This week I went to a workshop on being concise.

THE END.

I’m such a kidder . I mean,it’s true that I went to the workshop, but I could never really actually leave it at that  because I am too fond of blithering on, which is why I went to the workshop in the first place and took copious notes about keeping my writing short and to the point as I am more of a ‘meander- around- the- houses- and -hopefully- get -there- eventually’ type of person. *GASPS FOR BREATH

Yesterday,  I was procrastinating in the garden, potting the last of my hyacinths (not a euphemism), and berating myself for not being as dynamic as all those writers currently creating seminal works in a single month, as part of the NaNo WriMo (National Novel Writing Month) challenge.http://www.nanowrimo.org

I am looking forward to the invention of NaNoWriDec (National Novel Writing Decade) for authors such as myself, who prefer to take things at a ‘steadier’ pace, crossing out, plodding, summoning up a sentence, deleting it, pottering and congratulating ourselves if we manage 200 words a day. Never mind a migraine-inducing daily target of 2K.

As I dibbed, and debated (with myself) the addition of a playful layer of ornamental irises to my terracotta tubs, I realised that, although I have committed only 2K words of my novel Blues to my hard-drive, this week, I have been making important decisions regarding the plot.

Internal, invisible decisions.

Having plumped – finally- for setting the sub-plot in a particular international conflict, I have been comparing the versions of events provided in memoirs, news media, United Nations reports and Hollywood blockbusters.Much of this information won’t ever be used in my novel – it is the SUB-plot, after all. But groundwork is important, as we patio-container gardeners know.

There may not be much to show for my  labours, just yet. But  little shoots might, when the time and conditions are right, make it through and create a half-planned, half-serendipitous display.

I await Spring with interest. And frost-bitten, crossed fingers.

Proud Mum Alert!

My teenage daughter has won a local talent contest with her singing, this weekend. Of course, I always knew she is brilliant but it’s nice to know it’s not just me being an ‘X-Factor’ Mother and deluding myself about my princess. I kind of knew that, too, as she has Distinctions and Merits in formal music examinations, to her name.

This is not (merely) idle boasting, but actually relates to my writing. Bear with me.

I was thinking about a writer’s need for external validation (E.V.). Okay, my need for E.V.

I have been prone to shore up my wobbly writerly  (sorry Spellcheck, but I do love that non-word) confidence with evidence of E.V. such as print-outs of my marks on my M.A. course. These have been double-marked and double-checked before being awarded, so they may be a reasonably reliable indicator of my possessing some ability  in creative writing.

I also like to enter competitions which (a) don’t cost anything/much and (b) seem friendly and not too intimidating. Writing competitions. Not singing- all the bribery in the world would not persuade any judges to validate my vocals, externally or otherwise.

The problem arises when your course finishes, and you go through a bit of a comp drought, and you really should be disciplining yourself to finish your novel anyway. Yes, self-discipline i.e. without deadlines and hopes of shiny prizes and people patting you on the back and reassuring you that you are not a complete nitwit, every two seconds.

I need to hone my I.V. (you can work it out!) skills and find a level of confidence which is motivating but not wildly disproportionate, like the faith of some of those besotted, tone-deaf mums.

Although…. I am looking forward to a fortifying shot of E.V. in a fortnight’s time, when I receive my spanking new degree certificate and get to wear my high visibility ceremonial red gown, in front of the applauding, adoring masses.

I hope the mortar board I’ve ordered is big enough.

Half-term. My sister and her family are coming up from London, so I was going to grant myself a week off, so I could fulfill my sisterly and aunt-ly (?) duties. However, since my word-count last week was precisely two hundred and thirty nine (and some of this may be lost in editing, if I ever get off my proverbial and do some editing), it would be hard to ‘ease off the gas’ much more. I have already used up my Leave-From-Writing Entitlement (right at the beginning of the holiday year, too).

Perhaps the problem lies in the way I have been defining ‘writing’. Yes, that will be it. Definitely. When I count writerly meetings and chinwags with my friends from the MA course, together with my long lunch with my former adult education tutor,and a LAPIDUS workshop in York (not to mention on-line social networking), I have clocked up a fair few productive hours this week. The point of flexible home working is that it can be very bendy indeed.

But at the end of the day, the boss wants to see something concrete in return for paying your expenses. Even if you are your own boss.

Which means that, to catch up with producing written evidence of all my mental cog-whirring, I have issued myself with a stern warning (I would have issued myself with a written warning, but I was too busy socialising and being inwardly creative) that I need to commit at least one more chapter of Blues to my virtual cloud before I am allowed to participate in the treats planned for our visitors.

And, as proper grown-ups used to be fond of saying, if I cheat, I will only be cheating myself. And that could get very confusing indeed. So I might as well just GET ON WITH IT (memo to self).

I have psyched myself up to  prune my novel-in-progress, Blues. I’ve sought advice from eminent tree surgeons on getting it under control before the roots cause subsidence or the whole thing crashes through the eaves. I needed to have a think about it’s overall shape, and how my ideas fit in the space available in my garden. 

My first attempt at visually mapping  Blues‘ plot and characters on a memo board was getting out of hand by Chapter 3 (see photo). But it did show me that I have already introduced more secondary characters than I have on my Facebook Friends list. Something to address. It also showed up two anomalies in my characterisation, as these early chapters were written over a number of months.

So, on the advice of a fellow writer (who is probably a lot less feeble with computers than I am), I downloaded free Scrivener software, worked my way through the “2” hour tutorial and finally went to bed 36 hours later, weeping. I may exaggerate. The prospect of transferring my existing 45,000 words to Scrivener and cross-referencing it all from scratch (retrospectively) is mind-blowing, though I think it would be a useful tool. One to get to grips with once I’ve finished this project, perhaps.

For now, I am going to rely on the ability of my brain to retain multiple threads, and hope that my belief in my characters will help me remain consistent in describing their attributes and actions. I am going to plough on (not quite the right metaphor here) with my first draft, hacking out any dead wood as I go, and being ruthless in editing out branches which,although they may be healthy enough, are creeping in the wrong direction, blocking out light and annoying the neighbours.

Yay! I passed my MA in Creative Writing at Teesside University. Yay…..

Fizzle…. splat.

I think I may have anhedonia.

This sounds like a terrible thing. Although I’m sure there are worse afflictions, it is indeed uncomfortable when people say “You must be so happy!” and you’re numb-er than an ice-skater’s bum. I’m sure I would have had a surplus of negative emotions, if the outcome had not been in my favour, but I’m finding it tricky to summon up genuine thrilled-ness.

Maybe it is still sinking in. Maybe I need a few more cards and flowers to ram the message home that I am not, in fact, a complete fraud who should have been laughed out of the classroom in Middlesbrough Tower way back in Week One.

Kind family and friends, who have borne the brunt of my self-doubt – along with my long-suffering tutors – ,  have even suggested that my ‘Distinction’ grade indicates that my self-definition as a ‘writer’ has not been overly presumptuous and premature.

So I am savouring their congratulatory greetings and will be keeping them as evidence in my defence against that clever, on-the-shoulder prosecutor who cross-examines me when she considers I am getting ‘ahead of’/ ‘above’ myself.

I will particularly treasure the note which accompanied the bouquet ordered by my lovely husband. He swears that the florist needs her ears syringing, that this was not an instance of his notoriously idiosyncratic spelling, and that he does not think I am a dodo. This makes me chuckle in a  wry manner.

Hedonia.

I’m not suggesting you run out and buy shares in Post-Its, although, given the number of stationery obsessives populating the internet and writerly circles (you know who  you are!), that may be sound  – albeit totally unqualified – advice. This is more of a ‘note to self’, as I am going to map out my novel-in-progress on flip-chart paper, using the  cheap but joyous felt-tips I bought last year in a fit of ‘Back To School’ self-improvement. And using highly visible, quirkily shaped Post-It notes. Lots of them. All over the place.

It has recently come to my attention that I am not, as I have thought all my life, a  verbal learner. If you believe in learning ‘styles,’ you would apparently class me as a visual person. I like to be shown things. It is true that I do not like to be ‘told’, and the survey I did last week at college does not lie (but if it did, would it tell you? Aaaagh!).

So when I’ve been writing out synopses of my novel and summaries of key narrative events in a chronological, linear, black-and- white fashion, I should have been playing with characters and themes and incidents via pictograms and story boards and Venn diagrams and arty stuff I normally avoid because I am supposed to be ‘wordy.’

A pictorial approach may lead me into uncharted mental territories but will be worth it if I get to buy some star-shaped fluorescent orange stickers. Can you get  lime and lemon  scented highlighters? Maybe I should get a noticeboard and push pins with sweetie-coloured heads, or Cath Kidston pegs on a little washing line?

I suspect I may be getting bogged down in the detail. Rendered stationary by stationery. But I will give the story boarding/diagram thing a go.And  I will keep you ‘posted’ (chortle, chortle). The important thing is to allow myself to wander between and beyond the lines.

I was a strange child. I used to line up my soft toys and call each of their names, requiring a clear, polite response from Ted (the Original), Bluey, Teddy-Freddy et al, before I made the appropriate, exactly angled mark or big fat zero in my register. And only then could I start with the dinner money collection and checking their feet for verrucas. So passed many blissful, productive hours. But I’d tired of teaching by the time I was nine, weary of hard-to-engage stuffed animals, who deliberately disrupted Action Man and Tressy’s learning , by falling over during spelling.

Some – ahem- thirty-five years later, I have finally ventured back into teaching. Sort of. Last Tuesday, I began to Prepare to Teach in the Lifelong Learning Sector. PTLLS. The snazzy acronym clinched it.

Having rediscovered the joys of creative writing at uni – the satisfaction of finding exactly the ‘right’ word – I want to pass this happiness on. Generous of me, I know.  I’d love to work with ‘excluded’ groups: to invite them to come on in and join me and lots of nice other people in the world of creative writing. But I realise there may actually be some special skills involved in engaging and inspiring students, over and above reading from the encyclopaedia in a posh voice. So I am going to pick up some tips at college. (Interesting fact , which is already driving my family mad:  ‘college’ and ‘knowledge’ rhyme).

Whether I’ll  press forward to get a teaching qualification, or will stop when I know enough to feel confident in running informal sessions, time will tell. But because of my terrible early professional experiences, I’ll be sticking with real, live, grown-up pupils of the human variety, who, hopefully, find themselves before me out of choice and not because I’ll shut them in the toy box if they don’t feign interest.

We haven’t covered much, yet, but I think that’s a stick and we’re aiming for carrots.

Now that I’ve finally finished my MA in Creative Writing and I am no longer buried in Post-Its and Guides to MLA Referencing, I am keeping a promise to myself to get my  web-site up and running. This, my IT guru informs me, entails populating my pages with material which gives a representation of my writing life, to date. As I have only been writing ‘properly’ for two years, I am pleased that I do at least have a publication/competition ‘history’ ready to move in to the empty, white space. It is rewarding to look back on the achievements and progress I have made in these two  years, which were a struggle, at times, but definitely worth it (a bit like my kids). Now, the small matter of finishing my novel….