Thursday 24 November 2016

14

So....I've finished. The first draft anyway. Word count ended up being 82902, about 7000 words short of the 90000 I was aiming for, but acceptably close. I don't know why I ever thought I'd overshoot; that was not a pattern that happened when I wrote essays. I was always under, and always had to re-read later to find where I'd missed information. There is at least one chapter that I know needs adding.
Having said that, you could read my novel now and it would make sense. There'd probably be a few plot holes and some things wouldn't make sense or the grammar would be off...but there is a novel, that I have written, that is complete. I'm pretty damn pleased.
What's slowing the pride down a little, I suppose, is the knowledge that I have a lot of work left to do. I managed to get it done a week after my birthday (going away for a week where you can't take your laptop means a close deadline is an impossible one!) so I wrote a book largely before 30 (apart from about 2000 words!) According to the plan now, it goes away until after Christmas...possibly until February, and I work on other projects. After that, the editing process begins. I'll try to update this more often, and I'm going to start entering short story competitions. I have a few ideas bouncing around but I've never been quick at developing story ideas. Unlike some people who collect ideas like magpies and can never focus on one, it takes me a long time to think of story ideas. It's a blessing and a curse, because although I was able to pour all of my focus into my novel without wanting to start another all the time, I have limited short story ideas. Especially because the short stories I like are clever, and clever ideas take some time.

Wednesday 19 October 2016

12

Word Count (Tuesday am): 66880
Word Count (Wednesday pm): 68865

Last week did not go to plan. It wasn't too bad, still got the requisite 8500 words in. But we had visitors over the weekend and I struggle to write if it's not completely on my own terms. At present my boyfriend is ill, and as such hanging around watching TV. This makes it tricky to concentrate as we have one big open plan house so I can't really shut myself away from interaction.

I've realised through the course of writing that I need to work on continuity. It's funny, with my writing I seem to go through peaks and troughs of confidence. One minute what I've written is the best thing in the world and everyone sucks but me, the next I suck and I should just give up now. At the moment, I'm in a trough.

I'll try to do a writing prompt next week, though grinding out my words is my current focus. It's 1 month until my 30th, and I need a first draft by then.

Tuesday 11 October 2016

11

Starting word count: 58223
Finishing word count: 59750

I did it! 8500 words last week. I've now been challenged that if I manage to write 10,000 words next week, I'll get paid £5. 1500 words a day, seems...doable. Good to start ramping up my word count.
I've finished the one section of my book, so I'm going back and filling in the other sections. Seems much much easier, possibly because I've been working on them in my head while I've been writing the other sections. Either that or writing in general is getting easier. The style in this section's quite different as well though, much more stream of consciousness, bloggy almost.
I'll have to get back to working on some descriptive writing on here soon. I've decided to try my hand at some short story and flash fiction competitions once I finish the novel, just to see how I do. Also to work on my creativity, having one story in my head for the past couple of years means I haven't had many flashes of ideas. Might finish work on my 90s pop song short stories, I really enjoyed the idea of those.

I'm more excited by writing than I have been about anything else in my life. I wish I hadn't stopped when I was younger. I wish I hadn't taken it for granted when I was a teenager. I'm so glad I've come back to it. Writing this novel, whatever happens with it, will be one of the best things I've ever done. I know it's cheesy, but I'm really proud of myself that I've come back and stuck with this. I don't think I've really been properly proud of anything else I've ever done.

Tuesday 4 October 2016

10

Word count at start of day: 49707
Word count at end of day: 51425

Getting momentum back is hard. I should really learn how to write when there's noise and distraction, but to be honest I sometimes find it hard when I've got the house to myself and silence. At least I can impose punishment on myself in those cases; the nature of my house means if there's anyone in the house, they're in the same room as me. Open plan is over-rated, my next house has doors.
And preferably a study. God what I'd give for a study. Just a place where, once I close the door, this is the place to work. As it is I've got the end of the kitchen table, and my "work activation ritual" involves moving chairs and getting a cup of tea. It's sort of working. As long as no-one's in.
I've set myself a new challenge. Firstly, I want to have finished my first draft by my 30th birthday. On my 29th I said I would have written a novel by the time I was 30. This has looked variously unlikely over the last 11 months, but right now, if I buckle down, I could do it. It would be really cool to do it.
I can actually do it without upping my daily word count too much. Working on the basis of a 100,000 word novel (the way it's looking right now, probably), I need to write 1700 or so words a day, 5 days a week, for the next 6 weeks. I can normally manage 1000 words in about half an hour, so it shouldn't be too hard. Assuming I don't get distracted. And god am I easily distracted. However, to motivate myself, I'm going to pay my boyfriend £5 every time I fail to meet my weekly 8500 words.
Half a novel written in 6 weeks, when the previous half has taken a year. Here's to determination...

Monday 26 September 2016

9

46284 words.

I don't know if I want to live or I want to just sleep. Which sounds more depressive than intended. I'm not sad, just tired. First day back from holiday and my body had reverted to what seems to be its natural rhythm of sleeping until 10am and going to bed about midnight. Which does suggest I need more sleep in my routine anyway. But I hate the fact that my life is governed by when someone else dictates I need to be doing things. I wonder if I'd be more productive if instead I stuck with my routine, working later.
Anyway, my writing has been coming along on holiday. My aim now is to try to get 6000 words a week done. Wouldn't quite be done by my birthday but would be finished before Christmas. I'd like to aim for more but that's not really reasonable.

Thursday 15 September 2016

8

Writing is a weirdly intimate act. Other people may read what I've written, but they still don't know what's in my head; even the best described scene will look different in a reader's head than a writer's. It's also a weirdly exciting world that no-one else is interested in. I've recently decided a different character to my intended victim will die. It will make more sense, have more pathos, have more impact. It's the right decision, and it's fundamentally exciting to me. No-one else will care. My boyfriend loves me, but if I told him I'm killing a different character in the book I'm writing he would imagine it's just on a whim, rather than a nervous, ground breaking decision that will change everything. He doesn't imagine I care about these characters, or that I've resisted killing anyone else than my planned victim off, because I don't want to stop writing them. I'd planned to kill him. I hadn't planned anything else. It's a bit like a dream, so very meaningful to the dreamer, boring and weird to anyone else.

Wednesday 14 September 2016

7

"What are you looking at?" he slurred drunkenly, standing over the girl with his fists clenched. As if she'd been burnt she quickly stopped looking up at him and stared down into her knees, curled into the foetal position.
"You know it's your fault, don't you?" he asked, kneeling down to bring his face close to hers. His breath stank of alcohol and regret. "If it weren't for you, we'd still be fine. She'd still be here. Instead I'm stuck with you in this shit hole." He lifted an arm without looking back, indicating the one bed flat where they lived.
She didn't move. She knew there was nothing good or helpful she could say now, and that if she curled up it wouldn't hurt as much when he started hitting her. So she stayed tight in a ball, burying her face into her knees. She wished she'd remembered to tie her long hair back, she'd probably lose a few clumps and then they'd make fun of her at school.
He stood up, reached for the bottle on the kitchen table. It was mostly finished. "And I sit here like an idiot, paying for your food, paying for the roof over your head, just to get this ungrateful little bitch," he said his voice aggrieved and pained, and she knew he was winding himself up to hurt her. "I suffer all my life finding work, trying to do right, and all I get is this?"
She was expecting the blow but it still winded her when it came, striking at the base of her ribs, forcing her onto her side. He was wearing the steel toe cap boots. That wouldn't help. He grabbed her by her hair, entangling his fingers in the end and yanking suddenly and hard, and she felt the clump rip from her scalp as she was pulled sideways towards him. Her face was exposed and he punched her hard in the cheekbone, dazing her. That was a surprise. Much as he knew no-one would do anything he didn't normally go for anywhere visible, so everyone would think he was still a doting father, so good for taking the orphan in after her mother died.
It was when the second and third blows came to her face that she realised, too slowly, that this time was different. She wasn't going to be allowed to leave. That this might be the last thing she ever saw. For a moment she considered relaxing to let it happen, but a rebel part of her soul rejected that idea even as it arrived.
She came to her feet and twisted away from his grasp, wincing as the movement tore out more hair. He gave a surprised and outraged shout, she never normally did anything but wait for the blows to stop, but she didn't stop moving. He'd locked the front door on his way in but the bathroom window was open, and she flew into the room. His bullish frame was following, staggering but frighteningly quick. She slammed the door even as he crashed into it and tremblingly managed to turn the lock until it slid into place with a satisfying heft that meant safety. He roared outside and the door shook as he kicked it. She turned to the window; it was small but so was she. There was a 10 foot drop outside. She wasn't wearing shoes or a coat.
The room shook and she heard a hideous cracking as the door buckled. Without another thought she climbed up and out the window. She wouldn't be back in his lifetime.

Wednesday 7 September 2016

6

The face that materialised before me was immediately as familiar as it was jarring. For a moment I struggled to place him, staring in a way that I was taught not to as a little girl. He was staring as well, his weak chin failing to support a slightly open, wet mouth. Suddenly, his mouth firmed.
"Oh, hi Carrie," he said sullenly.
I stared for another moment before the voice made it click. "Stanley," I said, the sound of realisation too heavy in the word. "So, uh, how are you?"
He looked at me, the watery paleness of his eyes attempting to burn through me, but instead leaving me with an uncomfortable feeling of dampness. "How do you think?" he said sarcastically.
I looked around us and saw what he meant. "Well, yeah okay. How's the family?" I asked lamely.
"Why would you care? You never wanted to meet them anyway," he replied.
"I...look, it was a long time ago Stanley. It would never have worked anyway, I was too young, and you were too..." I paused, trying to find a definitive but kind adjective.
"Ugly?" he snarled bitterly. I hoped he hadn't developed the ability to read minds.
"No, no, just, you know, intense. Could we just get on with things?" I said, cringing with the discomfort of the situation.
He rolled his eyes. "Fine. Do you need bags?"
"No, thanks, I've got my own," I said, brandishing them.
"Whatever," he said, looking down and beginning to scan my shopping through.

Monday 5 September 2016

5

My mother suggested I re-read my teenage diary at the weekend. Now, I suppose this is functioning as a diary, though a very public one so it's edited. I was prolific as a teenager though. Between the ages of 12 and 16 I wrote an A4 page every single night, detailing what was probably the tedium of every day of teenage life. I wonder how much angst I've actually written down. I'm worried about how much it will make me cringe because dear god who wants to remember being a teenager. However, I am currently trying to write a novel from the point of view of a 17 year old, so it'd probably help to have the viewpoints of a kid about that age to inform that thinking.
Dear lord isn't being a teenager awful though? Just trying to think back; you don't know enough about life to know how to interact, and every interaction is judged. You've always used your parents as guides but your parents are suddenly the enemy and cool kids (of whom I was never one) start imitating television - seriously, the number of arguments I watched where I wondered who had badly scripted that dialogue was ludicrous. I was no better though, rather than try to interact I pulled back into misanthropy and imagined I was better than everyone else, detesting everyone as being less intelligent and, let's face it, "too mainstream". I was the original hipster. I liked big band jazz before it was cool man. (Or a good 50 years after it was cool, whichever way you want to go).
With my novel, I'm finding I want to go back and edit now, but I know it's a mistake to get pulled away from the actual writing. I need to keep that momentum, even though it gets lost a little when I get out of routine. Hopefully now I've got more free time I should be able to get that 1000 words written every day. I need to bring my laptop to work again, I felt so much accomplishment to have written in my lunch.

I do wonder if anyone's reading this. According to my stats, I get a single American looking every time I put something up, I assume they've just googled wrong. The purpose of this is not really to be read, as you may be able to tell from the rambling nature (if anyone's reading this...) However, to my lone American reader, if it isn't a mistake, howdy! I assume you're a cowboy.

Friday 2 September 2016

4

So, writer's block. Not getting any of that so far.
Do you know what? Am I doing this right? Probably not. I'm reading Chris Brecheen and bless him, although he gets me motivated to write he certainly doesn't have a great style. And I'm probably only writing these once I've read his posts. And apparently morning writing is meant to be before you've read anything.
The thing is, I find that hard. We read all the time. Or I do, and I assume to use Facebook and stuff most people do. Isn't it weird how central words are to our world? If you couldn't read, you couldn't participate in more than people generally consider.
Also aliens. Do they exist, and if so do you think they would be anything like us? Do you think they would read (that was where this was coming from incidentally).
This post is a car crash

Thursday 25 August 2016

3

"I'm just not sure I'm that good at writing dialogue," the girl said, her chair hard and uncomfortable. She shifted around unconsciously as she sat with her head in her hands.
The older lady barely moved. "What makes you feel like that?" she said. To be honest, that was mostly what she had said for the last 20 minutes. Counselling did not seem like a difficult job.
The girl shrugged. "I don't know, is this how people really talk? I doubt myself a lot. And god, how do you make a character witty if you're not witty yourself?"
"What makes you think you're not witty?"
The girl stared at the plasticky coffee table in front of her. Talking about things would be easier if they provided coffee. "People sometimes laugh at what I say but I'm not sure that's the same thing as being witty. And it's usually situational, I'm responding to what's already been said. When I'm the one who said the last thing...it's harder to bounce off things,"
The older woman nodded slowly. "Like me for example?"
The girl agreed vociferously. "Like you! I mean, no offence, you seem really nice, but you're just asking questions so that I discuss my feelings. You're not even a fleshed out character, you're just there to get me talking,"
The counsellor put a pen to her lips. "The problem is that this is what counsellors do. Ultimately I was written to offer you a way of putting your feelings about writing dialogue down in a dialogue form. It's hardly fair to then accuse me of not being a fleshed out character when my character was chosen as someone who usually listens and encourages the other person to talk,"
The girl looked bashful, it was the longest sentence the counsellor had spoken. Her tone had been even throughout but she still felt admonished. "Sorry, I hadn't thought about it that way. I'm sure if this was an exercise about description I'd know a lot more about you,"
The counsellor nodded. "Or about personalisation. Ultimately I'd say you just need to really listen to the way people talk. In the same way that you've been analysing what you read for style, really listen to what people say and the rhythm of a conversation. Anyway, now you're going to be late for work,"
"You're right," the younger girl responded. "I may come back for another session, I think this actually really helped,"

Thursday 18 August 2016

2

Having a sofa in the kitchen is not the adventure you'd think it would be. You'd think it would be all "I'm tired of cooking now, I'll have a nice sit down!" Especially because it's a sofa bed, so that has all the benefits you'd imagine (like a bed...). But it doesn't go like that. Firstly, it's on the other side of the kitchen table from the cooker, which means my first stop is to sit at the table (and doodle on the laptop; it's been a wonderful purchase). Secondly...people stay. Now this is fine for a limited period, but the issue with this house is that it is essentially one big room. All open plan. So if you sleep on our sofa bed, you essentially sleep in our kitchen, in our living room and in our bedroom. There is no privacy. This is even less delightful than it sounds. When not in use by guests it only serves as a receptacle for clean washing. Can't be bothered to carry washing upstairs? It's fine, leave it on the sofa! But it's not fine. In some ways I'm getting to be a functional adult. I work, I pay bills, I cook, I clean, I'm pursuing a childhood dream. But the laundry ridden sofa reminds me of the fact that deep down I am a scumbag.
On the childhood dream thing, I need to stop the jealousy. I don't get jealous of published authors (why would I? They've written books for me to read.) I get jealous of people in the same position as me, but maybe a bit further along. Yesterday it was some chick who'd won a short story competition, and I wished they'd chosen me. Which makes no sense, as I wasn't aware of the competition, didn't write anything, and didn't enter my nothing. Reminds me of that Futurama episode where they give the Oscar to the guy who wasn't nominated because he's Zoidberg's uncle. I suppose perhaps I'm jealous that they have things together more than me. I wish I'd got on with this sooner. Because I genuinely believe writing could make me happy.
However. I'm 1/3 of the way through my novel, with a good awareness of the major things that need editing (read: everything). Once I've finished it, because no, I won't be side tracked, I'm going to start entering some short story competitions. Live those dreams.
Whether I should reduce my working hours to live those dreams is something I'm still weighing up.

1


Writing first thing in the morning has been recommended to me as good practice for writers. God knows why. I wonder if the brain is actually better at thinking of things immediately. To tell you the truth, I haven’t really started writing this first thing. I’ve been awake for the best part of an hour now, I’ve got dressed and made my breakfast; I’m even eating it right now. People are discussing fireworks on Facebook (it’s going to rain on our picnic). It’s all, really, not how it’s supposed to be. However, I’m supposed to be a writer. I wonder if I didn’t work, whether I’d actually write more, or if I’d just piss around more? I’m churning out at a pretty decent rate at the moment. Well, depending on who you read, probably not if Terry Pratchett. And to be fair, all those great writers’ daily word counts you came across were probably aristocratic and reading what they wrote was probably impassable. I’m not exactly writing great literature. Having said that, the more I write the more I wonder if there’s not a little bit of Emperor’s New Clothes about writing. I’ve never really been into authors who are considered to be “great”. I just wanted the story, and the words to convey a feeling and a place and an experience to me as effectively as possible. It’s funny though, that different authors can be incredible at one thing and a bit rubbish at another. Robin Hobb is the best author I’ve ever read for characterisation; it’s like she’s lived many lives and knows exactly how someone would be feeling. But pacing? Sometimes I get excited that something is about to happen, which of course never does. Or something big will happen, and everyone will then continue banal everyday life as if it never did.