A Breather: 2013 365 Challenge #291

My smart son

As you may have noticed, I ended up separating the ‘top part’ of my two-part daily blog challenge today and publishing it on its own. If you didn’t spot it, I wrote this, all about the news that the likes of Kobo and Amazon are deleting e-books they consider to be inappropriate.

It ended up being rather long (over 1000 words) and emotive and didn’t sit happily with a Claire installment. It also ate up all my writing time this morning (darling hubbie has taken our daughter to school and our son to the barbers so I can have some time to catch up, but they’ve just got back).

So, I’m off to find something for Claire to do today, while my boiling brain comes down from researching and writing about e-book censorship, and my son watches a DVD.

In the meantime, here’s a lovely picture of my son proudly wearing his new Red Sox baseball top, courtesy of his auntie and uncle. Doesn’t he look smart?

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Below is the next installment in my novel Two-Hundred Steps Home: written in daily posts since 1st January as part of my 2013 365 Challenge. Read about the challenge here.You can catch up by downloading the free ebook volumes on the right hand side of the blog:

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Claire drove along the twisting tree-covered lane and let her mind drift, enjoying the empty car and empty roads. She wondered how Kim was settling in at her parents’ house and hoped her friend wasn’t holding any grudges.

I guess that’s probably too much to ask for. If she’ll forgive me when she’s better, that will be enough.

The sense of freedom filling her spirit made her heart ache with a mixture of joy and guilt. It was good to be free of the coach and the schedule, and – if she was honest – free from Kim’s constant misery. Did that make her a bad person?

As if running through the events of the year, her thoughts turned to Josh. She hadn’t heard from him since his return to Fiona, and she hoped it was because he was pouring his energy into making his marriage work, and not because he had found his escapism elsewhere.

I really should send him a note, make sure he’s okay.

She added it to her list of things to do and tried to push it out of her head. Another face tugged at her mind, someone else she hadn’t contacted recently enough. Ruth.

Damn. I meant to call in and see her before I left for the south. In all the confusion with Kim and not having a bloody car, I forgot.

Remorse twisted at her stomach and she vowed to ring her sister as soon as she got to the next hostel.

That’s assuming I ever get there.

Claire pulled the car around another sharp bend and tried to rein in her frustration. On the map, the tiny white road along the edge of the county had seemed to promise stunning sea views or at least beautiful scenery. So far it had delivered mostly urban roads and tree-lined lanes. She knew the sea was somewhere to her left, but it didn’t show itself very often.

I think the first thing I need to do is buy a new guide to Britain. Goodness only knows what happened to mine.

It was hard not to feel like her life had come full circle, as she followed the SatNav’s directions into town. It had been less than four months since she’d driven to Berwick-upon-Tweed with little idea of what the future held in store for her. In all those weeks she’d stayed in so many different places, home and abroad, that they were all beginning to merge together.

The hostel, when she arrived, looked like just another Victorian terrace in a wide street of cream houses. It didn’t feel particularly touristy, but she could at least see the sea in the distance as she pulled up outside.

With a sigh, Claire found somewhere to leave her new car, grateful that it had travelled the short distance without breaking down, and went to check in.

Inside, the building felt more like student digs than a hostel. The website had suggested it was a good base for seasonal workers, and Claire figured that probably explained most of the residents. It gave it a strange feel, as if she were intruding; coming to crash on someone’s sofa. More than anything, it made her yearn for a place of her own.

Forcing a grin, she strode up to the reception and dropped her bag. “Hi, I’m here to check in.”

***

E-Book Censorship – Necessary or a Slippery Slope?

The story as it unfolds

Some worrying news has trickled through to me this week, through various sources, that Amazon, Barnes & Noble and particularly Kobo are censoring Self-Published/Indie Published books. As far as I can gather, from reading posts on Shannon Thompson’s Facebook wall – here and here – and through statements from Smashwords, the concern is specific types of erotica, such as incest or rape themed books, but may easily stretch into all Indie Publishing.

WH Smith, who sell Kobo books in the UK, took down ALL self-published books in response to criticism over some of the content they apparently unknowingly stocked.

Smashwords also has this comment in their statement:

Going forward, I think we can expect this to become the new reality as major retailers set their sights on a global market where the cultural, religious or political norms in some countries will find certain categories of erotica too objectionable, or might find non-erotic categories that most western cultures consider mainstream as too objectionable. This means we can expect more mess to come in the years ahead as the industry navigates ebook globalization [My emphasis]

Now I have to be honest, this isn’t a straightforward debate for me. My mind is surging with conflicting emotions. Paramount is the thought “Oh my goodness, if they start deleting Indie books, there goes my five-year plan. Amazon is already censoring reviews (I’ve had at least three reviews of my books deleted and lord knows how many more I don’t know about). I’ll have to give up writing and get a job.”

This might seem like an overreaction when I write books with no sex in them, never mind erotica. But, as Smashwords points out, this may well not just stop at erotica but might cover any area that’s considered taboo in a certain culture. Shannon points out on her blog that the legal age of drinking between the UK and the US is different, so might books featuring a teenager drinking be banned in the US?

First WH Smith then all KOBO

Then of course comes the view that refusing to publish any kind of books is bad. It’s censorship, it’s against free speech, it’s harking back to the days of banning and burning books for not fitting in with the social mores of its time. As one commenter points out on Shannon’s blog, though, it isn’t actually against free speech, because these companies are businesses and have every right to sell what they choose. Even so, it still isn’t good news for Indie authors like me.

Ah, but then, a third voice pipes up: the voice of the parent. I’d happily see all porn banned on the internet: free speech or no. And if there are erotica books out there that favour or promote rape, then I am happy for them to be banned. (Remember this is only the parent talking, so no snotty comments about me being a bigot, thanks!)

I don’t want my daughter growing up in a world where people have had easy access to books promoting rape. There’s something about an idea being written down that gives it gravitas. You write about rape in a book, make it sound like a cool thing, and somebody somewhere is going to feel like that gives them a green light.

In an article on the Christian Science Monitor (which I found through Shannon’s blog) someone defends the erotica ebooks by saying:

“We outlaw snuff films, child porn and, increasingly, revenge porn, because actual people are harmed during their production,” wrote PJ Vogt on OnTheMedia.org.

“Erotic fiction concerns fake characters who don’t exist in real life.”

So it’s okay if it’s in a book, with fake characters? I should agree, yes of course. Except I’ve read books that have changed the way I think. They’ve actually rewired my brain to see the world a different way. That’s the power of fiction (as so beautifully argued in a lecture by Neil Gaiman recently:

When you watch TV or see a film, you are looking at things happening to other people. Prose fiction is something you build up from 26 letters and a handful of punctuation marks, and you, and you alone, using your imagination, create a world and people it and look out through other eyes. You get to feel things, visit places and worlds you would never otherwise know. You learn that everyone else out there is a me, as well. You’re being someone else, and when you return to your own world, you’re going to be slightly changed.

Neil Gaiman

The On the Media article quoted above says that internet porn hasn’t increased actual instances of rape, and makes the assumption that literature won’t either. But if you look at Neil’s argument, the written word is more powerful than onscreen images, precisely because it happens inside the mind. It locates another ‘me’ in the world. Great if that widens the mind, not so great if it narrows it.

Neil also says, “We have an obligation [as writers] to make things beautiful. Not to leave the world uglier than we found it” but that’s an entirely different argument against some of these books!

There is a petition on Change.org that I will probably sign, but I am having to think twice about it. The petition does say **This petition is NOT condoning non-fictional beastiality, incest, pediphilia or other things of such ‘extreme’ nature**.

Non-fictional? What about fictional? Also, there are some views in the comments that I don’t agree with. For example someone says you need a credit card to buy the books, so you’re obviously over 18. Except what about the free sample? I’ve downloaded the first few chapters of plenty of books without having to pay for them, and many of them I wouldn’t want my daughter to read at any age.

It’s a difficult debate and I hate not knowing what side of the fence I sit on. If Amazon and other online retailers delete my books, I’m back to square one: trying to fight my way in through the agent/publisher route. And I believe we’ll all be the poorer for stopping the publishing revolution before it’s even got underway. However there is no doubt that there are books out there that ruin the image of self-publishing for all of us, never mind books I wouldn’t want my kids to have access to.

Where do you sit?

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Self-Published Erotica is Being Singled Out For Sweeping Deletions From Major eBookstores (the-digital-reader.com)
A Little More on Taboos – and Censorship (brianrushwriter.wordpress.com)
Kobo porn scandal: the end of self-publishing? (telegraph.co.uk)
This is Not The First Time That Amazon Has Removed Adult Content Without Warning or Good Reason (the-digital-reader.com)
Kobo halts self-publishing after row (bbc.co.uk)

Stuck in a Writing Cul-de-sac: 2013 365 Challenge #287

I’ve lost my way..

Argghh! I’ve written myself into a cul-de-sac with Two-Hundred Steps Home and I can’t think of a way out. It seemed such a great idea to have Kim travel with Claire around Cornwall. It’s easier to write dialogue and keep scenes moving when Claire isn’t by herself. But, having experienced depression myself, I know for certain it doesn’t make for happy times for those around me.

I’m not sure how many more posts I can write with Claire and Kim both feeling rotten. But, if I were to suddenly have them carefree friends again, that wouldn’t be authentic.

I can’t send Kim home to Jeff because the new Claire wouldn’t do that. I’m also a little tired of researching a new town every day and having Claire visit it. I need a better story line than that; one that allows Claire to continue to develop as a person. She’s come a long way from the shallow, materialistic person she was back in volume one. But she still needs to find her dream and make a sacrifice to pursue it. I just don’t know what that is yet.

This is the first time I’ve really, truly been stuck with the daily novel. I don’t tend to write myself into cul-de-sacs in my first drafts, as I spend time (usually while walking the dog!) thinking things through to make sure they make sense. While I do move chapters around and develop themes further in second drafts, I don’t change the overall story that much.

The scene outside my house!

Unfortunately, having now reached 218,000 words, Two-Hundred Steps Home has gone long beyond my usual story line format. And, wham, I find myself at my first dead end. If it was possible, as part of the challenge I’ve set myself, I’d go back a few episodes and either leave Kim behind or maybe not have her attempt suicide. But it’s happened now, and Kim, Claire and I all have to get on with it. As Claire said yesterday, one foot forward.

Update: I’ve had a great chat with hubbie about the rest of Two-Hundred Steps Home and I have a plan! Sometimes it’s great to bounce ideas off other people and get a fresh perspective. It was strange, as hubbie kept trying to come up with endings for Claire that weren’t true to her character or her journey and it made me realise I know her better as a character than I thought I did. But it does demonstrate that, no matter how isolated you can become as a writer, two heads are always better than one. I hope you like my three-point-turn out of the cul-de-sac!

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Below is the next installment in my novel Two-Hundred Steps Home: written in daily posts since 1st January as part of my 2013 365 Challenge. Read about the challenge here.You can catch up by downloading the free ebook volumes on the right hand side of the blog:

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“Hi, Jeff, it’s Claire.” She looked over at the sleeping form on the bed behind her, and lowered her voice. “Is it okay to talk?”

“Sure, what’s up?”

“I’m worried about Kim. I don’t think she was ready for this trip.” Claire hesitated, then rushed on. “Or me, for that matter. I’m not exactly a bundle of joy these days, and I think we’re bringing each other down. I don’t know what to do”

She heard Jeff suck air in through his teeth. “What do you want me to do? I’m back at work this week. I don’t think the boss will appreciate me taking any more time off.”

The curtness of Jeff’s tone surprised Claire. She’d always envied Kim for finding a man both handsome and understanding.

“What about her parents; could she stay back home for a while?”

Jeff’ let out a bark of derision. “She’d relapse for sure if she stayed with her mum for more than five minutes in her current state. Even at the hospital her constant fussing got on Kim’s nerves. You know what she’s like.”

Claire frowned, trying to match Jeff’s words with what she knew of Kim’s mother. When they were growing up, she’d always wanted a mother like Kim’s. Her own mother had shown little concern for anything Claire did, provided it had no impact on her, while Kim’s mum had watched over Kim’s every move. Was it fussing, or was it just being a caring mother?

“I don’t know, Jeff. I think Kim probably needs someone to fuss over her. Make sure she’s taking her tablets and eating, that kind of thing. Someone who won’t fall out with her if she fights back or mopes.” She thought guiltily about her outburst earlier in the day. She couldn’t imagine Kim’s mother saying anything so harsh.

Jeff’s sigh echoed down the phone. “Why are you ringing me then? Take her to her mother’s, if she’ll go.”

Claire wanted to ask Jeff what his problem was. He was a different man from the one she’d spoken to at the hospital.

Maybe he’s just had a bad day at work. This has all got to be pretty tough on him, too. A few months ago they were a normal carefree couple. Now they’re married and his wife is suffering from depression.

Forcing a lightness into her voice that she didn’t feel, Claire said, “Sorry, Jeff. I should have thought of calling her mother first. I’ll send you a text to let you know what we decide.”

As she hung up the phone, Claire hoped Jeff wasn’t having second thoughts about his new wife.

“I don’t want to go to my mother’s. She’ll fuss around me every five minutes. You should have seen her at the hospital.” Kim pouted.

“Yes, that’s what Jeff said, but– ”

“You called Jeff?” Kim’s face grew darker.

“I wanted to pick his brains, that’s all.”

“I don’t want you all talking about me behind my back, like I’m a child.”

Claire took a deep breath. “We’re just worried about you, darling, that’s all. I don’t think a road trip is the right thing for you at the moment. It’s tough, moving on every day. Lord knows I’m sick of it, and it’s my job.”

“Doesn’t seem like a hard job to me.” Kim folded her arms and glared at Claire.

Forcing herself to remain calm, Claire went to sit on the bed next to Kim. “You’ve only done one day, and we’re in a B&B. Some of the hostels aren’t particularly soothing places to be, especially if you’re sharing a room with some noisy blokes or chattering girls. You’re mum’s place is lovely and peaceful and I’m sure if you ask her to give you some space, she will.”

Kim stared at the floral pattern on the carpet and Claire forced herself to be silent. After a long pause, Kim sighed. “I guess you’re right. At least Mum won’t try to get rid of me.”

“I’m not trying to get rid of you, silly! I just want you to get better so we can go have some fun.” She held her breath, worried Kim would resent the idea that she needed to get better.

Eventually Kim unfolded her arms and put one around Claire’s waist. “Me, too.” She laid her head against Claire’s shoulder. “Promise me we’ll go on a girly holiday, somewhere hot, just you and me? When I’m better.”

Claire smiled for the first time that day, and returned her friend’s embrace.

“You’re on.”

***

We Are Stories: 2013 365 Challenge #286

Happy birthday, sis

Yesterday my gorgeous sister celebrated her fortieth birthday with a gathering at our parents’ house. As the rain poured outside, a dozen children from four months to fourteen years old played together, while as many adults mingled and discussed the passing of the years.

Two of my sister’s school friends were there with their children: faces I haven’t seen in twenty years but that haven’t changed much. I remember other parties, two decades ago, with the same faces. More music than kids cartoons, back then, and significantly more alcohol. But just as much fun.

As I watched the kids unite in a universal game of balloon fight while disparate groups of my sister’s friends chatted about life, and an old friend who lived in our house even before we moved to the area commented on the same tiles still being there in the kitchen, I could almost see the passing of time happening in that room.

Balloon fights

Story arcs and character arcs played out in my mother’s kitchen. Our family’s journey, from the day we arrived in the house nearly thirty years ago, when it was all yellow walls and brown carpet. My sister’s journey, from shy school girl to entrepreneur, mother, wife, international traveller. My life, from early heartache to sitting with my children on my lap, happy and content.

I’m often asked how I come up with stuff to write about in my novels: people complain of having no imagination. I used to say the same, until I started my Creative Writing degree, and discovered NaNoWriMo. Then I realised my brain is chock full of stories.

Stories play out around us endlessly. Happy ones, sad ones, stories with no endings, stories only just beginning. The babies in the room yesterday will live an entirely different adventure in a different world to the one I grew up in. Already I can say the same for my children, as they swing from the same apple tree I fell from as a child.

Balloon fighting

For character development we need look no further than our own experience: from bolshy or shy teenager to confident or unhappy adult. Whatever our journey, there is a universal truth held within it. Other people have experienced the same emotions, undergone the same changes, albeit in a slightly different way. Like a handmade dress or a home-baked cake, no two stories are quite the same.

My sister and I had almost identical upbringings, as much as can be the case when you’re three years different in age. We’ve lived similar lives, our children could easily be mistaken for siblings. But some of our views on life are worlds apart.

And, by virtue of marrying an American, she now lives in the States. Tiny choices that have huge repercussions. I might have married my Kiwi boyfriend (unlikely!) and my life would have taken a completely different path. To write a story, all I need imagine is one of those what ifs. There are little bits of me in every story, because writing what you know is the easiest place to start. It can be fun, too, exploring the lives I might have lived.

They say everyone has a novel in them. I believe we have as many as we can find the time and energy to write down. All around us, weaving in and out of every day, there are stories. If you want to, go and find them, capture and tame them. Make them your story. There’s no time like now.

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Claire pulled into the car park with a sense of relief. Travelling in the car with Kim was beginning to stretch her nerves to breaking point.

I wonder if this is how Bethan felt, travelling with me around New Zealand?

With a guilty flush Claire decided that Bethan probably had more patience. Assuming her dark moods had been of equal blackness, and she suspected they had been, it was a bit like trying to run holding a fragile vase full of excrement. One careless step and the darkness slopped over the side, making everything awful. And all the while there lurked the constant fear that one misstep might shatter the vessel into a thousand pieces.

The town rose around them up into tree-lined hills where white villas sat majestically overlooking the bay. She’d never been to Lyme Regis before and her only knowledge of the town came from a TV adaptation of Jane Austen’s Persuasion.

“Apparently Jane Austen loved this town,” she said, as Kim joined her on the pavement.

“I guess someone has to,” Kim responded, staring round with distaste.

Claire bit back a retort and looked instead for somewhere they could get a cup of coffee and some cake. She definitely needed cake.

After Kim had turned down the first two cafés for being too busy or too twee, they’d finally settled in a small independent coffee shop that featured a display of divine looking cakes.

Claire wrapped her hands around her mug and read the sign on the wall out loud; “Money can’t buy happiness, but it can buy tea which is the same kind of thing.” She laughed. “Substitute that for coffee and I couldn’t agree more.”

“I wouldn’t have thought you’d be laughing about money, if you’re as broke as you claim you are.” Kim’s voice cut through Claire’s happiness like a cheese wire.

Claire inhaled sharply, and the words came out before she had time to think. “Give it a rest, Kim. Your life sucks, I get that. Mine’s not exactly rosy either. It’s not going to get better if you stomp around thinking your cup is half empty all the time.” She stopped, her face flaming, and immediately reached out her hand in apology. Kim stared at her through round eyes.

“God, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean that.” She tried to lay her hand on her friend’s, but Kim snatched her hand off the table and crossed her arms.

“I’m not sulking, Claire. I’m not choosing to be low. I have depression. The doctor explained it; it’s an imbalance of chemicals in my head. I can’t control it. You wouldn’t ask me to just get up and walk if I had a broken leg.”

The heat continued to pound in Claire’s face as Kim’s words hit out at her. She hung her head. “I know. I understand, really.” She wanted to add that she felt the same; that the world had closed in around her in the past weeks, but suspected Kim wouldn’t appreciate her saying, oh yes, me too.

They sat in silence and Claire sipped at her coffee, more for something to do than out of any enjoyment.

This was a mistake. What was I thinking?

She tried to think of a way out, but nothing presented itself. The idea of travelling with Kim for even a few days, never mind the weeks it would take to get around Cornwall, filled her with dread. And she was meant to be working, not babysitting. How was she supposed to research the tourist activities and compile her recommendations – how was she even going to think straight – with Kim pouring her woe on them all the time. But she couldn’t send Kim home, even though they were in her car. She wasn’t sure Kim was safe by herself and it was a long way back to her apartment.

Claire felt like she was back in Puzzling World, stuck in the maze, lost and confused. Only now she couldn’t climb a tower and figure the way out.

Draining her coffee, she stood up and shouldered her bag. “Come on then, let’s get moving.”

One foot forward, that was the only way.

***

Tips for NaNoWriMo: 2013 365 Challenge #285

My NaNoWriMo Baby

Okay, confession time: I’m going to steal most of today’s post, from myself!

With my sister and her family over at the moment, there just aren’t enough hours in the day to write my Claire installment and find something to say for this top part (unless you want to hear how totally cute my niece and nephew are!)

So, today’s thoughts originally appeared back in October 2012 in this post.

NaNoWriMo Thoughts

It’s almost that time of year again when people kiss goodbye to their families, put the takeaway numbers on speed dial, stock up on coffee and chocolate, and launch themselves into NaNoWriMo.

For those of you who have never heard of it, NaNoWriMo stands for National Novel Writers Month, and is about “Thirty days and nights of literary abandon” (or writing 50,000 words in the month of November, but that doesn’t sound as poetic or inspiring!)

Most of my novels started life in November. Two years ago, whilst also running my first solo art exhibition and looking after my two young children, I took part in my fourth NaNo and wrote the first fifty thousand words of what (eventually) became Baby Blues and Wedding Shoes.

There are thousands of posts written about NaNoWriMo every year (and chances are, if you’re not a writer or you’re not taking part, you’re a bit sick of hearing about NaNo already!) I’m not qualified to discuss how to plan your NaNoWriMo adventure so your first draft doesn’t become a hot mess. As a Pantser I don’t do much planning; although if I do find time to take part this year, I will definitely reread Jami’s post and take notes. It’s much easier to fix a first draft if it actually has a vague story or character arc to carry it through.

I guess everything to do with NaNoWriMo has been written about already, given what a phenomenon it is. However, for those that have no idea what NaNo is, or are contemplating trying it for the first time this year, I thought I would tap out my thoughts on how to get the most out of your thirty days.

My first NaNo novel (not yet finished)

My NaNoWriMo Top Tips:

1. Write something on Day One. Anything. Even if you’re a Pantser and your mind is blank, make up a character from five items in your work space and think of something awful that might be happening to them. The longer you leave it before getting words on the page the less likely you are to start at all.

2 Try and keep up with the word-count chart but don’t panic if you fall behind. Once you get some momentum you can do astounding things (I wrote something like 17k words in my last 36 hours last year.)

3. Do not re-read more than your last line (just to see where you got to) when you sit down to write. Even better, end your writing session with a couple of notes about what might happen next so you can start writing the minute you sit at your desk.

4. DO NOT EDIT. If you can handle it by all means leave spell check on and fix as you go. If that causes you to re-read, worry, and question the quality of your work, turn spell check off or – better still – write in Notepad or equivalent.

5. Engage with the community. Read some Facebook posts, follow on Twitter. If you can afford it, donate to NaNo and get all the motivational emails. They’re the reason I come back each year.

At the end of November you won’t have a finished novel. As most novels are nearer 100k than 50k you won’t even have a finished first draft. (If possible, carry on writing until you reach the end of your story, even if it means leaving out chunks to fill in later. If you don’t at least sketch out the ending while the NaNo momentum is carrying you, it’s much more likely to remain unfinished.).

Your fifty thousand words will represent an amazing achievement. Even if you bin half, or put the whole thing in a hidden folder on your computer, you will still have something to be proud of.

Before discovering NaNoWriMo I was convinced I couldn’t write a novel because I had no imagination. I was wrong. I may not have the sharpest literary mind in the world but I can spin a yarn. I’ve discovered I’m more Pantser than Plotter and my main weakness is generating conflict. I know I can write good dialogue and that I can churn out 50k words of reasonable first draft in 4 weeks, even when it isn’t November. Without my NaNo training I would never have survived so far in my daily novel-by-installments challenge this year. (Each monthly Two-Hundred Steps Home volume is a half-NaNo, and that doesn’t include the blog post words written each day).

I may not take part this year. Something has to give in my busy schedule. But I still want to hear about everyone else’s adventures, so please stop by and let me know how you’re getting on. If you’re still dithering about whether or not to sign up: do it. What have you got to lose? You never know what might happen. In a year or two you might be looking at your novel, there on Amazon or Barnes & Noble, and get to say, “I wrote that.” It’s a great feeling.

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“So, ladies, where will you be off to in the morning?”

As Conor smiled at them, Claire noticed that the wary expression was beginning to leave his face when he looked at Kim. Since their first introduction, an hour or two before, he had acted as if her friend were a bomb about to explode.

Kim had said very little through dinner, although Claire was relieved to see her eat some of her food. It wasn’t much, but it was a start.

She turned to Conor to answer his question. “I think we’ll aim for somewhere in Devon, tomorrow. The weather is meant to get better, and it would be a shame to spend too much time in the car. I thought we might head along the coast to Exeter: then I can get a feel for some of the local Dorset towns before we leave the county.”

Conor nodded, but Claire got the impression he wasn’t really listening. They hadn’t talked much about the job during dinner. It unnerved her. A job was meant to come with a contract and a start date and, most importantly, a sense of how much and when she would be paid.

As if reading her mind, Conor caught her eye. “As I said before, we can’t do much in the way of expenses, but you will be getting paid. As it’s on contract for six months, I can pay you weekly if that would help?”

Claire nodded, wondering if it was so obvious that she was completely skint. It was hard to read her new boss. Sometimes, such as during her travels when he texted her, he felt almost like a friend or a benevolent uncle. At other times, like this evening, he was every inch her boss; keeping his distance and maintaining a flow of polite, neutral conversation. It made her feel like an idiot.

Did I imagine the tone of friendship in his texts, or read more into them? And what about picking me up from the airport: what was that all about? What on earth is it going to be like, working for him every day?

She shivered. For the first time she felt a sense of apprehension. In some ways it was easier to manage a boss like Carl, who made it his mission to keep her on her toes. What did you do with someone who seemed like your friend one minute and your master the next?

Claire glanced at Kim, hoping to be able to pick her brains later, to see what she made of Conor. Kim had her hands wrapped around her mug of hot chocolate and was staring into the dark liquid as if it held the secrets of the future.

If only.

Noticing the darkening bags beneath her friend’s eyes, Claire decided it was time to head back to the B&B. She had hoped finally sitting down with Conor to discuss work would leave her feeling more settled and sure that she had made the right decision. Instead it felt similar to waiting in the aircraft, trying to anticipate when the man strapped to her back was going to jump out and drag her with him.

Maybe I shouldn’t have burned my bridges quite so emphatically with Carl. Perhaps they’re right when they say better the devil you know.

She looked up and caught Conor staring at her, his eyes glittering in the low light of the restaurant. Her mouth felt dry. Reaching for her drink, she nearly knocked it flying across the table. Glad for an excuse to look away, Claire tried to ignore the hot flush rising up her cheeks.

***

What is NaNoWriMo? (cg245.wordpress.com)
3 Writing Tips for NaNoWriMo (magazinetheory.wordpress.com)
Preparing for NaNoWriMo (writerkimberlyhill.com)
The Good, Bad, And Ugly Of NaNoWriMo (aspiringwriter22.wordpress.com)

NaNoWriMo and The Stalking Muse: 2013 365 Challenge #277

To NaNo or not NaNo?

Earlier in the week I wrote about the importance of writing even when your Muse is missing in action. Well, my darling muse seems to have come back from her spa break invigorated and enthused and is now stalking me, mostly in my dreams.

Twice this week I’ve woken out of an exhausting dream with a full-length story in my head. That has only happened once in my life before and resulted in me writing Dragon Wraiths. I’m grateful for the input but, really Muse, I don’t have the time to start two brand new novels just now. I think maybe my Muse knows NaNoWriMo, which I hadn’t intended to do this year, is just around the corner.

The first dream story was in the chick lit strain and all a bit predictable, to do with cheating fiances and manipulative best friends. I think there was even a gay friend: how many chick lit tropes can you get in one plot? Easy NaNo fodder, but likely to result in a lot of hard work to make it original.

Last night’s story, possibly as a result of being woken by my pumpkin son every hour, was a spectacular science fiction drama with explosions, space ships and more action than I could understand or describe this morning. I don’t have any intention of writing a science fiction novel – I struggled enough with the fantasy world building for Dragon Wraiths – but at 7am, if I could have done a ‘print screen’ on my mind, it would have been easy. Maybe reading Rinelle Grey’s blog, over on Coffee Time Romance, about writing scifi romance has rubbed off.

So, who is up for some NaNo this year? I have no idea how I will fit it in – I’m barely keeping up with the daily blog as it is. Not to mention how hard it would be to write two stories simultaneously. But I will have an extra few hours’ childcare, as our extra day comes into play at half term (the kids do more childcare in the winter to stop us all getting cabin fever) so it might just vaguely be possible. If only to keep my stalking muse quiet!

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Below is the next installment in my novel Two-Hundred Steps Home: written in daily posts since 1st January as part of my 2013 365 Challenge. Read about the challenge here.You can catch up by downloading the free ebook volumes on the right hand side of the blog:

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“Claire! What are you doing here?”

“Hi, Mum. Lovely to see you, too.” Claire dropped her bag at her feet and ignored the look of barely veiled horror on her mum’s face.

“And who is this?”

Her mother’s tone, a mixture of suspicion and approval, made Claire wince.

“This is Conor, he’s my new boss. He gave me a lift home from the airport.” She didn’t want to explain; to talk about Kim or her own dire finances or anything. She wanted to crawl into her own bed and sleep.

Raising weary eyes to her mother’s face, she released a sigh. “Can I stay? I know I haven’t given you notice. If you’ve got people visiting, I’ll sleep under the stairs. Or in the bath. I don’t really care. I can’t afford a hotel.”

Her mother looked over her head, presumably at Conor, and flushed. “Of course you can stay. You are always welcome. And does your friend want to stay too?”

Claire snorted at the blatant matchmaking, then flushed, worried that Conor would take it seriously.

“It’s grand of you to offer, Mrs Carleton, but I must be getting back. It’s a long journey I’ve got ahead of me.” He seemed to take it as his signal to leave. Walking forward, he turned to face Claire. “I’ll call you tomorrow, to discuss when you’ll be free to start work.”

Holding his hand out towards her mother, he said, “It was nice meeting you, Mrs Carleton. Bye Claire.” Nodding at them both, he turned and walked back down the path towards his car.

Claire felt as if a protective force had been taken away from her. Once he was in his car and driving down the street, her mother’s forced grin dropped from her face.

“What on Earth is going on? I don’t hear from you for weeks. Some men come and take away that rusty heap you left outside and now you’ve turned up out of the blue looking like death.”

“Can I come in, Mum? It’s a long story.”

Her mother stepped back to let Claire into the hallway, before closing the door behind her with a bang. “And why did your boss pick you up from the airport? Are you sleeping with him? What happened to Michael?”

“Enough, already!” Claire’s voice came out louder than she intended and she heard her mother suck air in between her teeth.

“Sorry. I’m tired. I’ve been travelling for weeks, I haven’t slept for two days and I need a shower and some clean clothes. I’m sorry for not calling you first but I had– ” she hesitated, “–other things to deal with. I’ll explain it all tomorrow, okay?”

Without waiting for an answer, Claire picked up her rucksack and forced one foot in front of the other, along the hall and up the stairs. She reached her old room and paused in the doorway as she saw the suitcase by the bed, the perfume and make-up on the dressing table.

Claire walked numbly down the corridor to the spare room. With an in-held breath she pushed the door open, but the tiny room showed no evidence of being in use. Claire dropped her rucksack by the door, kicked off her shoes and crawled under the covers.

***

NaNoWriMo (826writersroom.wordpress.com)
NaNo Prep (cynenway.wordpress.com)
October 1st – NaNoWriMo Buddies (mikecoville.wordpress.com)
NaNo – You Must Be Prepared (shenrydafrankmann.wordpress.com)

Don’t Wait for your Muse: 2013 365 Challenge #274

Waiting for a walk

Is there anything worse than waiting?

We’re waiting to find out if hubbie got a job, waiting to find out if someone wants to buy his car, waiting for the insurance company’s verdict on the car that’s apparently not ours. I’m waiting for books to be premium catalogue approved, waiting for Barnes and Noble to realise I increased the price on Baby Blues two weeks ago, so that Amazon will stop price matching them and losing me a dollar on every sale. I’m waiting for reviews, waiting for sales, waiting for inspiration.

The last one used to be the worst but now it’s the one I can handle best. I read a great post on the Write Practice blog this week, called What do you do when your Muse is on Vacation?. It discusses something called sitzfleisch, a German word which apparently means “to sit still and get through the task at hand.” (Actually I think it translates as “sit on your bottom” but you get the point!) The post explains that this ability to persevere at a task until it’s compete “is often the difference between a wannabe writer and a professional writer.”

The Write Practice post then discusses various ways of getting the writing juices flowing, including this quote from author Peter S. Beagle: “My uncle Raphael was a painter, he used to say, ‘if the muse is late for work, start without her.'”

My daily blog challenge this year has taught me it’s possible to write 1000 average words without one scrap of help from the Muse. They are hard words to squeeze out, harder to read back and feel the flatness and mediocrity of them. But at least they’re words. Unfortunately, the downside to publishing the daily installments in monthly volumes is that people read them without realising it’s an unedited first draft.

Turning up to work what’s important

I had a fabulous critique on volume one from a follower of the blog and it included comments on foreshadowing, character development etc. Much of that has had to be accidental as I’m not a planner. Most days I’m lucky if I know which hostel Claire’s staying in or what activity she’s doing. The conflict, setting, story, character arc, that I’d usually hone (add in!) in a second draft, has to be eeked out, often while the Muse is off on a jolly somewhere without me.

When the critique pointed to installments that were flat or lacked conflict it made me want to go back and read about what else was going on that day. Was I writing five hundred desperate words at 1 am with coffee keeping my eyes open? Were the kids sick or just at home all day with their endless demands? The flat words were probably the ones dredged out one awful adverb at a time, because the Muse was at a spa having her nails done.

But some days, when I’m up against the clock, knowing hubbie is minding the kids or the darlings are trashing the playroom to get my attention, the Muse sneaks in and offers me her best work (the post a few days ago, with Kim’s suicide attempt, is a classic example.)

What’s the message in my ramble? You have to wait for lots of things in life. Don’t wait for your Muse. She might be there already, waiting to see if YOU show up to work.

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The check-in clerk blanched as Claire’s despair swelled into a crescendo. Words piled up behind the sobs, until they spilled out unstoppable. Claire gripped the desk and stared at the woman through her tears.

“Help me, please. I’m out of cash, my best friend just tried to kill herself and I’m meant to start my new job next week. I have to get home. Don’t get me wrong, you have a beautiful country, but it isn’t home.” Her voice trailed off into a wail on the last word.

The clerk silently produced a tissue then picked up the phone on her desk.

“Get me flight number EK419. Now. Yes, I have a late passenger here, can we get her on? … I know the gate it closed. It’s an emergency.”

The clerk looked up at Claire. “Is that your only luggage?”

Claire nodded.

“Any liquids?”

Claire rooted through her rucksack and pulled out her washbag. Looking around for a bin, she dumped the contents in it, before stuffing the washbag in a pocket. After a second’s hesitation, she dropped her water bottle in the bin too.

While she was emptying her bag of liquids the woman was in quick discussion on the phone. She hung up as Claire came back to the desk.

“Come with me.”

Claire grabbed her bag and ran after the retreating form moving surprisingly fast in four inch heels.

She pulled out her passport and tickets as she ran, and had them in her hand in time to show the bewildered security official as the clerk swept her past the queue to the front.

The same happened at the X-ray machine. Watching the force of nature in front of her, Claire suspected she could have been smuggling out a kiwi bird and the guards wouldn’t have challenged her. Claire didn’t know which part of her sorry tale had inspired the woman to fight on her behalf; she just knew she wanted to give the woman a hug. Or a medal.

Within minutes they were at the gate, arriving as the rear stairs were withdrawn from the aircraft. Face burning from exertion and embarrassment, Claire followed her champion to the foot of the remaining ladder.

“Here you are. You’ll have to check your luggage into the hold at Sydney. For now one of the stewards will store it for you.” And, producing her first smile since Claire had arrived at her desk, the woman gestured up towards the plane. “Good luck. I hope your friend is okay.”

As she climbed into the aircraft, Claire wondered if any other nation of people would have stuck their necks out so far for a total stranger.

I hope she doesn’t get into trouble.

A few passengers began a slow handclap as she boarded the plane. Claire ducked her head and tried not to cry. Something in her expression must have told of her grief, as the clapping stopped and a steward ushered her to her seat just as her colleague began the safety briefing.

Claire slumped into the vacant space and fastened her belt. As the reality dawned that she was actually on her flight, Claire felt her limbs begin to shake.

I’m going home.

***

My Muse Takes the Lead (theladykillers.typepad.com)
no muse required (momentsbetweenseconds.wordpress.com)

Sofa Saturday: 2013 365 Challenge #272

Sofa Saturday

We let the kids have a sofa Saturday today.

Weekends haven’t figured much in our lives, certainly not for the last year, with hubbie looking for work and the kids only in childcare a couple of times a week. But now my firstborn is at school, Saturday comes back into its own.

I had to write my post (I’ve been struggling with story line recently, and it’s easier to come up with ideas in the morning), so I filled the lounge with cushions and let the kids watch TV while I searched my brain for inspiration.

I’ve noticed that my daughter is taking more time to be by herself since starting school. Not surprising really, as her joint class has over fifty children. For someone who has spent most of her life with just her brother to play with, the volume of kids is completely overwhelming. She starts full time next week and I’m actually thankful the teachers are on strike on Tuesday, just to let her have a day’s breather in what will be a long and tiring week.

We finally coaxed her out of her pyjamas after lunch, and dragged the family to the farm, dog and all. It was a bit of a waste, as she could barely keep her eyes open and little man – who has marched into the tiresome threes with passion – was in full back-chat, pushing the limits mode. We came home and collapsed exhausted. With all the emotional upheaval and sleepless nights of this week, I think we all need to take it easy.

So, an early night for the little ones, a glass of wine and some homemade lasagne for hubbie and I, a decent dose of Strictly Come Dancing, and it’s about the perfect Saturday. Now to go and make some more misery for Claire. Poor lass.

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Claire stared into the darkness, aware that her alarm would drag her from sleep in only a few hours. The need to rest pulled at her but her eyes wouldn’t close. The phone on the pillow next to her face remained stubbornly still. She willed it to shine with good news. Or any news. The wait stretched her nerves until she felt she might snap.

Around her, gentle breathing indicated the other sleepers in the room. Claire envied them their peace. The last person had stumbled in an hour before, bumping and bashing the bunks before crawling under the covers and starting to snore. For the first time, Claire found the sound soothing. Normal.

Her heart thudded out time in her chest and she tried to imagine what might be happening around the other side of the world, where the sun was probably high in the sky.

Why hasn’t he sent me a message? Surely he knows something by now.

The thought that he’d arrived too late, and was too distraught to contact her, ran over and over like a stuck record. Claire fought the repetition with words of her own.

She’s not dead. She’s not dead.

At last the phone flashed bright light into the darkness. The hammering in Claire’s chest increased in tempo, booming into the silence. Her hands shook as she reached for the phone and it took a while for her eyes to focus.

We’re in the hospital. She’d taken all her meds, but the docs have sorted it. Hoping she’ll be fine. Thank you, you saved her life. Come see her when you land, I think she needs you. J

Claire slumped back against the pillows and let the adrenalin flow from her limbs into the lumpy mattress. Relief, guilt, exhaustion, swirled around like smoke. With shallow breaths, Claire allowed the news to sink in.

She’s going to be okay. She has to be.

The alarm tore through Claire’s troubled dreams. Vivid images of chasing across an endless field after a fleeting shadow danced infront of her eyes, even as she blinked to ground herself in the present. There was no time to think. The coach was leaving early and she had to be on it.

It should have been an amazing day; the perfect finish to her journey around New Zealand. The coach took them through a pass in the mountains and down into Twizel. Around them the alps stretched magnificent to a clear blue sky, the snow-capped peaks dazzling with their brightness.

Claire felt encased in lead. The beauty couldn’t touch her. Her body still trembled with spent emotion and she had to resist the urge to text Jeff every five minutes for an update. It was night time back home: if he was asleep he deserved the rest.

They arrived at Lake Tekapo and Claire looked across at Mt Cook in the distance. The iconic image of New Zealand was as remote as if she were viewing it from home. The tranquility clashed with Claire’s urgency to be moving. The coach was too slow, the passengers too relaxed – spending just another five minutes soaking in the view, just another five minutes finishing their lunch, taking one last photograph.

Come on, come on! I’ve got a plane to catch.

Wishing she’d found the extra money to take an Intercity coach, Claire made sure she was always first on the bus, hoping her punctuality would ensure their timely departure.

They drove into Christchurch after the sun had set. Claire couldn’t bring herself to check the time. She already knew she was cutting it dangerously close, getting to the airport in time for check in.

Staring at Christchurch out the window, part of Claire’s brain regretted not having time to explore the garden city. From what she could see, it was very like Cambridge, with the canals and the punts, all tied up waiting for the morning.

With any luck I’ll be in the real Cambridge the day after tomorrow. That’s what’s important.

Claire wrapped her hand around the strap of her rucksack, already on the seat next to her ready for her to dash from the coach as soon as it stopped. The coach seemed to be barely moving, stuck in the city traffic.

The knots tightened in Claire’s stomach as she tried not to contemplate what horrors awaited her if she missed her flight.

***

Reclusive Paperback Writer: 2013 365 Challenge #271

Up at sunrise to write today

How cool – my husband just bought a paper copy of Baby Blues off Amazon. I only made about 50p but that’s not the point! It’s there; a real book (free delivery, too, which is better than paying for proof copies to be shipped from the US.)

I’m much more nervous than I have been about anything to do with the self publishing journey so far. Not only is a paper book more permanent than an ebook, it’s also a much bigger investment from a reader (though less profit for me – I couldn’t bring myself to charge more. It’s already double what I’d pay for a paperback!)

I’ve been formatting Dragon Wraiths for print today and it was really tough rereading the book. I’d love to rewrite it, armed with 270 days of writing and editing every day. I feel I am a stronger writer now, and I want to bring my first novel up to my current standard. But if an author did that for every book, would they ever get around to writing any more?

As an aside, someone mentioned today that I seem a little like a recluse with my online presence. I was surprised because I feel like I spend half my life trying to increase my online presence. That said, I think it’s in the nature of a writer to hide in a cave. I guess that’s why social media can be a struggle.

Gorgeous Day

I think it’s time I got a copy of one of Kristen Lamb’s books on social media – We are not alone: The writer’s guide to social media or Rise of the Machines (her latest one). I’ve resisted so far only because I already have dozens of books I haven’t read on writing and marketing. Hers are meant to be among the best though, so a good investment of my time. Has anyone read either of them? Which should I get?

(As an aside, I went to Kristen Lamb’s blog to see how much Rise of the Machines is, and it’s not available to buy on her page as far as I can see. Isn’t that a social media fail? 🙂 )

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THIS POST CONTAINS SOME STRONG LANGUAGE

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Claire read the text message again and frowned, the movement exacerbating the headache she’d had all afternoon. Glancing up at the window, she saw only the reflection of the empty dorm room. At 8 o’clock in the evening in Queenstown, it seemed everyone was out partying.

I should be on a bus to Christchurch. My flight leaves in 24 hours.

She’d tried to get a bus to the airport as soon as the tiny plane carrying her from Milford landed, but it turned out all the buses left early in the morning. With no choice but to wait in the hostel, and with no iPad or money, Claire felt like she might burst.

And then the text from Kim had arrived. Claire read it for a third time, but it still made no sense.

Sorry, Claire. I’ve been a bad friend. But it won’t matter anymore. Have a nice life. Kim.

Every time she read the words, Claire felt the knot tighten in her stomach. If it hadn’t been from Kim, she would have worried that it was a goodbye note from someone intending to do something foolish. But Kim was the most resilient person she knew.

The nagging worry continued to worm under her skin. At last Claire had to do something or go mad.

Hi Kim, lovely to hear from you. If anyone’s been a bad friend it’s me. I’ll be home in two days, please say we can catch up and be friends? I’ve missed you so much. Claire.

Claire watched the phone, waiting for a response. As the minutes ticked by, the tightness in her chest became unbearable.

“Damn it!”

Grabbing the phone, Claire strode from the room and down to reception.

“Hi, I need to call the UK, do you sell phone cards?” Claire looked at the girl behind reception sat reading a magazine. She turned her head slowly and gazed at Claire without speaking.

“Do you sell phone cards, please? I need to call England.”

The girl nodded, and reached into a box under the desk.

“Five bucks will give you twenty minutes to the UK, is that enough?”

Claire nodded. It would have to be; she needed to save every last bit of money to get to the airport and buy something to eat on the way home.

Tapping her foot, as the girl wrote something down in a book before handing over the card, Claire snatched it and span round to locate the phone. She spotted it in the corner, but it was in use. Judging by the body language of the girl curled around the handset it was likely to be in use for some time.

Claire froze. She was loathe to ask the girl on reception anything, suspecting any answer would take too long. Her mind felt blank with indecision. Looking left and right, as if a phone might materialise on the blank walls, Claire was about to run out into the street when she heard the phone click.

Hand outstretched, Claire reached the handset just as a teenage boy was about to pick it up.

“Please, this is urgent. I think my friend’s in trouble. I need to make this call?” She turned pleading eyes on the boy and he shrugged and wandered back into the lounge.

The instructions on the back of the phone card seemed impossibly complicated. Claire scratched off the silver paint to reveal the code, then typed in the long string of numbers and waited.

After a long pause, the phone began to ring. Each note of the ringing tone made her heart beat faster. The phone felt slippery in her clammy hand and she twisted the cord round and round.

“Answer, Kim. Come on. You only sent that text half an hour ago. Answer, Goddamnit.”

Ten rings, twenty, then the phone went dead. A metallic voice came on the line.

“You have four dollars twenty cents remaining. Do you wish to make another call?”

Scrolling through her phone book with numb fingers, Claire found Jeff’s number and dialled it in. Again the phone rang, five times, ten. Claire was wondering who she would call next when she heard a click.

“Yes?”

“Jeff? It’s Claire.”

“Claire. Cricky, how are you? I thought you were in New Zealand.”

“I am. Listen, is Kim with you?”

“No. She said she needed a night by herself, so I’m staying with mates. Why?” His voice rose slightly. “Have you guys spoken at last?”

“No. She sent me a text. Look it might be nothing, but it sounded like she was saying goodbye. You don’t think she’d do something stupid, do you? It’s not like her, but I’ve tried ringing and she’s not answering.”

“Fuck.” Jeff’s voice came out like a bullet. Then Claire could hear movement and panting, as if Jeff was running.

“How long ago did you get the text?” His voice sounded distant.

“Half an hour. Jeff, you’re scaring me. Why would Kim kill herself?” Claire fought the wave of nausea threatening to overwhelm her. She leant against the wall and held the phone with both hands.

“She’s had depression, since the miscarriage. Oh Claire, it’s been awful. I wish you guys hadn’t fallen out. She’s on medication but I’m not sure she’s been taking it. Look I have to go. Thanks for calling me.”

“Wait. Jeff. I’m sorry. Tell her I’m sorry.” The phone was silent, and Claire wondered if Jeff had gone, or if he thought she was too much to blame.

“It’s not your fault, Claire. We’ll sort it out when you get home. If I’m not too late.”

The phone went dead.

***

A Need to Read: 2013 365 Challenge #269

$A fraction of the unread books on my Kindle$

A fraction of the unread books on my Kindle

Apologies if this post is a little late today: I finally hit ‘approve proof’ on the print version of Baby Blues & Wedding Shoes this morning, after ploughing through the online proofer (I can’t afford to get another physical proof).

I had a small scare last night, as I downloaded the PDF on my iPad as soon as I got the email from CreateSpace to say it was ready, and half the letters were missing. For example “William Shakespeare, Sonnet 116″ read ” illi Sh ke re, So et 116″. I didn’t have time to fire up the laptop last night, so the first thing I did this morning was check it all on the big PC. It was fine. Phew.

However, all the weeks and months I’ve spent on editing and formatting recently has resulted in my creativity taking a holiday. Oh, not the creativity that formats book covers or designs bookmarks: that’s fine. But the right-brain creativity that lets me think up an ending to Two Hundred Steps Home, both for this month and for the entire year, is missing in action.

Books that gripped me

All the proofreading and editing I’ve done (including a couple of novels for someone else) has also resulted in me being unable to read a book without critiquing it as I read. Even with old beloved books (or maybe especially those, because I know the story), I find myself checking for typos or grammar errors, or rewording sentences that feature the same word twice. It’s no fun.

Reading used to be my downtime, my lifeline, my escapism. It also used to be the source of my creativity – filling the well of ideas that gets exhausted with writing thousands of words every week.

I have probably two dozen books on my iPad that I want to read, or that I’ve started and can’t finish. I don’t want to take books apart. I wouldn’t even mind if I was analysing them as I did as an English Literature graduate: looking for character motivations or themes. At least then I would still be immersed in the story. But questioning the word choice or the grammar and punctuation is just plain anal. And rude.

After all, who am I to judge someone else’s book when I know mine aren’t going to win any literary awards? I don’t know what the answer is. Maybe I need to read a paperback rather than on the kindle. Or maybe I need to read a fast-paced thriller, that won’t give me time to analyse because I’ll be desperate for the story. It needs to grip from beginning to end, but without any blood or dead bodies (I don’t do gore, even in books).

Any ideas? How can I put my left-brain back in its box and get back to enjoying reading once more?

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Claire stared at the underside of the top bunk and searched her brain for ideas. This was harder than the worst pitch Carl had ever thrown her way. Harder than choosing an apartment or selecting which shoes to wear for Kim’s wedding. How to raise several hundred dollars in a few hours, so she could fly to Queenstown and catch the bus to Christchurch to get her flight home?

The list of people who might lend her the money was less than one. Those with the resources – Michael, Josh, her brother, her parents – were not the ones she wanted to approach in an emergency. The people who might take pity on her – her sister Ruth was the only one who came to mind – couldn’t afford it. Even if her best friend Kim was still speaking to her, their financial relationship existed on the fact that Claire was the one with a well-paid job and Kim, as the newbie actress, didn’t have two pennies to rub together.

How ironic that it’s me who is stranded in the back of beyond without the resources to get home, even though – assuming I do get back – I will have a salary coming in soon enough to clear the debt.

A tiny thought that Conor might advance her first month’s salary was quickly quashed. Not only had he already put his neck out for her by making the job a short-term contract, she didn’t want to start out beholden to her boss.

Come on Claire, think. There must be a way of raising some cash. An online loan, a new credit card.

The ideas came only to be dismissed. Even if she could get the internet to work, such things took time. And she wasn’t entirely convinced she’d pass a credit score anyway, with no home address or job and her credit card full to the max.

A dark lassitude crept over her and she had to push away the tears. Escaping to New Zealand had seemed the only option at the time: a chance to flee the mess her life had become and enjoy a fresh start. Instead had never felt so alone.

Through the black, a glimmer of light sparkled. Something someone had said to her in passing, a joke to be laughed off, crept into her mind. Something Bethan had said. What was it? Claire searched through her brain, wishing Bethan were there to come up with an amazing solution or fill the room with her endless optimism. Then it came to her. “Sell your fancy boots if you have to.”

I’m going home, hopefully, so what does it matter if I sell some stuff. I have boxes of clothes back home.

The thought made her uncomfortable, nonetheless. Could she sell of her second hand stuff to the other people in the hostel? Would they buy it? It seemed a bit icky. But what choice did she have?

Running through her possessions in her mind, Claire realised the thing of most value was her tablet. Selling it felt like cutting off her right arm, especially as it was full of data she wouldn’t be able to back up without access to a computer. Was it worth losing all her photos, her memories of the trip across New Zealand, to get home?

With a heavy sigh, Claire rolled off the bed and pulled her rucksack over. Searching through, she found the iPad and charger, some jewellery and her Helly Hansen boots. Ignoring the trembling in her hands, Claire gathered them together and left the room.

***