Over the weekend I worked on a ghost story for a competition. It was a story that had been at the back of my mind for a while, but it's amazing what a deadline will do for productivity. The closing date isn't for about five weeks, but I want it to have time to cook properly. I already stuffed it full of far more conflict than my original idea - but might I have overdone it?
Magazines and writing sites suggest that entering competitions is a good way to improve your skill and get honest feedback, so hopefully it will be a valuable exercise anyway. The only problem was, Steve was away for the weekend, and after writing for a couple of hours after the children had gone to bed, I discovered I couldn't sleep. I think I'll leave writing spooky stories until I'm not on my own another time!
This should be good news, though, shouldn't it - I scared myself, therefore the story must have some merit...? Except it's my imagination, so it's no wonder it's vivid for me. The problem is whether I've shared my vision well enough, and empowered anyone else's imagination enough so that they don't want to turn out the light, either. And, then, I'm the world's biggest wimp. For instance, I saw a cheap horror when I was about thirteen. In it, a floury-faced vampire dropped through a skylight in order to drink the blood of some virginal young thing in a flowing white dress. After twenty years or so, I still check above my head every time I go under my Mum's skylight, even when my white dress is at the dry-cleaners (cough, cough)...So I'm not sure "It scared me!" guarantees that it is scary...
I'm not going to think about it for now, though; back to the book!
Monday, 31 January 2011
Thursday, 27 January 2011
Squirming
I've not broken any new ground today. Instead I've been re-working a short story. I'm still not sure if that was the best use of my time, as it took me away from my main focus of the novel, but it was one of those little distractions that snowball and steal your time.
Before Christmas I submitted two stories to a magazine, and one came straight home to roost. I was disappointed - it was the one I'd thought was better, for a start. It also arrived on one of those blue days when it feels like life is just finding a new way to kick you when you're down. The good news is that the sting of rejection faded, and this week I'd put on my to-do list (being an avid writer and duplicator of lists) to tweak it (if necessary) and send it to another magazine.
I was genuinely shocked when I read it. I think that evil fairy had been at work again. I hadn't loved writing the story in the same way I feel entranced by writing 'my novel', but I'd still worked hard at it, and proof-read it and edited it and lavished hours on it. It had not improved with time. I could see every flaw (some major - eg it was just too flimsy) and some minor. Most humiliating of all, one of the characters changed name in one sentence! How that had slipped past my proof-reading, and a friend's eagle eyes too, I don't know. I was so ashamed that I'd submitted something substandard.
But I'm dusting myself off now, and reminding myself that it was a step in the right direction to have sent something off for publication at all. I'm congratulating myself on the fact that I can now see what the problems are with it, and I've spent the day re-working it, so that I now have a meatier (although also longer) first draft. And now I'm going to let it cook for a while, while I get on with the novel. Hopefully when I come back to it I'll have enough perspective to fix it again, and the guts to send it off again, undaunted.
Before Christmas I submitted two stories to a magazine, and one came straight home to roost. I was disappointed - it was the one I'd thought was better, for a start. It also arrived on one of those blue days when it feels like life is just finding a new way to kick you when you're down. The good news is that the sting of rejection faded, and this week I'd put on my to-do list (being an avid writer and duplicator of lists) to tweak it (if necessary) and send it to another magazine.
I was genuinely shocked when I read it. I think that evil fairy had been at work again. I hadn't loved writing the story in the same way I feel entranced by writing 'my novel', but I'd still worked hard at it, and proof-read it and edited it and lavished hours on it. It had not improved with time. I could see every flaw (some major - eg it was just too flimsy) and some minor. Most humiliating of all, one of the characters changed name in one sentence! How that had slipped past my proof-reading, and a friend's eagle eyes too, I don't know. I was so ashamed that I'd submitted something substandard.
But I'm dusting myself off now, and reminding myself that it was a step in the right direction to have sent something off for publication at all. I'm congratulating myself on the fact that I can now see what the problems are with it, and I've spent the day re-working it, so that I now have a meatier (although also longer) first draft. And now I'm going to let it cook for a while, while I get on with the novel. Hopefully when I come back to it I'll have enough perspective to fix it again, and the guts to send it off again, undaunted.
The e-reader fence
I'm sitting on the fence regarding e-readers. The part of me that is a voracious reader and hoarder of books looks at my groaning shelves, and my annual, painful parting with volumes that haven't quite made it into my favourites and thinks it's revolutionary to be able to keep so many books in such a small space. I even think I could get used to reading with one in bed.
Then there's the part of me that reads with an eye on the sensual, tactile pleasure of it. There's a thrill to running my finger over the spines of much-loved books, choosing one to revisit; there's the smudges on page 36 of a sad story where I cried when I was fifteen; there's the untold story in the leaves, softened by time; there's the awe when turning age-spotted pages of ancient hardbacks; there's the wonder of sharing a book with my children snuggled on my knee, and showing them the sticker in the front that says their Nan had it for a prize when she was four.
In the end, my reservations outweigh my interest at the moment. As I may have already mentioned, I'm not always on close terms with technology...
We have interactive whiteboards in the classroom these days. For those not in the know, they project the laptop screen onto a big screen, but you can touch the big screen to select icons, or write and various other things. We hailed their arrival with slack-jawed wonder, and oohed and ahhed at the impressive list of things they could do (although, apparently, teaching the kids without a teacher in the room is still a little beyond their remit). For a year, they more or less lived up to their promise . Then things began to go wrong. The relationship got a little strained. Some mornings they were slow to warm up. Some days, the laptop and projector didn't appear to realise they were still connected. It began to get worse. Sometimes the screen froze, or turned purple unless you wiggled a wire and hopped on your left foot, and buried a sacred herb at midnight in the school garden.
By now, they've been installed for maybe five years. (I know; we were a bit behind the rest of Britain in our rural idyll). The calibration goes off within minutes, so that any attempts to write on it look like a pre-schooler scrawl. The screen itself is so dim, the children can't see it properly, even with the classroom lights off. The projector has been replaced twice. The laptop and software has had to be updated twice. And still, sometimes, it ruins a lesson by refusing to work. We've all taken to using the traditional whiteboard at every opportunity; it just never goes wrong, and never makes it look like a four year old wrote on it, unless they did. And that's my first problem. Is an e-reader going to freeze at a crucial moment? Will I ever miss out on the last chapter of a book?
Secondly: we do sometimes read books on the IWB's at school (when they're working). The children get that glazed look they do when the tv is on, like they're being drugged intravenously. It's not such a good look. It makes me sad. They wait for the computer to tell them things, and they take it in, but they don't interact the way they do when you show them a book, and they want to jump up and poke the pages, and tell you about the time they went to the zoo, and did you know they saw a spider the size of an elephant there. The animation and enthusiasm isn't quite the same. And I'm not sure that's a move in the right direction.
But I'm staying open-minded, and looking forward to seeing if I can fit just a few more books in the book case before the shelves collapse. I'm sure there's room for at least one more...
Then there's the part of me that reads with an eye on the sensual, tactile pleasure of it. There's a thrill to running my finger over the spines of much-loved books, choosing one to revisit; there's the smudges on page 36 of a sad story where I cried when I was fifteen; there's the untold story in the leaves, softened by time; there's the awe when turning age-spotted pages of ancient hardbacks; there's the wonder of sharing a book with my children snuggled on my knee, and showing them the sticker in the front that says their Nan had it for a prize when she was four.
In the end, my reservations outweigh my interest at the moment. As I may have already mentioned, I'm not always on close terms with technology...
We have interactive whiteboards in the classroom these days. For those not in the know, they project the laptop screen onto a big screen, but you can touch the big screen to select icons, or write and various other things. We hailed their arrival with slack-jawed wonder, and oohed and ahhed at the impressive list of things they could do (although, apparently, teaching the kids without a teacher in the room is still a little beyond their remit). For a year, they more or less lived up to their promise . Then things began to go wrong. The relationship got a little strained. Some mornings they were slow to warm up. Some days, the laptop and projector didn't appear to realise they were still connected. It began to get worse. Sometimes the screen froze, or turned purple unless you wiggled a wire and hopped on your left foot, and buried a sacred herb at midnight in the school garden.
By now, they've been installed for maybe five years. (I know; we were a bit behind the rest of Britain in our rural idyll). The calibration goes off within minutes, so that any attempts to write on it look like a pre-schooler scrawl. The screen itself is so dim, the children can't see it properly, even with the classroom lights off. The projector has been replaced twice. The laptop and software has had to be updated twice. And still, sometimes, it ruins a lesson by refusing to work. We've all taken to using the traditional whiteboard at every opportunity; it just never goes wrong, and never makes it look like a four year old wrote on it, unless they did. And that's my first problem. Is an e-reader going to freeze at a crucial moment? Will I ever miss out on the last chapter of a book?
Secondly: we do sometimes read books on the IWB's at school (when they're working). The children get that glazed look they do when the tv is on, like they're being drugged intravenously. It's not such a good look. It makes me sad. They wait for the computer to tell them things, and they take it in, but they don't interact the way they do when you show them a book, and they want to jump up and poke the pages, and tell you about the time they went to the zoo, and did you know they saw a spider the size of an elephant there. The animation and enthusiasm isn't quite the same. And I'm not sure that's a move in the right direction.
But I'm staying open-minded, and looking forward to seeing if I can fit just a few more books in the book case before the shelves collapse. I'm sure there's room for at least one more...
Sunday, 23 January 2011
tied up by technology
I always thought I was computer literate. Not a genius, by any means, but I can't imagine life without our computer. I love writing on it - the sound of the words tap-dancing out of the keyboard is so satisfying, and I'm glad I learnt to touch-type during a fallow year when I was eighteen.
We upgraded to a Mac nearly two years ago - I love it and Steve, whose idea it was to jump over to Macs, is half in love with it.
At first, I loved the video editing. At last, the stack of videos of the children as tiny babies were transferred, edited and the Mac spewed them out on DVD. Uploading photos from my camera was simple too, so much easier than before, and I could add them to my facebook page in a wink. Then the start-up disk became bloated and sluggish, and it began to complain about anything more tricky than getting up in the morning. So Steve bought an external hard-drive, and all his photos are saved there automatically.
But neither he nor I can figure out how to do the same with my library of photographs. Every time I complain, he grumbles about how simple it is, comes to do it, and then goes mysteriously quiet. Sometimes it asks for the administrator details, and for some reason, from my account, his don't work, and mine don't either. It keeps telling me my password hint, and I keep putting my password in, and still it's not happy. I want to put all the home movies I've made on the external drive, too, but can't figure it out, and I can't edit any more because the start-up disk is too full. So the video tapes are mounting up again, an avalanche waiting to happen
Just after Christmas I bought myself a new phone. It's the first one I've had with a camera, and I decided that, for the first time, I might e-mail (or at least check e-mail) from it. I got a special pay-as-you-go package which offered free texts and e-mails. Can I figure out how to actually access orange world from it? No. It constantly tells me that the page is unavailable. It claims this is temporary, but it is lying. Unless, perhaps, the homepage is available between the hours of 2am and 4am. I've read the user guide, cover to cover. I've searched the net, and the online user guide, and I've given up trying to understand it.
But the camera on the phone was worth it....I thought. I took a few photos of the children to add to this blog, and one or two for facebook, and I've just tried to upload them. It refused to work with a USB cable in place, so my long-suffering husband came to set up a bluetooth connection for me. (His mobile is already set up like that, and works fine). After sniping at each other a bit as we tried to make the technology toe the line, the tension increased as things weren't going quite to plan. Then the Mac asked for the administrator's details. He typed his in, several times. I tried mine so often I began to wonder if I'd misspelt my own name. Three times it told us we'd tried too often, and it was fed up of us, please try again in a moment.
Trying to sort out the children's squabbles when they won't speak to one another is a breeze compared to trying to get the phone and Mac to communicate with one another. So I've given up. Temporarily, you understand.
We upgraded to a Mac nearly two years ago - I love it and Steve, whose idea it was to jump over to Macs, is half in love with it.
At first, I loved the video editing. At last, the stack of videos of the children as tiny babies were transferred, edited and the Mac spewed them out on DVD. Uploading photos from my camera was simple too, so much easier than before, and I could add them to my facebook page in a wink. Then the start-up disk became bloated and sluggish, and it began to complain about anything more tricky than getting up in the morning. So Steve bought an external hard-drive, and all his photos are saved there automatically.
But neither he nor I can figure out how to do the same with my library of photographs. Every time I complain, he grumbles about how simple it is, comes to do it, and then goes mysteriously quiet. Sometimes it asks for the administrator details, and for some reason, from my account, his don't work, and mine don't either. It keeps telling me my password hint, and I keep putting my password in, and still it's not happy. I want to put all the home movies I've made on the external drive, too, but can't figure it out, and I can't edit any more because the start-up disk is too full. So the video tapes are mounting up again, an avalanche waiting to happen
Just after Christmas I bought myself a new phone. It's the first one I've had with a camera, and I decided that, for the first time, I might e-mail (or at least check e-mail) from it. I got a special pay-as-you-go package which offered free texts and e-mails. Can I figure out how to actually access orange world from it? No. It constantly tells me that the page is unavailable. It claims this is temporary, but it is lying. Unless, perhaps, the homepage is available between the hours of 2am and 4am. I've read the user guide, cover to cover. I've searched the net, and the online user guide, and I've given up trying to understand it.
But the camera on the phone was worth it....I thought. I took a few photos of the children to add to this blog, and one or two for facebook, and I've just tried to upload them. It refused to work with a USB cable in place, so my long-suffering husband came to set up a bluetooth connection for me. (His mobile is already set up like that, and works fine). After sniping at each other a bit as we tried to make the technology toe the line, the tension increased as things weren't going quite to plan. Then the Mac asked for the administrator's details. He typed his in, several times. I tried mine so often I began to wonder if I'd misspelt my own name. Three times it told us we'd tried too often, and it was fed up of us, please try again in a moment.
Trying to sort out the children's squabbles when they won't speak to one another is a breeze compared to trying to get the phone and Mac to communicate with one another. So I've given up. Temporarily, you understand.
aiming high
I've not managed any more of my book this weekend, though the story and characters have been stewing away, almost on their own.
I've put on my to-do list for this week: start a ghost story for a competition in a couple of months. (I have the beginnings of this mentally mapped out already).
Send out a story to a magazine that didn't fare very well last time I sent it to a publication. I will give it a good grooming before I send it again.
But I want to make sure my book gets its fair share of attention too. Unrealistic expectations for a week?
I've put on my to-do list for this week: start a ghost story for a competition in a couple of months. (I have the beginnings of this mentally mapped out already).
Send out a story to a magazine that didn't fare very well last time I sent it to a publication. I will give it a good grooming before I send it again.
But I want to make sure my book gets its fair share of attention too. Unrealistic expectations for a week?
Thursday, 20 January 2011
Evil Manuscript Fairy
A productive day. I don't count words as I go, but I know things were smoother today; characters came to life, sentences flowed, images sparkled....if only the evil Manuscript Fairy didn't call in every night and steal away my beautifully crafted chapters and leave a changeling novel in their place!
Oh, well, there's always the next edit, and I've thoroughly enjoyed myself. I even set a timer so that I wasn't late collecting the children. I'm going to savour being smug while I can - the opportunities don't come that often.
Oh, well, there's always the next edit, and I've thoroughly enjoyed myself. I even set a timer so that I wasn't late collecting the children. I'm going to savour being smug while I can - the opportunities don't come that often.
Wednesday, 19 January 2011
faltering
What a day - back on writing schedule, but it's not gone well. I had about an hour and a half, and I was really disciplined at not looking at e-mails, nor checking out facebook. The baby didn't go to sleep as quickly as I hoped, and I watched the minutes ticking by, with me trying to catch hold of the thread of my story again. It seems to me that this is trickier with re-writing - I'm having to remember what has changed, and what I was hoping to alter, as well as writing brand-new sections.
After about half an hour, the baby fell silent, but I had itchy feet, so I had to go and make a cup of tea, which makes my world go round. Then I knuckled down to it. And discovered that there was a good reason I'd been procrastinating. That police officer I had tried so hard to leave out is causing me no end of hassle). I know I need him in, but I keep finding holes in what I know about police procedure. I feel fairly confident that the best thing to do for now is write, and then I'll know what research I need to do at a later date, but it's hard. I'm faltering, and uncertain, and I expect it's affecting what I write. I had no time to re-read today, but I didn't want to, either.
I managed to get a disjointed few paragraphs together in one extra section, and then typed as if the end were nigh for another section, finishing with a flourish. Enjoying the faint satisfaction that came from having at least Written, I glanced at the time, and realised with horror that I was meant to be picking the 4 year old up in less than five minutes. If it were just me, I could've made it, maybe, running the whole way. But there was the baby to wake, and then find a means of travel for (back carrier, buggy, car...) and to top it all off, I was meant to be taking the 4 year old to his swimming lesson (only his second ever), and had intended to pack a lunch for both boys to have at the pool.
Luckily, the baby woke like an angel, and even luckier, didn't smell as though anything unpleasant had erupted from anywhere in his nappy region. I ran around grabbing things that might be useful while the baby sat on the kitchen floor, a bit dazed, I think, then we raced out to the car. By now (and this is mightily impressive) I was only two minutes late for my little lad. I think 7 minutes to leave the house must be a record. I daren't try and park right by the playschool, as there's a competitive streak in some of the parents over who gets to park in the best spots, so I pulled up a little way off and sprinted down the track to the gate. The 1 year old bounced in my arms, crowing, certain that I was doing it all for his benefit. I got to the gate, sweaty, panting and having left all composure back in the car, only five minutes late.
And then I waited for five more minutes until the children came out, late, as usual. At least I had time to get my breath back.
After about half an hour, the baby fell silent, but I had itchy feet, so I had to go and make a cup of tea, which makes my world go round. Then I knuckled down to it. And discovered that there was a good reason I'd been procrastinating. That police officer I had tried so hard to leave out is causing me no end of hassle). I know I need him in, but I keep finding holes in what I know about police procedure. I feel fairly confident that the best thing to do for now is write, and then I'll know what research I need to do at a later date, but it's hard. I'm faltering, and uncertain, and I expect it's affecting what I write. I had no time to re-read today, but I didn't want to, either.
I managed to get a disjointed few paragraphs together in one extra section, and then typed as if the end were nigh for another section, finishing with a flourish. Enjoying the faint satisfaction that came from having at least Written, I glanced at the time, and realised with horror that I was meant to be picking the 4 year old up in less than five minutes. If it were just me, I could've made it, maybe, running the whole way. But there was the baby to wake, and then find a means of travel for (back carrier, buggy, car...) and to top it all off, I was meant to be taking the 4 year old to his swimming lesson (only his second ever), and had intended to pack a lunch for both boys to have at the pool.
Luckily, the baby woke like an angel, and even luckier, didn't smell as though anything unpleasant had erupted from anywhere in his nappy region. I ran around grabbing things that might be useful while the baby sat on the kitchen floor, a bit dazed, I think, then we raced out to the car. By now (and this is mightily impressive) I was only two minutes late for my little lad. I think 7 minutes to leave the house must be a record. I daren't try and park right by the playschool, as there's a competitive streak in some of the parents over who gets to park in the best spots, so I pulled up a little way off and sprinted down the track to the gate. The 1 year old bounced in my arms, crowing, certain that I was doing it all for his benefit. I got to the gate, sweaty, panting and having left all composure back in the car, only five minutes late.
And then I waited for five more minutes until the children came out, late, as usual. At least I had time to get my breath back.
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