Can you actually say you know the exact moment a story is done, finished, and that’s it?
For me, the end never quite seems to be the end, that point where you finally draw a line in the sane and say, that’s it, I’m done, step away from the typewriter.
But are we ever satisfied the story is done, can we not make one more change, it’s just a little tweak, it won’t take long.
Please!
My editor tolerated three ‘minor’ changes.
Firstly, a change of name for a character
Secondly, consistency of word use, such as times and contractions
Thirdly, I wasn’t happy with the overall story, and it needed some more action. More writing, more editing, more prevaricating.
It took three weeks to sort out all of those issues, and last night I send the final draft to the Editor.
It’s like watching your child go to school on their first day. Not knowing what will happen but expecting everything will be fine.
This morning I sat in front of the computer, a blank sheet of paper on the screen. I know it’s not a matter of starting the next story from scratch; I have so many started and finished, sitting in the wings to be ‘tinkered with’.
This book has been written for some time and the manuscript was sitting in a box with half a dozen others gathering dust and not quite as complete, so this month it is going to get the makeover, a first draft for the editor.
And so it begins…
…
A week is a long time…
…
As the title says, it is usually said that a week is a long time in politics.
But in the context of my little project, has it what.
But we’re not here to discuss politics, that’s boring stuff, we’re here to revel in the fact seven days have passed, and I’m still on track.
I know, I know, don’t start blowing my trumpet too soon, a lot can still go to hell in a handbasket from here, but at the moment I’m being optimistic.
I’ve written the chapter that was missing, and this, of course, had opened up another hole where I’ll need to add another chapter, but that’s under control. Those pale green post-it notes are looking good.
This book has been written for some time and the manuscript was sitting in a box with half a dozen others gathering dust and not quite as complete, so this month it is going to get the makeover, a first draft for the editor.
And so it begins…
…
You see, this commitment to revising so many words a day becomes a little like a pressure cooker.
Having a plan is one thing, getting it done is another, but to keep going, now, there’s the thing.
Like this morning, sitting in front of the computer, knowing only five minutes before sitting down what I wanted to write about. A new twist in the tale.
Then the phone rings.
Up from the table, over to the phone, answer it.
A nuisance call, someone saying I had an accident when I didn’t, a new group of scammers trying to leverage money out of me. On top of the telecommunication scammers, and the endless charities looking for donations.
This book has been written for some time and the manuscript was sitting in a box with half a dozen others gathering dust and not quite as complete, so this month it is going to get the makeover, a first draft for the editor.
And so it begins…
…
You see, this commitment to revising so many words a day becomes a little like a pressure cooker.
Having a plan is one thing, getting it done is another, but to keep going, now, there’s the thing.
Like this morning, sitting in front of the computer, knowing only five minutes before sitting down what I wanted to write about. A new twist in the tale.
Then the phone rings.
Up from the table, over to the phone, answer it.
A nuisance call, someone saying I had an accident when I didn’t, a new group of scammers trying to leverage money out of me. On top of the telecommunication scammers, and the endless charities looking for donations.
Instead of making a grand entrance, arriving in style and being greeted by important dignitaries, we are slinking in via an airplane, late at night. It’s hardly the entrance I’d envisaged. At 9:56 the plane touches down on the runway. Outside the plane, it is dark and gloomy and from what I could see, it had been raining. That could, of course, simply be condensation.
Once on the ground, everyone was frantically gathering together everything from seat pockets and sending pillows and blankets to the floor. A few were turning their mobile phones back on, and checking for a signal, and, perhaps, looking for messages sent to them during the last 12 hours. Or perhaps they were just suffering from mobile phone deprivation.
It took 10 minutes for the plane to arrive at the gate. That’s when everyone moves into overdrive, unbuckling belts, some before the seatbelt sign goes off, and are first out of their seats and into the overhead lockers. Most are not taking care that their luggage may have moved, but fortunately, no bags fall out onto someone’s head. The flight had been relatively turbulent free.
When as many people and bags have squeezed into that impossibly small aisle space, we wait for the door to open, and then the privileged few business and first-class passengers to depart before we can begin to leave. As we are somewhere near the middle of the plane, our wait will not be as long as it usually is. This time we avoided being at the back of the plane. Perhaps that privilege awaits us on the return trip.
Once off the plane, it is a matter of following the signs, some of which are not as clear as they could be. It’s why it took another 30 odd minutes to get through immigration, but that was not necessarily without a few hiccups along the way. We got sidetracked at the fingerprint machines, which seemed to have a problem if your fingers were not straight, not in the center of the glass, and then if it was generally cranky, which ours were, continue to tell you to try again, and again, and again, and again…That took 10 to 15 minutes before we joined an incredibly long queue of other arrivals,
A glance at the time, and suddenly it’s nearly an hour from the moment we left the plane.
And…
That’s when we got to the immigration officer, and it became apparent we were going to have to do the fingerprints yet again. Fortunately this time, it didn’t take as long. Once that done, we collected our bags, cleared customs by putting our bags through a huge x-ray machine, and it was off to find our tour guide.
We found several tour guides with their trip-a-deal flags waiting for us to come out of the arrivals hall. It wasn’t a difficult process in the end. We were in the blue group. Other people we had met on the plane were in the red group or the yellow group. The tour guide found, or as it turned out she found us, it was simply a matter of waiting for the rest of the group, of which there were eventually 28.Gathered together we were told we would be taking the bags to one place and then ourselves to the bus in another. A glance in the direction of the bus park, there were a lot of busses.
Here’s a thought, imagine being told your bus is the white one with blue writing on the side.
Yes, yours is, and 25 others because all of the tourist coaches are the same. An early reminder, so that you do not get lost, or, God forbid, get on the wrong bus, for the three days in Beijing, is to get the last five numbers of the bus registration plate and commit them to memory. It’s important. Failing that, the guide’s name is in the front passenger window.
Also, don’t be alarmed if your baggage goes in one direction, and you go in another. In a rather peculiar set up the bags are taken to the hotel by what the guide called the baggage porter. It is an opportunity to see how baggage handlers treat your luggage; much better than the airlines it appears.
That said, if you’re staying at the Beijing Friendship Hotel, be prepared for a long drive from the airport. It took us nearly an hour, and bear in mind that it was very late on a Sunday night.
Climbing out of the bus after what seemed a convoluted drive through a park with buildings, we arrive at the building that will be our hotel for the next three days. From the outside, it looks quite good, and once inside the foyer, that first impression is good. Lots of space, marble, and glass. If you are not already exhausted by the time you arrive, the next task is to get your room key, find your bags, get to your room, and try to get to be ready the next morning at a reasonable hour.
Sorry, that boat has sailed.
We were lucky, we were told, that our plane arrived on time, and we still arrived at the hotel at 12:52. Imagine if the incoming plane is late.
This was taken the following morning. It didn’t look half as bland late at night.
This is the back entrance to Building No 4 but is quite representative of the whole foyer, made completely of marble and glass. It all looked very impressive under the artificial lights, but not so much in the cold hard light of early morning.
This the foyer of the floor our room was on. Marble with interesting carpet designs. Those first impressions of it being a plush hotel were slowly dissipating as we got nearer and nearer to the room. From the elevator, it was a long, long walk.
So…Did I tell you about the bathroom in our room?
The shower and the toilet both share the same space with no divide and the shower curtain doesn’t reach to the floor. Water pressure is phenomenal. Having a shower floods the whole shower plus toilet area so when you go to the toilet you’re basically underwater.
Don’t leave your book or magazine on the floor or it will end up a watery mess.
And the water pressure is so hard that it could cut you in half. Only a small turn of the tap is required to get that tingling sensation going.
Leave, Vacation, or Holiday – don’t you deserve a break?
Some people we know have come up for a holiday in what could be described as a very touristy location.
But is it for a ‘holiday’?
They have come from one state and are staying in what could be called an apartment, not a hotel. They are here for a week.
So, they have a kitchen of sorts and can cook their own meals, unlike staying in a hotel room and having to eat out or in the hotel restaurant, and the apartment has a mini laundry.
How much different is this to being at home?
Perhaps we need to have a definition of the word ‘holiday’ and its variations. A lot of people’s use the term ‘vacation’. Others use the term ‘leave’. Leave’s a difficult term because it can cover a number of types such as annual, sick, and maternity.
But whatever we want to call it, is it when you’re taking some time away from work.
Is it when you go ‘away’, that is to say anywhere but home?
You say, ‘I’m going on vacation.”
We say, “Oh, where are you going?”
Some say camping. Is that any different than staying in an apartment, or even a holiday house? Still all the same chores, cooking, cleaning, washing.
Is this why so many people are now going on cruises and hotels are so full these days.
There will always those who will go camping and stay is self-serve places like apartments, but for me, a holiday is staying in a five-star hotel where the only worry is where the nearest dry cleaner is.
This book has been written for some time and the manuscript was sitting in a box with half a dozen others gathering dust and not quite as complete, so this month it is going to get the makeover, a first draft for the editor.
And so it begins…
…
It might be a little pedantic, but I have to pay more attention to the word count and make sure the revision is spaced correctly over the thirty days.
Today, day 5, the count is 1,862 words, making a total of 8,943 words so far.
What I have to be careful about is not to let the pressure get to me. I mean, I have to revise about 1,700 words a day to maintain the target. It seems a small amount, but remember this is supposed to produce a reasonably polished manuscript that an editor will not throw back at me.
If I miss a day, or the creative juices stop flowing…
OK, not something we need to think about.
Just a minor issue, though, I left a section out the first time around to be written, because I was not sure what I wanted to write. Perhaps what is coming may give some insight.
In the meantime, yet another yellow post-it note. Or I could just get it done.
People do do overtime don;t they?
I’m thinking of getting a new colour for the post-it notes, perhaps a more soothing pale green.
Ever hear someone say it was better in the old days?
I have.
I’ve been guilty of saying it myself.
But, was it?
When I was a child there was no such thing as personal computers and calculators. Everything came out of books, and maths had to be done in your head.
Holidays were about joining up with other neighborhood children and making your own entertainment. I remember for a long time, as a child, we didn’t have television.
It was down to the meadows near the creek to pick blackberries, swim in the water, or raiding new housing estates for offcuts to build a cubby house.
Not like today with television, video players, movies on demand, personal computers, game boys and a plethora of other entertainment choices.
Were we better off back in the old days?
We were in the sun with no idea that sunburn led to cancer and death. Sunscreen was unheard of, so in that regard maybe not.
In the old days, the only telephones were in the house and were expensive to use. You could have a colored phone so long as it was black and made of bakelite.
It was a long time before we had plastic colored phones or even wall phones. Those were also the days of telephone boxes, the only way the make a call when away from home
Now every man and his dog has a mobile phone/computer while on the move. I know, the dogs keep crashing into me on the street.
And then I also remember my father saying it’s not like the old days, so I had to wonder what he meant.
Perhaps it is an oft-used but less understood lament for a time when we remember we were happy and carefree, those days before mortgages, children, maxed out credit cards, and the children’s mobile phone bills.
This book has been written for some time and the manuscript was sitting in a box with half a dozen others gathering dust and not quite as complete, so this month it is going to get the makeover, a first draft for the editor.
And so it begins…
…
It might be a little pedantic, but I have to pay more attention to the word count and make sure the revision is spaced correctly over the thirty days.
Today, day 5, the count is 1,862 words, making a total of 8,943 words so far.
What I have to be careful about is not to let the pressure get to me. I mean, I have to revise about 1,700 words a day to maintain the target. It seems a small amount, but remember this is supposed to produce a reasonably polished manuscript that an editor will not throw back at me.
If I miss a day, or the creative juices stop flowing…
OK, not something we need to think about.
Just a minor issue, though, I left a section out the first time around to be written, because I was not sure what I wanted to write. Perhaps what is coming may give some insight.
In the meantime, yet another yellow post-it note. Or I could just get it done.
People do do overtime don;t they?
I’m thinking of getting a new colour for the post-it notes, perhaps a more soothing pale green.
Who could imagine that one visit to the local hospital could fuel a medical nightmare?
Aside from the original suspicion I was having heart problems, doctors started lining up appointments for an endoscopy and colonoscopy, though I suspect these were for a different malady, and the main event, an angiogram.
I didn’t have heart problems though it was possible I had angina, the reason for the angiogram, but I did have acute kidney failure which was interesting, to say the least, and possibly attributed to ipBrufen, though it was impossible to say if the medication for psoriatic arthritis, a venomous little pill called methotrexate, was or was not a contributing factor.
But is was great to learn that my psioratic arthritis could lead to heart attack, and lung issues, a few problems my original arthritis consultant conveniently forgot to tell me about.
No sooner than I was released from the hospital after this first set of maladies, I was back three or four days later with hospital-acquired pneumonia, a devil of a problem that requires some very invasive searches for the type of bug so it could be treated properly.
It led to five days of antibiotics, a considerable inability to breathe without help from an oxygen mask, and several CT scans with and without dye to get a better look at the problem.
If only that was all that was wrong with me.
The CT scan showed up a lump or lesion on my right thyroid which led to further investigation, an ultrasound, a biopsy, and a visit to the surgeon to be told it had to come out.
But that’s not all. No, I didn’t get a set of steak knives for being one the first ten this week to be diagnosed with anything, I was told my PSA reading was twice the average for my age, a clear indication I might have prostate cancer.
Wow. Just to sort of news you need to hear before the weekend. Worse perhaps than a rainstorm when camping in a floorless tent. I had to now wait for the results of a new blood test.
Ok. I get it that things are bound to go wrong when you get older, but what I object to is everything going wrong at once.
Perhaps when we stop the aging process a lot of these issues will go away, but I fear not. The human body is surprisingly robust for quite a long time despite our attempts to test it to the limits of endurance.
It is advice too late for me to make sure my misspent youth is not wasted on being stupid or believing I’m indestructible. The plain truth is, we are not, and I didn’t get the memo.
Now, I guess, it is time to actually do everything, or as much as I can, before I start to deteriorating further and not be able to do anything. I have a few good years before arthritis sets in and makes life more difficult than it already is.