all right in the end. (Why do I get in such a state? Why do I always forget that bad times don’t last forever?). I find an email from Mslexia (‘the magazine for women who write’) with a link to a free workshop on their site. I follow the link and find three workshops to do – one involving detailed observation, one in which you turn your attitude towards your novel into a metaphor and then if necessary adapt the metaphor (in my case brick walls and climbing over them), and one in which you write out by hand the first two pages from one of your favourite novels and then write out the beginning of your own novel-in-progress in exactly the same style, copying it sentence by sentence. I’m still working on the third exercise. It’s proving fascinating.

    I did subscribe to Mslexia for a while but found it rather daunting – all those talented women-writers – and so many exercises to do that I ended up doing none of them. They also run competitions. I entered the children’s novel competition last year and found it so helpful having a deadline and a purpose. The competition this year is for an adult novel but I have nothing ready. They may do another adult novel competition in two years’ time. I sort of have that date in the back of my mind . . .

    Have you noticed (in the first paragraph) that I’m writing in the present tense again? I keep reverting to the past tense which is what I’m used to but so many novels are now written in the present tense that I’m trying it out.

Down time

I’m really low today. I don’t even know if I should blog about it. I do have an idea for a new project, but it’s not enough yet to get me going. I’ve tried working on it – asking questions, making notes, trying to expand the idea. I’ve even tried starting writing. But nothing seems to work. I don’t know if it’s my own lack of belief in my writing, or whether it’s just not ready yet. I’m going to leave it now and do some sudoku.

Sometimes I find summer as difficult as winter. Spring and autumn are busy purposeful times with things to look forward to (Christmas, summer holiday), clothes to be got out/put away/ altered/made/even bought, and lots to do in the garden. And then, everything seems to stop.

I have completed books – fiction as well as non-fiction – so I’m not totally despicable. And I’ve been through down times over them too. But each time you have a down time, you think ‘This is it. I’ll never write again.’ I suppose that’s one of the reasons for this blog. If I have it on record – and public record – that I’ve been through a down time and come out the other side, perhaps it won’t be so bad next time it happens.

Sorry to go on like this.

The old shikari

Talking of old gits – sorry, that was a joke. I’ll start again.

No, I’d never come across the word ‘shikari’ either until a friend used it for his blog ‘Musings of an old shikari’. It’s an Urdu word and it means hunter or sportsman (sportsperson?).

I mention it because I want to thank the old shikari in public for his encouragement yesterday. It’s a lonely life being a writer – even though that’s what we’ve chosen and that’s the way it has to be – and words of encouragement are like shafts of sunlight.

Have a look at his blog – and his book, Tracking the Weretiger.

The old git

I spent the night battling with a demon, one who says things like:

What makes you think you have any talent at writing?

Why are you wasting your time? Shouldn’t you be doing something useful?

Everything you’re thinking and writing is rubbish.

If you don’t keep it shallow, if you betray a belief in anything, people will just laugh at you.

I know him well.

On the way home from Exeter at lunchtime (Yes, I did head off and do some shopping – and enjoyed it – and had a really good think on the park and ride bus.) Anyway, there I was driving home from Exeter and I saw a big painted sign saying: 50 TODAY MARK CLEGG YOU OLD GIT and got to thinking how I would feel if someone put up a sign like that on my birthday. I decided that I would laugh and I would realise that it’s not so bad being an old git. Then I realised that this was the way to deal with the demon: to take on board everything he says and then say, ‘So what?’

     It’s my life, my talent or lack of, my rubbish, and I’ll do with it as I want.

    The old git.

I'm confused

I’m confused. The Idea may involve turning this blog into fiction. Do I carry on this blog as it is and run the fictional blog alongside or do I alter this blog? Is the heroine me or is she the heroine of the Old Novel (with the Old Novel as her back-story) or is she someone completely different?

    Another question. Do I spend tomorrow – my dog-free day, my precious day off – tussling with this problem, or do I take off into Exeter and do some of the shopping that’s piling up (and maybe, just maybe, drop into Long Tall Sally whose autumn catalogue arrived through the post this morning full of wearable autumn clothes).

    I think you – and I – can probably guess the answer to that.

    And I may still have time to tussle when I get home.

A messianic theme

No electricity today till 2pm as they’re working on the supply somewhere down the line so I can’t switch on the computer. I wander round, a bit lost, still waiting for an idea for the grande oeuvre. 

    I pick one of Frog’s books off the shelf – Desert Island Discs: 70 years of castaways. I gave it to him for Christmas but haven’t read it myself yet, mainly because it’s too heavy. I sit in the garden and dip into it, jotting down the things that strike me.

Ronald Searle says that as an artist you have to live on a (metaphorical) island.

Yoko Ono ends her session with an affirmation: ‘. . . Each of us was born at this time to fulfil a mission. Together we are in the process of healing and creating a better world . . .’

Benjamin Zephaniah says that for him being a poet was like being gay – to start with he kept it to himself.

Tracy Emin says that to make it as an artist you have to produce a seminal piece of work. You have to change the face of what people understand as art.

Sister Frances Dominica, who founded the first children’s hospice, chose her vocation over her family. They didn’t want to see her for several years when she first became a nun.

I stop when the dog destroys my pencil and come inside to see what I can make of the jottings.

    I had hoped that they would give me some sense of direction, but as I transcribe them I see a messianic theme emerging. Oh bother.

    And then I have an idea.

Blogging about blogging

A pottery day today – the first time I’ve drawn breath since we got back from holiday eleven days ago.
    In the afternoon I strip off and lie in the garden in the sun. I soak up the heat and the ultra-violet rays as if they were liquid and I was parched blotting paper. I love sunbathing. My mind starts to fall into that delicious waking dream state until Frog comes outside and says something to me and it starts whirring again.
    I begin to panic. I am bereft of writing ideas. I have to start a project - either old novel or a new novel or something else. I can't just blog about blogging. I've started this new blog and if I can't keep it up I'll look like a fool. (This of course is the purpose of the new blog.)
    I write a short post about the day. I'm not happy with it and as the day wears on the panic gets worse so in the evening I do a Lightning Process* and feel better. I remember the Human Development course Frog and I did back in the summer of 1978 before we got married and that the lesson of the crown chakra** is that inspiration and creativity are always there. In bed before I fall asleep, I get the idea for this extension to the post.
    I wake at 1.30am and the post extension is still buzzing round my head so - in line with my new attempts at spontaneity - I decide to get up.
   In the darkness as I climb the short flight of steps from the bedroom to my workroom the lights of the router on the shelf beside my desk stare down at me like the eyes of a wild animal.
    As I type up the post, I realise that I'm writing while on line, directly into the blog, instead of in Word first and then transferring it as I usually do. Is this significant?

* An exercise for interrupting thought patterns and replacing them with better ones
**  For more about chakras see my old blog

So many possibilities

It could be that I’m scared to get back into the novel. Novels take over your life. You live your life through the novel and it’s hard to find the energy for anything else.

    On the other hand, time could be the problem. Take today for instance. Frog wasn’t working so we had a leisurely start and then I walked the dog. When I got back it was lunchtime and then after lunch we went to Sainsbury’s. When we got back from Sainsbury’s (in 30 degree heat) I had to lie down for half an hour to recover and now it’s 4.30 pm.

    But, then, time is always a problem for me. Or perhaps the problem isn’t really time, but allowing myself to do what I want rather than what I ought. ‘Do what you want to do,’ says Frog, ‘and fit everything else in around that – or not.’ That’s a scary thought!

    Another thought - perhaps it’s time to put this novel aside. I started it two and a half years ago and according to Lee Weatherly in How to write a blockbuster you shouldn’t spend more than two years on any particular project as you’re growing and changing all the time. (Hence my need perhaps to start this new blog after two and a half years with the old one.)

    Of perhaps novels just aren’t my genre.

    So many possibilities.

You know you are a dreamer*

This picture ** hangs opposite me as I sit at my desk. My aunt Annabelle gave it to me when I was four. I was so proud of it. It had a proper wooden frame like a grown-up’s picture (and still does).*  I wrote my name and age on the back of the cardboard backing as a declaration of this pride and they’re still there.

    I love the picture itself too. It gives me permission to dream, to be a dreamer, to be the sort of person who lies on the grass and stares into space.

    It’s a pity then that I’m still struggling to give myself permission to be that sort of person.

    One of the hardest things I’m having to learn in my transition from book editor (paid by the hour for time spent with pen actually in hand poring over proofs and manuscripts) and non-fiction writer (always busy with research even if not writing) to
 - what? -
something else
is that time spent not writing can be just as productive as time spent pounding the keyboard.

    Half an hour ago I ran out of things to do so I lay down in the sun and had three ideas, including this post.
    See!

* Thanks to Frog for finding me the precise lyrics to the Supertramp song 'Dreamer' and for carefully removing the fragile nails (untouched for 56 years) from the back of the picture frame and sliding the picture out.

** By Margaret W Tarrant
   

Why the title and why I write

As you may or may not know, the title of this blog comes from that glorious Bob Dylan song ‘Love minus zero’ (even more glorious when sung by the Walker Brothers – in that guise, one of the pieces of music I have lined up for when I’m asked to go on ‘Desert Island Discs’).

    And why these four words?

    Well, on the one hand they have significance for me in relation to my past (a significance that may – or may not – be revealed in The Novel) and on the other they explain the present.

    I am a banker’s niece (sort of) and I’m always trying to change, to perfect myself (whatever perfect is), but most of the time the process of making change feels like trying to turn a juggernaut on a steep hill by hand.

    Writing is the handle on the juggernaut. It’s the only way – or perhaps the best way – I know to change myself. It gives me hope.

    That's today's explanation anyway.

A big big secret

Because I want this blog to be personal and honest, I’m going to let you into a big big secret.

    I have a spirit who looks after me. I call her an angel because that helps me to visualise her but I don't know if that's what she is. I can ask her for anything and if I’m specific in my request and ask with enough conviction - if I really really want what I’m asking for and if I'm prepared to take the consequences – then she gives me what I want. And that’s anything – even a car on one occasion.

    On Monday when I was stuck on the novel I appealed to her for help. A couple of hours later the idea for this blog arrived fully formed – title, template, direction, first post.

    The interesting thing is however that I can’t remember whether I asked her for help with moving my writing on in general or whether I asked her for help with moving on The Novel.

    In other words, is it OK to spend so much time dealing with the stream of ideas for posts for this blog that are now flowing or should I be directing my creativity to something more Serious and Important?

    As spontaneity is revealing itself as the key to this blog, I think the answer to that question is probably to follow the stream and see where it takes me.

    Thank you, angel.

Fitting it in

I don’t know about you, but I always find it hard to fit new things into my life – even simple things like having to dose the dog once a day with pills from the vet. Perhaps it’s because my life’s already full to overflowing (‘You just think it is,’ Frog would say) or perhaps it’s because I’m an inflexible Taurean.

    Anyway, this new blog is a case in point. I want it to be immediate and personal – short posts, written daily, in the present tense – in imitation of one of my favourite blogs ‘What’s cooking?’ by Trish Currie. But then I have the problem, when do I write it? If I write it at the end of the day, it’s likely to be in the past tense. And so many things have happened by then that I have to summarise and the blog then becomes contrived. If I write it at the beginning of the day, does it take the place of my ‘daily pages’ (see previous post) or do I do those as well?

    When Frog and I were on holiday recently we read Neil Young’s delightful autobiography Waging Heavy Peace. Whenever he thought of a song, Neil says, he used to try and write it down (or record it) at that very moment. The more he was able to do that, the more ideas he would have for new songs. (I wish I could find the exact quote, as Neil puts it much better than that, but I can't - or haven't so far.)

    So that, for the moment, is what I’m going to try and do for this blog. I shan’t try and fit it into a routine. I shall try and be more spontaneous. Prepare to be bombarded.

A difficult day

Sometimes it’s just so hard to find time to write.
    I shouldn’t be too disappointed as I knew it was going to be a difficult day – what with a dentist’s appointment at the start, yoga at the end and a dog to walk in between. I may not have done my daily pages* or a jot towards the novel or but at least I’ve done a post for my other blog, and now (bleary-eyed and floppy after a large supper and a glass of wine) I’m doing this.

    And tomorrow is another day – a day when the dog goes to the dogminder and I have a whole EIGHT hours to myself between the time Frog drops the dog off on his way to work and the time the two of them arrive back home.

    

* Three pages of stream-of-consciousness writing at the start of the day in order to limber up, as recommended by Julia Cameron in The Artist's Way. Or, as I look at them, three pages in which to get the s*** out of the way.

What I'm Meant To Be Doing

A week since we got back from holiday. Life is serious now, back to normal. Last week I was still catching up – with washing, gardening – but now I have no excuse not to write. The trouble is, I’m completely stuck. I spent any spare time I had last week making notes on the novel, trying to find a way forward, but nothing gelled. There was no spark, no first line of a chapter aching to be written, no scene playing itself out in my head. I sat down this morning in front of my computer and tried writing various things but I hated them all. And now I wonder if this novel, if writing even, is What I’m Meant To Be Doing. But what else would I do? I need a purpose to my life, a focus . . . even at sixty. I ring Frog and he tries to be stern with me, telling me to Just Get On With It, but I get upset and then he relents. So now here I am starting a new blog instead.