Tag: creativity

I’m in training for NaNoWriMo

It’s frightening to think that I have to write 50,000 words in 30 days.

Yet I have done it before, last November in fact.  But I believed then I couldn’t do it and didn’t enter.  At the end of November, I surprised myself and finished up with a novel titled ‘If Only’.

Rather apt I thought at the time; if only I’d entered!

But this year, I’m in.

Usually, I sit down and start writing, not sure where it’s going to take me.  Some say a book needs to be meticulously planned,

Characters planned down to their foibles,

Plot lines to drive the characters, adding twists and turns until the surprise ending that no one saw coming.

Even me.

All in 30 days?

Another issue I have is that when I start writing, it is not necessarily the ‘start’.

Some of my stories in the rewrite, or even when I’m halfway through, suddenly cry out for a new start, something relative to the plot earlier, or a missed detail will come to you, usually in the most unlikely place, and this for me is the shower.

This can cause a cascade of rewrites of earlier chapters.

Nothing a little planning might have resolved, but there will not be time.

It’s going to be a challenge.

At least I have a title, The Enemy Within.

I have the basis for the central character, a man who doesn’t quite fit in.  I have a clear idea of where it will end, but that could change slightly as the story progresses.

I basically know where and when it will start.  I’ve always like the start to the James Bond films, that short period when the action of pulsating just before the credits, a small slice of what’s to come.

What’s in between?

That will be topis for November.  What I’ve written and where it’s going.

Stay tuned.

 

Writer’s Block

There is this thing called writer’s block.

There are days when I think I have it but the more I have thought about it while staring at that blank page, it occurs to me it is more likely I cannot put words to my thoughts.

In fact, I have been staring at this page for nearly half an hour.

There are no fewer thoughts of what I might write about going through my head at this time or any other time.

It’s a matter of what words I want to put on the page.

Those thoughts are spread evenly between three different stories I’m working on, this particular blog piece, and two other stories I should be editing.

And thrown into the mix ideas for more stories, fuelled by something I just heard, or read.

Perhaps I should put these aside temporarily and take a more simplistic view.

On this side of the world, it is spring.

It is raining lightly but persistently and when I look outside I’m reminded there are a dozen jobs that need to be done in the garden.

So, perhaps when the rain stops …

 

 

 

A new story …

I write about spies, washed out, worn out or thrown out.

It’s time for me to go on with my next book.

The first sentence of a novel is always the hardest. Like I guess many others, I sit and ponder what I’m going to write, whether it will be relevant, whether it will pull the reader into my world, and cause them to read on.

And that’s the objective, to capture the reader’s imagination and want to see what’s going to happen next.

The problem is, we have to set the scene.

Or do we?

Do we need to cover the who, what, where, and when criteria in that first sentence? Can we just start with edge of the seat suspense, like,

The first bullet hit the concrete wall about six inches above my head with a resounding thwack that scared the living daylights out of me. The second, sent on its way within a fraction of a second of the first found its mark, the edge of my shoulder, slicing through the material, and creasing skin and flesh. There was blood and then panic.

Milliseconds later my brain registered the near miss and sent the instruction: get down you idiot.

I hit the ground just as another bullet slammed into the concrete where my head had just been.

It can use some more work, less commas, perhaps shorter, sharper sentences to convey the urgency and danger.

Perhaps we could paint a picture of the main character.

He tentatively has the name of Jackson Galworthy. He has always aspired to be a ‘secret agent’ or ‘spy’ and but through luck more than anything else, he was given his opportunity. The problem is he failed his first test and failure means washing out of the program.

What had ‘they’ said? When the shit hits the fan, you need to be calm, cool, and collected. He’d been anything but.

Maybe we’ll flesh the character out as we go along.

OK, I just had another thought for an opening,

Light snow was still falling, past the stage where each flake dissolved as it hit the ground, and now starting to gather in white patches.

It was cold, very cold, and even with the three layers I still shivered.

What surprised me was the silence, but, of course, it was a graveyard beside an ancient church, and everyone who had attended the funeral service had left.

It was a short service for the few that came, and a shorter burial. No one seemed keen to hang around, not with the evening darkness and the snow setting in.

I stood, not far from the filled grave looking at it, but not looking at it. Was I expecting it’s occupant to rise again? Was I expecting forgiveness? I certainly didn’t deserve it.

The truth is, I was responsible for this person’s death, making a mistake a more seasoned professional might not, and the reason why I was shown the door. I had been given very simple instructions; protect this man at all costs.

It was going to be a simple extraction, go in, get the target, and get out before anyone noticed.

A pity then I was the only one who got that memo.

Any thoughts?

Thoughts, maybe – again

I can see how it is that a writer’s life can be a lonely one.

I’m often sitting in front of the computer screen, or in a large lounge chair with my trusty tablet computer, writing the words, or staring into space!

Sometimes the words don’t make any sense, sometime the thoughts leading to those words don’t make any sense.  Sometimes the most sensible person in the room is the cat.

I’m sure his thoughts are not a vague, or scrambled, or wrestling with the ploys of several stories on the go, getting locations right, getting characters to think and do their thing with a fair degree of continuity.

The cats world is one of which chair to lie on, where is that elusive mouse be it real or otherwise, and is this fool going to feed me, and please, please, don’t let it be the lasagna.  I am not that cat!

Unlike other professions there is no 9 to 5, no overtime, no point where you can switch off and move into leisure time.  Not while you are writing that next masterpiece.  It’s a steady sometimes frustrating slog where you can’t just walk away, have a great time, and come back and pick up where you left off.

Stories have to be written from beginning to end, not a bit here and a bit there.

It’s a bit like running a marathon.  You are in a zone, the first few miles are the hardest, the middle is just getting the rhythm and breathing under control, and then you hope you get to the end, because it can seem that you’ve been going forever and the end is never in sight.

But, when you reach the end, oh, isn’t the feeling one of pure joy and relief.

And, yes, perhaps you’ve just created another masterpiece!

Thoughts, maybe

I can see how it is that a writer’s life can be a lonely one.

I’m often sitting in front of the computer screen, or in a large lounge chair with my trusty tablet computer, writing the words, or staring into space!

Sometimes the words don’t make any sense, sometime the thoughts leading to those words don’t make any sense.  Sometimes the most sensible person in the room is the cat.

I’m sure his thoughts are not a vague, or scrambled, or wrestling with the ploys of several stories on the go, getting locations right, getting characters to think and do their thing with a fair degree of continuity.

The cats world is one of which chair to lie on, where is that elusive mouse be it real or otherwise, and is this fool going to feed me, and please, please, don’t let it be the lasagna.  I am not that cat!

Unlike other professions there is no 9 to 5, no overtime, no point where you can switch off and move into leisure time.  Not while you are writing that next masterpiece.  It’s a steady sometimes frustrating slog where you can’t just walk away, have a great time, and come back and pick up where you left off.

Stories have to be written from beginning to end, not a bit here and a bit there.

It’s a bit like running a marathon.  You are in a zone, the first few miles are the hardest, the middle is just getting the rhythm and breathing under control, and then you hope you get to the end, because it can seem that you’ve been going forever and the end is never in sight.

But, when you reach the end, oh, isn’t the feeling one of pure joy and relief.

And, yes, perhaps you’ve just created another masterpiece!

 

Thoughts, maybe

I’m finding it hard to get back into the groove.  I suspect I was not in one before, but I was writing, and the stories were coming together.

My biggest accomplishment for the latter part of 2016 was writing 50,000 words for a pseudo NANOWRIMO book.  I didn’t enter because I didn’t think I could put 50,000 words down in the allotted time.

As it happened the creative mind was organised and the ideas and words flowed.  I know it was just supposed to be raw writing, but I even had time to rewrite the start.  As we all know, by the time you get to the end, a lot of stuff at the start needs to be fixed, especially in light of plot changes and continuity.

Now, looking at the document on screen, I have the job of editing and re-writing.

Perhaps I should give that a few more months before I start.

Then there is the sequel I’m writing.

Here’s the thing.

It was done and dusted, reading as a final re-read before handing over to the editor.

Should not have done the final re-read!

I don’t know if anyone else has the same problem, but as soon as I had finished it, I had a feeling (oh no not one of those feelings, I can hear the editor saying) and something was not quite right.

I hate it when I am in one of those moods, and looking at it, I could see where there was a problem, and began the re-write.

Problem is, it affects later on, so there’s going to be cuts and additions.

So the question is what do I attack first?

The new novel, the old novel, or start another which had been buzzing around in my head?

Or just pour another drink and go back to watching the tennis?

Decisions, decisions ….

Never say never

Well, that was what I said when I left the hospital the first time – never again.

Guess what?

Three days later I was being taken by ambulance back to the hospital.

I went to see my local GP about a cough that wouldn’t let me speak, and I was having a little trouble breathing.

OK, I was having a lot of trouble breathing, so it was straight on oxygen.

As you can imagine I hate hospitals.  It’s where a lot of people go to die, and, for a short time, lying in my bed in Emergency, listening to all the possibilities of what was wrong with me, I started to believe it was my time.

Don’t ever consent to a nasal swab, it’s like having ear buds shoved up your nose and into your brain.  It hurts like hell, and makes your eyes run like taps.  This after the nurse said I would only have momentary discomfort.

It was still hurting three days later.

When the X-rays came back it was confirmed I had pneumonia.  A comparison with an X-ray from my first visit showed clouds where my lungs were, whereas the previous one had none.

It was thought I may had acquired it in hospital the first time.

So trying to find the bug was going to be far more intensive and painful than it being just an ‘ordinary’ case of pneumonia.  These bugs were more resistant to treatment and harder to track down.

The bad news, I wasn’t going anywhere for at least a week, possibly more.

It took 9 days to get over it and be well enough to be discharged.  For the first few days I could not breath without oxygen, and for the first five, I could do little other than lie down or sit up in bed.  A walk to the shower or toilet, about 10 yards at best, exhausted me.

So there was little to do other than observe the medical staff and other patients.

Enough research to fill several pads.

And when I was well enough, I spent some time writing.

Never let it be said there isn’t a silver lining in at least one of those clouds!

Thoughts, maybe

It should come as no surprise that democracy is alive and well.

It should also not come as a surprise to finally discover that every vote counts, that you as an individual can make a very large difference in an election outcome.

And for those who don’t vote in a country where voting is optional, well, there’s no complaining when the result of an election doesn’t go your way.

I’ve always believed my single vote counted for nothing.

Not any more.

Thoughts, maybe

I’ve been thinking ….

… and that could be a good thing or a bad thing.

An idea had popped into my head, fired up from seeing the news on television.  I don’t normally look at the news if I can help it because usually its all bad, deaths, fires, drugs, and worst of all, politics.

This item was the equivalent of a two paragraph ‘mention’ buried on page six of the newspaper.

It was the umpteenth variation of a common story, wife having an affair, wife murdered, and, after seeing so many American and English cop shows, assumed the husband would be the number one suspect, no children involved mercifully, but there was something else going on, something I thought I could read between the lines.

No names were mentioned.

I’m not sure why it captured my imagination, but it did, and it swirled around in my head for about a week.

Then, out came a pad and pen and I started to write.

I put myself in the place of the husband and tried to imagine what it was like.

It is a work in progress.

A week or so later, another small paragraph appeared on page five, getting closer to the front page.

No names still because I assume the relative had not been tracked down.

But this alluded to something else as being the cause, and it was the manner of the death that warranted further investigation.

My imagination went into overdrive.

Rest assured I’ll be scouring the papers for the next ‘clue’.

 

Thoughts, maybe

It has any number of names, from Leave of Absence to Vacation, but it is meant to be a time where you can rest and relax.

And by the time you finally get to go away, preferably somewhere as far from home as possible, you are sure ready for it.

Those long days at the office, the decisions, the deadlines, the endless pressure of having to achieve the impossible all melt away when you walk out the door, and what a feeling it is when you tell everyone, ‘I’m off on holidays, see you when I get back.’

As anyone will tell  you, it’s not wise to travel the next day if at all possible, because you need some time to decompress before tackling what sometimes can be an arduous getting to the final destination, especially if it is at a peak holiday period, or on planes where anything and everything can go wrong very quickly.

Been there done that.

We traveled the next day, nothing went wrong, and all is fine.

Except …

As a writer and having spent the last few months finishing off my last novel, I was looking forward to some down time.  The editor has the final draft, and I’m happy.

Then, as it always does, the best laid plans of mice and men …

It all comes unstuck.

Inspiration often comes out of left field; something happens, a piece in a newspaper, an item on TV, or just lying down staring at the ceiling, when ‘bang’  it hits you.

The start of a story, a theme that you can run with.

Damn.

I’ve been away for four days now and written seven chapters and the words will not stop.

If only …

Hey, what a great title for the story.

Sorry, got to get back to work!