Raining trouble

I knew this week was going to be a busy one.  Due to exceptionally bad planning (or perhaps a lack of planning whatsoever..?) on our part, two of our children have birthdays a week apart. Oh, it gets worse. The five year old wants a sixth birthday party, so on the Saturday between the birthdays, we have a party to plan. And, of course, there has to be a cake for the party as well as one on the day itself.

The day before the party is also Ste's gorgeous sister's 30th birthday. Oh, and my Mum's 67th (sorry, Mum).   My Mum is diabetic and has to look on with envious eyes while we tuck into cake, so for her birthday I've been meaning to bake up a batch of scones, which counts for a treat, apparently, in Mumsville.  Busy? You could say.

Then, niggling away at the back of my mind, I know that next week, between the premature party and the birthday girl's big day, the head teacher is observing me teach, and we have a parent's night, which will be a late one.  So I have been regretfully coming to the conclusion that the writing will be taking a back seat for a fortnight.

But it's true that it never rains but it pours;  I thought this was quite a storm already, and have been trying to take deep breaths and remind myself to ENJOY the birthday whirl - they won't want me to celebrate with them in a few years  - when I got a phone call this morning.  It was my Extremely Efficient Colleague.
"We've had The Phone Call," she said. (Sorry for all the capitalisation, but I need it).
"THE Phone Call?" I said.
Apparently, it was. We have forty eight hours to ready ourselves for an OFSTED inspection.  (Nearer twenty eight now). So my day off became a morning of buzzing around like the proverbial blue-bottomed insect, and an afternoon of grafting at work, and then I will give up another day off on Thursday.  I don't think there is any hope of writing time at all this week...but you never know.

The only good thing is that, while doing my impression of a fly this morning, I posted two Important Things:  the ghost story I'm entering in a competition, and a story that was rejected from one magazine went winging its way hopefully to another magazine.  And I don't even have time to dwell on their fates.  Now, if I could just find an umbrella to hold off the downpour....

Sea Monkey Stew

  Just days after bewailing the lack of thought for consequences that the four year old had towards the hapless sea monkeys we were babysitting for the Glamorous Next-Door Neighbour and her children, I found out where he gets it from.

  Two of the children and I were struck down with a tummy bug, and went to stay at my Mum's to recover.  We had to go, really, as the builder was working on the drains, and we had times when he was asking us not to use the toilets  - doesn't bear thinking about.  So I left Ste officially in charge of the house and the build and everything home related for a day. Twenty four hours, more or less.  

  And the plumbers came, to move the boiler flue, outside tap and overflow pipes. This involved drilling through the outside wall from the kitchen.  Had I been at home, I'd've moved things out of the kitchen, shut the kitchen door to keep the dust from upstairs, maybe covered some of the work surfaces.  My darling husband moved his shoes and left everything else.

  That night Mum went to check on the work for me (and pick up pyjamas for her lurgy-infested lodgers). She came back and said, 'It's quite a mess. I don't think you can go home till it's clean. You can't cook in there.'  She went on to tell me about the dusty fruit, the film on the worktops, the filth on the hob, the stereo with dust in every crack.  Then she said, 'But, Abigail, what are those things on the windowsill?  They're not fish, are they?'

  I suddenly felt sicker than ever. The sea monkeys!  

  'Well, they were still swimming around,' Mum said, doubtfully, 'But there is dust EVERYWHERE.'  I had dreams of choking sea monkeys, and wished I hadn't joked about keeping them alive till the end of the week.  

  We went to clean today; took two of us four hours of hard non-stop work.  The sea monkeys appeared none the worse for their adventures with us, even if the water is a peculiar shade of pink. Half way through cleaning, I spotted the Glamorous Next-Door Neighbour's husband wandering in his garden, back early from their holiday.  Those poor sea-monkeys must still be reeling from the speed with which they moved back next door, and I've replaced them with a bunch of flowers from my Dad.  At least I only have to remember to top up the water in those.

Giddy Heights

Was so excited to get a magazine today and find I've had a letter published on the letter's page! It should pay £30, and I hadn't been notified, but it's ridiculously exciting to see my name in print.

The letter was edited to within an inch of its life (very expertly, though, to be fair) and it's not the same as having fiction published somewhere, but I don't care today.  I'm still fizzing from the pleasure of knowing that I've essentially been paid for something of mine that is in print. There are so many rejections to celebrate, I think any success should be, too!

Back to the drawing board

It appears the only way is down.  I rewrote parts of the ghost story, and at last got it within the word limit (quite a feat for me) and sent it back to The Trusted Friend...only for him to say, as my Auntie did about another piece, that it had lost something in the reworking.  Worst - shocker! - he finished his email with a patronising little comment about 'hope you continue to enjoy writing'...clearly he thinks it's a fine little hobby to keep me happy but that he was right years ago when he said I wouldn't get anywhere with it!

In a sense, he's right - I do enjoy it, and I can't imagine giving up, because I have such fun (in between the slogging and discouragement).  Anyway, I told myself that the second version had gone to him much 'fresher' than the first - because time is running out, I hadn't let it cook so it hadn't been as meticulously corrected, and maybe that was the issue. (Hey, I'm allowed to make excuses for myself. Someone's got to.)

This afternoon I went back through it and, how I hate him, his advice was nearly all spot on.  However, he questioned some of the basic motivations and realism of the situation  -  but for goodness' sake, it's a ghost story! And I still feel convinced by the motivations, myself.  I think while I still have faith in that, I shouldn't try messing with it.

So I'm about to sit down to the third draft(or is it fourth or fifth? Well, I'm still in single figures...), but at some point I'm going to have to just bite the bullet and send it.  After all, I'm not really holding out any hope that it will be placed in the competition;  what I want is the professional advice and feedback, and just to have a sense of achievement that I've dared to put myself up for 'public' scrutiny.  I do still want it to be my best effort though, so enough blogging, I have other writing to tackle...

The Sea Monkeys

You'd think the four year old would be growing more sensible by now.  A friend with boys tells me it's quite usual for them not to think out the consequences of their actions, and when I look at Ste, I can believe it.  But I still thought he had a bit of gumption.

The Glamorous Next-Door Neighbour was heading through the flickering snow to her in-laws' holiday home up north today.  She knocked on our door with two slim plastic fishtanks in her hand, about the size and shape of our modem.
'These are the boys' sea monkeys,' she said.  'Their dad says they'll be ok with us away the week, but I don't want them to starve. They only need a bit every other day.  Will you have them, so?'
It seemed reasonable enough.

'In the light,' she said.
The kitchen window-sill, I thought, away from the littlest one's clumsy hands. I put them on the trunk we use as a coffee table and picked the boy in question up.
'Just a wee bit of this on the spoon thing,' she said, showing me a measuring spoon that looked like a doll's house tablespoon.
'Sure they'll be fine,' she said, and trip-trapped down the front steps in her knee high boots with the killer heels, waving cheerfully through the snow.

I waved, equally cheerfully, and turned back into the room to find the four year old had picked up one of the tanks and was shaking it as if it were a snow globe.  Water splashed out of the holes in the lid.  He looked startled when I made a noise like a cat when its tail is trodden on, and put it down quickly. I dropped to my knees and searched the wet patches on the rug for any signs of feeble movement, but couldn't see any of the little semi-transparent blighters  - would I have done anyway? And just what I could do if I did find one microscopic little escapee/victim, I'm not sure.  To my relief, it looked as though he hadn't succeeded in shaking any of them out.  I peered into the water and held my breath.  The murk was beginning to clear; what must be old bits of green foodstuff shimmered snow-like down to the floor of the tank. (I was beginning to see why he might've mistaken it for a toy).  Little creatures, smaller than a comma, floated around on what looked like their backs, waving frond-like legs.  There didn't seem to be any harm done.  It was true, there didn't look as though there were as many as in the other tank.  And they were swimming in slightly panicky circles.  I wonder if sea monkeys can suffer concussion?  But there were still plenty in there, and they were still alive.

Now all I have to do is remember to feed them, and hope they still are by Friday.  Let's hope the Glamorous Next-Door Neighbour never decides to go in for a cat...

Feedback

There was a good reason I picked my friend to be my first reader.  His advice was spot on; not writerly advice, but solid, objective reading advice. Love it.  The moment I read his advice that a certain section was unnecessary, and he'd expected me to do something with it later in the story and I hadn't, I could see myself that it wasn't necessary.

It was one of those strange things - this section was to do with the woman who becomes the ghost being pregnant - and it was based on a real-life local tragedy from years and years ago.  When I first heard the story, the pregnancy was the part that had grabbed me by the throat and made me think - there's a story! And that was why it was in there.  But he was right; the story had evolved in a different way, and the pregnancy had nothing to do with it. It didn't bring anything to the party - in fact, it was just muddying the water.  (Oh no - those cliches again!) Why couldn't I see that myself? Just because I was half in love with the original concept? Wow.  Something to bear in mind in all my writing  - that sometimes you have to let go of things that are important to you, and that were at the root of the original idea;  if it's not paying its keep, let it go, and if it's not adding to the story, it's dragging it down.

There were other minor things too - some of them practicalities, things that didn't seem likely or believable...and he was encouraging too, but not gushing.   I trust him to be brutally honest (that's why I was so afraid).  When I was still fresh-faced and dreams were ten a penny, he told me I'd probably never be a writer;  there are so many aspiring ones out there.  So his encouragement is worth a lot. It's so scary opening yourself up for criticism like that - I'm glad he made it easy.  He even asked me to send him the stories I've begun to submit to magazines.  When I'd finished laughing at the thought of him reading these gentle, slightly twee love stories for middle-aged women, and how embarrassed I'd be if I let him, I was touched by the offer.  I need more friends like that.

The Return of the Ghost Story

It's amazing how a deadline seems like a miniscule dot on the horizon and then you turn around and it's threatening to swallow you whole.  I think there is only a week or two until I need to send the ghost story in to a competition, and with time stretched thin, I've done something unthinkable, and let my best friend read it.

The accompanying email was nearly as long as my novel;  endless instructions about being honest but not too honest;  critical but not to destroy all my confidence and a myriad of other Hugely Important Things to Bear in Mind.  Poor friend.  I was surprised how my heart clenched up while the cursor hovered over SEND.  Poor me.  I'm not sure when he'll get back to me, but in the next day or two.  It's one thing knowing your work is a dim reflection of what you wanted it to be, but opening the door to someone you know, and letting them judge it is so difficult. I let a good reading buddy from work read a chapter of my novel early on;  she was such a star, and her words of (biased) encouragement are what kick-started a germ of hope into a flare of motivation and productivity.  Ok, attempts at productivity.  She said to me afterwards, though, that she felt uncomfortable reading it, as if she were reading my diary.  I know exactly what she meant;  that's the reason I hate people I know reading my writing.  Even if it's fiction, it comes from the soul.  It leaves you vulnerable and exposed.

I'm going to have to grow a thicker skin, I know.  Wrap up tight in layers. A bit of unrealistic, unshakeable self-belief wouldn't go amiss either, if only I could find a place that stocks it.  And of course, the silly thing is, if he forgets that he's meant to be offering constructive advice, and criticises it, I'll be devastated.  But if he forgets his brief and compliments it, I shall resolutely refuse to believe him.