Laissez Faire (Lazy) Parenting: 2013 365 Challenge #208

Feeding the Goats

Today was a victory for laissez faire (or what in our house is basically lazy) parenting.

I’ve worried for a long time that we don’t take our children to enough (any) classes. Other four-year-old girls and nearly-three-year-old boys go to dance class, swimming, football, yoga bugs, tumble tots (like gymnastics for preschoolers) or any number of other activities. We go to the farm and feed the goats.

I did a few classes – swimming, music, tumble tots – with my daughter, before my son was born (so basically until she was 19 months old!). Once he came along that stopped: he was not a child who liked being in his pram and I couldn’t help a 2-year-old around apparatus with a baby strapped to my chest (some mothers did and I salute them!).

I did (and still do occasionally) take them to a drop-in session at the local gymnastics club and teach my daughter to walk along the beam and hang from the bars – all those years of gymnastics as a child should count for something – although I can’t actually do more than fall off any more.

But, Mummy, I don’t like peas!

And, for a while, we paid £20 every Sunday for each child to have a half-hour swim class in a gorgeous 35C pool at an amazing place called Calm-a-Baby. We loved going, the staff felt like family, and our kids loved it. Well, to begin with anyway. Certainly they loved the idea of it.

But, by the time we’d added coffee and a bacon sarnie (because the classes were at 9am and 11am on a Sunday and the pool had an amazing coffee shop with leather sofas, the Sunday papers and a soft play area) we were spending £150 a month for them to cry for thirty minutes because they didn’t want to put their heads under the water.

So we stopped swimming and didn’t bother with anything else. In the winter we take the kids to the local swimming pool (£8 plus the cost of a Costa afterwards when it’s warm enough to walk the short distance between the two). In the summer we use my mum’s 7m pool in her back garden. No expensive lessons, no rushing to get to classes or dealing with unhappy kids because they hate going under water.

Still, I did despair. Looking at my daughter’s baby group (thankfully, as a premature baby, my son never met his baby group and so I have no basis for comparison), we are way behind. My daughter can’t ride a bike without stabilisers, she can’t count to 100 or write every letter in the alphabet, or read. She still doesn’t eat vegetables and her idea of ballet is to pirouette in her spiderman outfit.

Whereas my son won’t eat anything but peas and carrots!

But this week, this week it’s all been vindicated. Because this week my daughter taught herself to swim.

From not wanting to get her face wet only a few weeks ago, she now can swim a width (only about 3m, but still a width!) unaided – no float jacket, arm bands or rubber ring. Nothing. Just sheer determination and a love of praise.

And all because splashing around in a pool with Mummy, Daddy, Grandma and Grandpa twice or three times a week (particularly through the heatwave) is fun. We clap and cheer, and the more we clap and cheer the harder she tries and the better she gets.

Not wanting to be left out, my son swam for the first time today. Being not-quite-three, he swam with his head bobbing beneath the surface (apparently they haven’t got big enough lungs to be buoyant at his age) but still, he was swimming.

Underwater photoshoot at Calm-a-Baby

Much of the groundwork was done way-back-when at Calm-a-baby – as much for our confidence in the water as theirs – and for that I am grateful. But just as much came from lazy parenting. Sitting back and letting them learn at their own pace.

My sister moved to America a few years ago, partly to put her children in a school called Sudbury Valley which is all about letting children teach themselves. I don’t know enough about it to write here (though I should, as my sister has explained it often enough!) and I admit, pre-kids, I thought the whole idea was hokum.

But now? Now I get it. Now I see why it was worth a move state-side. With the right resources and the right space, with room to grow and some adult guidance, kids can do amazing things. I must get my sister to write a guest post. After the discussion on education, that’s bound to throw one in the mix!

For now, I will trust that my children will learn to read, write, ride a bike, play the piano, do a cartwheel, all in their own time and at their own pace. We just need to be there, cheering them on.

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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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Cold sand pushed through Claire’s toes, waking her senses in a way Starbucks never had. Cool morning air played with her hair and brushed her skin, and the scent of the sea fizzed in her brain. Shoulders slumped with the weight of carrying her heavy head, Claire placed one foot in front of the other and tried not to think. It was impossible. Like the proverbial pink elephant, the more she attempted to still the crashing waves of thought in her mind, the higher they rose.

To her left the bay lay flat as a mill pond, as if trying to show by example what still waters might look like. The surface reflected the translucent blue of the sky and all was calm.

Turning away from the mockery, Claire made her way to the steps by the public slip, and paused to pull her shoes back on. It’s no good, it has to be coffee.

She wondered if anywhere would be open this early in the morning on a weekday in May. Walking through the silent streets, Claire’s head pushed heavier against her shoulders, until she felt she might have to prop it up with her hands. It reminded her of a tiny baby, whose giant head – too large for the scrawny body – bobbed and swayed like a ball on a piece of elastic.

The thought led her by increments to an image of Kim telling her about her baby and on, by more awful pictures, to the moment when Michael opened his stupid mouth and broke apart a twenty-year friendship.

Claire’s feet led her onwards, following an unheard call. A faint scent of bacon wafted on the sea breeze and she realised her feet were more reliable than her brain. They led her to a small café, barely a room with three tables and a breakfast bar at the window. Every table was full of men, elbows out, tucking into a steaming plate of pork and grease. The smell twisted Claire’s stomach and reminded her of the lack of dinner.

Conscious of eyes watching, Claire walked head high to the counter and stopped.

“What’ll it be, love?”

A man in a blue and white striped apron met her gaze. His face seemed friendly although he didn’t smile. She hesitated, then blurted out, “Full English, all the trimmings, and the strongest coffee you have.”

Her words raised the corners of his mouth, and he nodded. “Heavy night?” There was understanding in his voice.

“Something like that,” Claire mumbled, reaching into her bag for her purse. It wasn’t there. Her heart thudded and she searched again, then remembered that she had tucked it into her rucksack for safe-keeping before wandering along the beach. Being mugged had left her cautious.

“Crap. Sorry, scrap that, I’ve left my purse at the hostel.”

“You’re staying at the YHA?”

Claire nodded.

“No worries, you can pay me later. The manager’s a friend of mine. Besides, you look like you’ll be more trouble if I don’t feed you. You’re greener than seaweed.”

The man’s words made Claire realise how wobbly she felt. A combination of insomnia and lack of food had left as weak as a tangle of bladderwrack. If she was the same colour, that was no surprise.

“Thank you.” Claire tried to smile but the nerves in her face wouldn’t obey. Settling for a nod, she made her way back to the window and climbed onto a stool.

Staring out the window, it felt like looking through a tunnel. Her eyes were open but her vision felt reduced to a tiny point surrounded by sleep. Fog descended in her skull.

I wonder if this is what it feels like to die? This diminishing of senses; this muffling of sight and sound and thought? For a brief moment Claire thought it might be quite nice to die. No more decisions, no more wrong choices, no more guilt.

“Here you go, love, get your chops round that. You’ll feel right as rain in no time.”

The man in the stripy apron plonked a plate and a thick white mug of steaming coffee in front of her. Her stomach heaved at the smell, and she thought she might be sick.

Taking a piece of white toast, dripping with butter, Claire nibbled on the edges and waited to see what happened.

Like a tiny crack breaking open the dam, Claire realised she was starving. Grasping knife and fork, she attacked the breakfast with gusto and didn’t stop until the plate was clean, even eating the fried bread and black pudding, items that would normally be pushed carefully to one side. Washing it down with coffee, Claire wrapped both hands around the warm mug and sighed.

A cloud covered the sun and, in the sudden darkness, Claire saw her reflection in the shop window. A jolt of shock ran through her chest and into her over-full tummy.

When did I get so thin? With exploring fingers, she traced the lines of her cheekbones, jutting out beneath deep-set eyes. She hadn’t looked in a mirror for days, not properly. Only the tiny mirror in her make-up case, on the morning of the interview, to apply mascara.

All those years of stupid diets to keep up with the waifs at work, and all I needed to do was lose my best friend, quit my job and forget how to sleep. Simple, really.

Sipping at the coffee, she realised the breakfast was the first proper meal she’d had since Kim’s wedding. Even at Ruth’s she’d been more concerned with ensuring that Ruth and Sky ate than worrying about her own consumption.

What am I going to do?

Conor’s words the night before slipped through the fog. They rattled her. His passion left her with an urge to run. His comment, that he would counter offer rather than let her leave, sounded slightly psychotic.

He doesn’t even know me. She couldn’t imagine Carl thinking that way. He had counter-offered, but only because he didn’t want to lose clients, not because he didn’t want to lose her. It felt like it had when she realised Michael was keeping tabs on her though her Tweets and blog posts.

Mind you, that paid off. Goodness only knows how long I would have been stuck in that lane if he hadn’t called the police.

Michael. Kim. Conor. Carl. Their faces, their voices, their demands and concerns, crowded round Claire like circus clowns, freaky and frightening. She felt like she might burst. She wanted to tell them all to get lost; to run and keep running.

Scribbling her name and number on a napkin, Claire left it with the man behind the counter, with assurances that she would pay later in the day. Then she hurried from the café, her need for space and silence overwhelming.

***

Baby’s are Never too Young to Learn to Swim (roomtogrow.co.uk)
Educationally, All That Children Need (lewrockwell.com)
Teaching Themselves to Read (winging-it.me)
No More Teachers (pidzpida.wordpress.com)
Down at the swimming pool… (greatloveexpattations.wordpress.com)

The World of Blogging: 2013 365 Challenge #207

The world of blogs

Today has been a day for giving back to blogging. I’ve written before about how hard it is to have a daily blog and still give to the blogging community. Much of my spare time is spent writing and formatting blog posts and photographs and coming up with new dilemmas for Claire. It’s hard to get a balance.

I should read blogs when I’m staring blankly at Facebook in the evening, but that doesn’t seem the right time. I want to do more than visit and like just to be liked in return. I want to give time and thought to the great blogs I see, and take the effort to discover new ones.

So today I gave my whole day to doing that (as well as a pleasant hour reading and reviewing a lovely collection of short stories). In some ways it reminds me of something I read once about children getting upset when they have chosen a sweetie, as it immediately rules out all the other sweeties.

I reached 200 followers

I feel a bit like that with time spent reading posts. There are so many, about parenting and writing, about life, with amazing photographs and poems, flash fiction and craft ideas. I want to read, understand, comment, share, embrace them all, but I can’t. Tempus fugit.

These are my favourites from today.

Some great ideas about how to keep children entertained during the school holidays (sarcastic/ironic – hopefully!)
Mary Beth Lee explains how she doesn’t mind a weepie book or film, as long as she knows in advance: no surprise deaths here please
Chuck Wendig asks, So you just had your book published, now what? A tongue-in-cheek exploration of what happens next. (contains strong language)
Tracey Lynn Tobin asks if you are concerned with gender stereotypes, in her post Gender Insignificant. I explained in the comments that my son wears pink and nail varnish!

I might have to emulate (steal from) Annie Cardi, who has a weekly post just listing great links, called Links Galore. Hers are at least all (or mostly all) about YA fiction though. Mine would be a bit more varied. Amanda’s random links. A winner yes? No?

My Blog Map since launch

I also took a sneaky peak at my blogging world map today (inspired by a post I read by Mary Beth Lee) and was amazed to see how many countries were included (95 different countries since I started the blog last year).

I used to aspire to be a traditionally published author and see my book in the local Waterstones. I still have that dream. But I’m so thankful to my amazing sister, and others who pushed me to self-publish in the meantime. I have learned so much, gained so much, and – best of all – met so many amazing people.

Thank you to everyone who visits and follows the blog. You’re all making one crazy stay-at-home mum with crazy dreams very happy!

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“What do you think then?”

Claire looked up with narrowed eyes. “What about?”

“All of it. The town, the job, hell the band even. You’re a gal who keeps her cards close.”

Claire looked up in surprise at Conor’s words. Sitting in a bar with him, she felt exposed, as if her every thought was pasted on her face. Maybe it was the lack of make-up, or the jeans, but she felt more visible outside of the office. Conor kept his gaze on her, waiting for an answer. His features were indistinct in the dim bar, but Claire could still visualise the piercing green eyes, pinning her down.

“What do you love about it?”

Conor laughed. “Oh, slippery lady. I’ll have the truth from you, you see if I don’t.”

She raised an eyebrow and he held his hands up in mock surrender.

“Ah, go on then. What do I love about it? It reminds me of home. The friendliness, the sea, the hills. It has a warmth that closes round you and keep you safe.”

“Where is home?”

Conor twisted his lips as if to say, isn’t it obvious.

She grinned, a déjà vu popping up of her tormenting Mitch. “I mean what part of Ireland. I can just about tell you’re from the South but that’s the end of my linguistic skills.”

“Cork, I’m from Cork. Left when I was young, parents sent me to school over here. Thought I’d have a better chance in life without the accent and the parochial tarnish.”

“Really? You kept the accent, though?” Now she thought about it, the Irish lilt hadn’t been as strong during the interview. Gosh was that only this morning?

“I can produce a school boy accent, should the need arise.” He spoke in clipped tones. “But I find my own fair brogue is best for charming the ladies.” He grinned.

“Is that what this is? A charm offensive? Is that appropriate?”

“I’m not your boss yet.” He winked, then his face became more serious. “If I am attempting to charm you, it’s purely in a work capacity. I could tell you weren’t overly taken with your time with us today.”

“If you mean did I dislike being grilled like a piece of tuna, you’re right. Besides…” She stopped. Conor’s manner was too friendly; it had nearly lulled her into another indiscretion.

“Besides what, Fair Maid?” Leaning forwards, he clasped his hands and turned to face Claire full on.

She squirmed under his scrutiny, well aware she had a bad habit of admitting the wrong things to the worst people.

Thinking furiously, her brain threw up a card. “Besides, I’m not sure I’m ready to bury myself in this backwater, charming as it might be.”

Connor frowned. He looked much older without the grin. “From the sounds of it, you’ve stayed in more remote places than this and found peace.”

It was Claire’s turn to furrow her brow. They hadn’t discussed her travels much during the interview, so he must have read her blog. Funny how you could pour your heart out to invisible strangers but find it so much harder to talk to a flesh and blood person who you’d only just met.

“Who could climb a hill, stand in silence on the summit. and not find peace?” She spoke softly, half hoping he wouldn’t hear.

“Me,” he said with a laugh, making her jump. “Can’t bear to be by myself.” He shrugged. “Don’t get me wrong, I’ll happily sit in a bar on me own, but there’s still the steaming heap of humanity all around. Silence makes my teeth ache.”

He turned to face the band still playing in the corner and Claire breathed in relief. She needed to know her own mind before she divulged anymore of it to anyone, least of all a potential boss. When the song finished she drained her glass and stood to leave.

Conor reached out a hand to lightly grasp her wrist. “Claire?” Frissons ran up her arm from his touch. “Don’t sell out. If they counter-offer – and I’m sure they will; I would if you tried to leave me – don’t be swayed. We can’t compete on salary but you’ll be making a difference here. Not to some faceless corporation, but to real people. Think about it.”

Claire looked down at his hand on her wrist and he dropped the grasp as if her skin burned him. His eyes looked puzzled and Claire wondered how often he met with a rebuff.

Not often enough. With a nod to acknowledge his words she turned and made her way through the punters to the door.

Outside, the cool night air prickled her skin. Josh would be awake, if she wanted to call him. She felt drained and hollow, fit only for sleep. Loading up the map on her phone she traced her way back to the hostel and fell into troubled dreams.

***

365 days ~This is my Thank you… (seasonsinherlife.wordpress.com)
Tuesday Meme – why I blog (jackieofnotrade.wordpress.com)
205//365: Wish You Were Here (step999.wordpress.com)
Page 166 of 365 Happy Anniversary (thisdayin.wordpress.com)

Enlightenment: 2013 365 Challenge #206

A lightbulb moment

I had a great discussion with a fellow author recently. We discussed, among other things, my inability to be mean to my characters. In response to my saying, “I actually have a huge capacity to imagine the worst that can happen, especially since having children, I just don’t like to write about it.”

Vozey said,

“Then, look at yourself. Sometimes it isn’t that we are being mean to our characters, than that we are reliving and remember things that are important and painful to us.”

This was a lightbulb moment for me. This was my (slightly edited) response – Most of my Chick Lit protagonists are a version of me, in one form or another. My YA novel, on the other hand, has a lead protagonist that is nothing like me (not intentionally, anyway!) and it was easier to have bad things happen, particularly the kind of things that a 16 year old might think bad (boyfriends, parents and stuff). I really want to try my hand at Middle Grade Fantasy fiction – I love reading it precisely because the bad things that happen are more external than internal.

He also gave me a great pep talk: “Doubt. I’m sure at several points you’ve thought you wouldn’t finish a novel. You did didn’t you? I know I think that sometimes, but I know that I will.”

I’m back where I was five years ago when I thought I’d never write a novel, and yet now I’ve completed two. I can learn to plot, and structure, and be mean. I maybe need to stop using me, and people from my own life, as base templates. Or maybe I do need to stick to YA and MG. I’ve just had to leave the lounge because the programme hubbie is watching got too violent, and still the images linger in my brain. Since having children my (already minimal) stomach for anything violent, mean or nasty is non-existent. Becoming a writer has in some ways made it worse: I can write different endings, people in the real world can’t.

I think, the more fertile the imagination – the more acute the empathy – the harder it is to live in reality! The world can be a tough place to live, I want to make it better, not worse! Perhaps I should learn how to write endearing children’s picture books instead…

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Claire stared at the email until the words blurred. Blinking fast, she checked it again. If this number isn’t set in stone, it means there could be even more on offer. The figure in Carl’s email was twice her current salary, with a bonus to make her eyes water, as and when she completed her tour of all the YHA hostels.

Speculation sprinted through Claire’s mind. This can’t be just because of writing a few blog posts. There must be something else going on.

With a few taps of the screen, Claire loaded up her blog stats. She hadn’t looked in a while, because the paltry figures were demoralising. The graph bore no resemblance to the one she had last viewed. The little bars built exponentially. The viewing figures for that day alone were in the thousands.

What the…?

Scrolling back, Claire tried to see which post had sparked the increase. It was impossible to make sense of the numbers on her tiny phone screen. Her heart fluttered like a new-born child, fast and shallow. Trying to jump down from the wall, the trembling in her legs gave a pre-warning before she collapsed into the sand. Sitting in a tangle of legs, Claire laughed until the tears ran down her cheeks.

What a mess. Why didn’t I check my stats before I resigned? She thought about it, as the chill of the sand seeped through her jeans. Would l have done it? Her eyes widened in horror. Does Carl think I only resigned to force his hand; to get more money?

She thought back to their conversation, when he had asked her why she was leaving, intimating that the lure of a fancy car had precipitated her resignation. All the mirth drained away, and she shuffled across the sand to lean her shoulders against the wall.

Her words came back to her, barely audible through the tinny sound of the amusement arcade music still playing behind her, only partially muffled by the wall. No man, no money, no shiny car or bigger office. Just an opportunity to make a difference; to be me. To live a little in the real world.

Claire shivered and pulled herself up, walking along the beach to the steps. This isn’t just a bigger car. This is a chance to save a significant amount of money, to fund my future. That amount of cash going into my account, while I live in hostels on expenses; that’s life changing. I could help Ruth, I could fulfil any dream, if I only stick it out for a year.

With a jolt Claire realised she didn’t have a dream. Aside from a vague interest in travel writing and an impulsive urge to visit the other side of the world, there was nothing in her future to pull her forward.

Walking blindly, Claire didn’t realise she was lost until the change in sound alerted her. The noise filling her ears was no longer the grating tone of the amusement arcade, but the mellow tones of a man singing, with the twang of an electric guitar.

Dragged from her reverie, Claire looked up and saw she was outside a pub. The sight reminded her of her intention to call Josh; that she’d only gone for a walk to kill time and to get something to eat. Carl’s phone call had driven the thought from her mind, and her gurgling tummy reminded her that she still hadn’t eaten.

Without hesitating to wonder whether going into a local pub alone was a good idea, Claire pushed through the door and found herself in a dim, cosy interior that smelt of sweat and beer. The low-ceilinged room felt crowded, but she was able to get to the bar without making eye contact with any of the punters. The entertainment was set up in a corner, and most eyes were focussed on the singer.

Shouting over the music, Claire asked if the pub served food. With a shake of his head, the barman indicated that crisps and pork scratchings were all he could offer. Cursing her stupidity, Claire ordered a gin & tonic and two bags of crisps. While the barman prepared her drink, she looked around to find an empty table. Her heart rose when she spied one in the corner, shielded from the live music.

Claire wove her way to the secluded corner, praying no one accosted her. When she reached her destination unmolested, her overwhelming sensation was surprise. Are people really polite in Swanage, or are they ignoring me because I’m not a local?

Glad of the anonymity and the loud music drowning out her troubled thoughts, Claire ate her meagre dinner and tried to formulate a plan. Was a dream essential, to enjoy life? She was pretty certain no-one she knew had a burning ambition to do anything more than pay the bills and buy the things that made working bearable. Now she thought about it, the fact struck her as sad. Aside from Ruth, who at least had Sky to focus on, the only person she knew with a dream was Kim, with her ambition to become a famous actress. As unlikely as it was, at least it was a tangible goal.

Thinking about Kim increased Claire’s sadness. She would see her friend in two days, but what kind of greeting would she get? Kim hadn’t answered any of her calls or messages since the wedding. She couldn’t believe their friendship was irrevocably broken, but it was starting to look that way.

If Josh’s wife forgave him for running away to the other side of the world, surely Kim can forgive me for revealing her secret to Michael? It wasn’t my fault he blurted it out to everyone.

All the elation from earlier seeped away, as Claire drained the last of her gin. She was still contemplating whether to drink another and drown her sorrows completely, when a familiar voice hailed her from near the door. With a start she looked up, unable at first to see who had recognised her in this backwater place.

Her searching gaze met a smiling pair of glass-green eyes, and her heart gave a lurch. Conor, that’s all I need. As if I haven’t got enough to think about. She was tempted to drop her head and ignore his hail, but knew it was too soon to burn any bridges. Tempting as Carl’s offer was, it wouldn’t hurt to keep the options open.

She raised her hand in greeting, and Conor threaded his way through the crowd to her table.

“Enjoying yourself? I told you Swanage was a great place.” He leant close, to allow his words to be heard over the music.

Claire inhaled the overpowering scent of his aftershave and leaned back slightly as the man filled her personal space.

“Can I get you another drink?” Conor nodded at her empty glass.

Claire didn’t want to stay; her mind was jumbled enough without being on friendly terms with the man who wanted to be her boss. Unable to think of an excuse without appearing rude, Claire nodded her head.

“Yes, please.”

As she watched him take her glass back to the bar, Claire fought an overwhelming urge to cry.

***

206/365: Smell the books (torc365.wordpress.com)
206/365 Flower (torc365.wordpress.com)

But, Therefore: 2013 365 Challenge #205

My Mammoth Research Session

In my mammoth research session yesterday into plotting and planning, I came across this great article on Janice Hardy’s blog, The Other Side of the Story.

Janice shares the two tips on plotting that she wishes she had written, both to do with cause and effect. The first one particularly made an impact on me because it helped me identify what I know to be a weakness in my writing.

I don’t want to rewrite Janice’s whole article – she has written it far better than I ever could – but the essence is about how to know you are moving your story forward with every scene.

Summarising advice from South Park creators Trey Parker and Matt Stone, she writes:

Every scene in your story is connected, and how you connect them will determine whether or not they’re moving the story or just showing stuff happening. If you can say “and then” between them, they’re not advancing the story. If you can say “but” or “therefore” then something happens that forces a conflict or a decision and the story advances.

This really brought home to me why Baby Blues lacks punch, particularly when compared to Dragon Wraiths. Because Dragon Wraiths is written in the first person, and starts In Media Res (albeit it with back-story in the form of diary entries), the scenes are linked far more with But and Therefore, rather than And Then.

12-year-old Leah does a lot of running away

For example, in the diary segments (where most of the action sits at the beginning), it is Leah’s 12th birthday. She wants art supplies, therefore her family take the car rather than the train to town, therefore their enemies are able to attack them on the way home. Her mother tells her to run and keep running, therefore Leah leaves her behind and runs, but she collapses from exhaustion. Her goal is thwarted by her weakness. Therefore she ends up in hospital, but she doesn’t tell anyone who she is, therefore she ends up in care, but her mother told her to keep running. The story progresses because of Leah’s decisions, or the machinations of her unseen enemies.

In Baby Blues, on the other hand, the scenes are much more ‘and then’. Helen hosts a dinner party, and then sleeps with her boyfriend, and then realises she’s late for a photography shoot. Or maybe that’s a ‘therefore’? She stays up late because of her duty to Daniel, therefore she is nearly late for a photography shoot. However she isn’t late, so there is no cause and effect. No conflict. If she had missed her photography shoot and her career had been blighted by it, her resentment of Daniel might have been greater and the first third of the novel have more punch and pace.

As you can see, it can be tricky to identify the ‘but’ and ‘therefore’ points. Janice offers some key things to remember with this technique:

When you’re identifying your but, make sure what happens is in conflict with the character’s goal or action.
When you’re identifying your therefore, make sure it’s a choice made in response to what has just happened

I want happy smiley protagonists, not conflict

It all comes down to conflict. I hate inflicting conflict and pain. I actually find it painful to watch a TV show where a bad decision leads to people dying. I don’t sit on the edge of my seat, I rue the What If and wonder how the character (albeit a fictional one) lives with the guilt.

As a result my writing is pretty and descriptive and explores the inner character of protagonists, but it doesn’t speed along. Janice Hardy even has a post about it: Do you Suffer from NWS? Living with Nice Writer Syndrome. Er, yes, that would be me!

I’ve accepted that it is too tricky to change the way I’m writing Two Hundred Steps Home, as building in cause and effect every single day would probably stretch my ability to keep up with the story (unless I have England attacked by blood-sucking aliens. Now there’s an idea!).

But as I tackle Class Act, I will have this advice in mind. Time to get tough.

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“Claire? It’s Carl.”

Claire paused in her walk along the bay and perched on the stone wall, gazing out to sea. I knew I shouldn’t have answered the phone. After believing her boss was trying to force her out for months, it was hard not to be confused by his sudden terrier-like behaviour, now she had finally resigned.

“Have you had a chance to consider my offer?” Carl spoke into the silence.

“What offer?” Claire watched as a couple wandered along the sand, fingers entwined. Behind her the amusement arcades advertised their wares with raucous music and flashing lights. The air smelled of salt and candyfloss.

“I sent you an email.” Carl’s voice sliced through her reverie.

“I’ve been busy. Catching up on the blog and collating my notes together to pass to my replacement.”

Carl didn’t respond immediately, and the scream of hungry seagulls rent the still evening air. Claire envied them their freedom of expression.

When Carl spoke again, his tone was nonchalant. “I merely emailed you with a counter-offer, as is standard procedure when someone resigns in the middle of a critical project or contract negotiation.”

Claire wasn’t fooled by Carl’s insouciance. Sitting up straight, she narrowed her eyes and glared at the arm of fields stretching into the sea, as if embracing the bay.

“And are we? In the middle of contract negotiations? With whom? Happy Cola? The YHA? Both? That would have been rather pertinent to our conversation earlier this week, don’t you think?”

“So, you’ll reconsider?” Claire imagined his tail wagging furiously. “Both accounts are more than pleased with the early results of your social media activity. The YHA have seen a marked increase in bookings at the hostels you’ve written about and Happy Cola have cited a significant increase in the healthy associations of their brand in recent regional market research.”

He sounded like Sky explaining why she should be allowed ten minutes more on the iPad, or a second chocolate bar. Claire felt her cheeks twitching in a smile, while her head reeled with possibilities. Her fingers itched to load her email and discover exactly how big Carl’s counter-offer was. Not that it’s actually a counter-offer, unless I am offered the Purbeck role, but he doesn’t need to know that.

Claire was swept up in a tide of emotion. From being the outcast black sheep of the organisation, she belonged again. No more nasty challenges from Julia, or scrawled queries on her expenses forms. If she was the king pin securing two important deals, the world was her oyster.

Although a grin stretched her cheeks, Claire forced her voice low and doubtful. “I don’t know, I’ll have to think about it. The job here is a fantastic opportunity for me to make a difference.”

“Promise you’ll think it over? Look at the counter-offer. It’s not set in stone.”

Glee surged through Claire as she heard the panic in her boss’s voice. She could imagine the strain on his face as he rehearsed the conversation with the Board that centred on granting her a significant pay increase.

Blind to the beauty of the orange sun sliding across the sky, staining the sea blood-red, Claire said farewell to Carl and loaded up her emails.

***

Beat Sheets: 2013 365 Challenge #204

Coffee Shop Catastrophe

Apologies to anyone who received yesterday’s post without the Claire installment attached. Technical issues were to blame (combined with crawling to bed last night without finishing my Claire Installment).

On a Monday I often write the remaining part of my post in the coffee shop (because Sunday night is the hardest time to write). I have some of the post scheduled to go live if all else fails. This morning was the first time (I think) that it happened, only because the internet was down in coffee shop I chose to visit. I’ve learned my lesson! (I spent the morning wandering round town discovering which businesses have free WiFi!)

Today I have been looking at Beat Sheets and other planning tools. Following on from recent discussions about how hard it is to plan a novel if you’re a Pantser, I’ve been doing more internet research, specifically around planning romance novels (although most things seem to be quite generic). I came across the most amazing collection of resources on the website of an author of Paranormal fiction: Jami Gold. Jami has even written a post called A Pantser’s Guide to Beat Sheets. Perfect.

Even Pantsers can have structure!

The thing I love about the post, and beat sheets, is that they can be used against a first draft, rather than (or as well as) for pre-planning, as a way to see how well the draft is structured. I spent this afternoon trying to map Baby Blues against Jami’s Romance Beat Sheet, with mixed results.

It would seem that (as suspected) my climax and ending fit the right pattern, but my opening third is way off beat. I also am not entirely sure what my inciting incident or first plot point is. I searched around some more to get a real definition of these, but haven’t reached a consensus of exactly what they are or where they should come in the novel.

I see my inciting incident as Helen finding out she’s pregnant and then leaving Daniel (apologies about spoilers!). In the Romance Beat Sheet, it suggests the inciting incident should involve both protagonists. Except Helen doesn’t even meet Marcio until a third of the way through the novel. One of my Beta readers did comment on this fact, but I admit I like the first third for setting Helen on her journey without it being about Marcio. Maybe it makes the book more Chick Lit than Romance (which is how I have categorised it anyway) or maybe it’s just plain wrong. Interestingly, both Baby Blues and Class Act originally started with the meeting between lead girl and lead boy, but I pulled the action back so that the backstory didn’t become overwhelming.

Pillow Talk by Freya North

I am looking forward to using beat sheets to rebuild Class Act and, had I had something similar before I rebuilt Baby Blues, I suspect it would be tighter. These things are all about learning. If I had used the sheets, though, would I have invented Sharni and given her so much air-time? She’s one of my favourite characters and I would hate to lose her.

I seem to recall that I was reading Pillow Talk, by Freya North, at the time of redrafting Baby Blues, and the structure of that novel may well have had an impact on me (as there are super-strong secondary characters and the love interest comes later). If it’s good enough for Freya North, then maybe it isn’t so bad!

What’s your view? Can you have a Romance/Chick Lit novel where the lovers don’t meet until a third of the novel has passed? Does it give you a chance to understand why they’re made for each other or would you have given up on the novel before that point? They say to write the novel you want to read, but that’s only going to work if others want to read it too!

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Claire closed her iPad and looked out the hostel window. In contrast to the dark wood furniture in the dim room, the view that beckoned sparkled in the late evening sunlight. In the distance the sea reflected the blue of the sky, in a deeper hue. Behind the strip of water, a long barrow of land jutted out into the ocean. Claire could just make out fields falling into the limestone cliffs of the Jurassic Coast. Her research informed her there were several pleasant walks up from the National Trust car park near the Bankes Arms pub in Studland. If the sun continued to shine in the morning, she knew where she would be.

So far, her impression of Swanage matched Conor’s description. The faded seaside town showed glimpses of its former glory, in the amusement arcades and the long wooden pier. Rather than Victorian ladies promenading along its length, Claire met only blue-rinse grannies out for their afternoon constitutional. As she had driven around looking for the youth hostel, she had seen more signs for retirement complexes than B&Bs.

It would be a tough ask to increase tourism here. She knew that Purbeck included other towns, but Swanage was the main seaside resort.

There’s also a nudist beach, but I can’t see Jason signing off tourism promoting that particular asset.

She tried to imagine living in the town for any length of time. If she had envisioned an end to her wanderings, this didn’t seem the natural place. No Waitrose, no Starbucks, so mainline train, nobody under fifty. It’s not really selling itself to me. Poole or Bournemouth were marginally better, as far as she could tell as she came through. At least Poole had Waitrose and a Starbucks, as well as being the home of the Sunseeker luxury yacht factory.

Not that I could afford one, even if I saved every penny they’d be paying me for a dozen years. Still, maybe I could hang out with the rich and famous at Sandbanks and hitch a lift.

Claire sighed and reached for her tea. One sip told her it was stone cold, and she replaced the mug with a bang on the dark wood table. Assuming Conor wasn’t exaggerating his ability to influence Jason, and I wouldn’t put it past him to do so, I will have a job offer to consider by the weekend. Two, if you include New Zealand. So why don’t I feel better?

She thought about the imminent trip back north to see Kim’s opening night. Butterflies reared in her stomach and she discovered at least one cause for her unease. It was more than fear of facing her erstwhile best friend, though. Normally she would have a gut feel for whether a job offer was the right one. Now, there was nothing. Only confusion

If only Josh were here, he would advise me what to do.

The thought took hold in her mind and grew. With a quick mental calculation, she worked out how many hours before she could call him. Without pausing to consider the wisdom of her decision, Claire gathered up her things and headed to her room to wait.

***

Fewer Beans: 2013 365 Challenge #203

The Time You Have (In JellyBeans)

A while ago someone posted a great video on Facebook to do with how we spend our lives. They took 28,835 jelly beans and showed how many of them we spend on sleeping, eating, watching TV.

The message is that there aren’t many beans left for the important things, and to use your beans wisely. It’s a vivid message and I’m glad I watched it (I rarely watch videos on facebook or blogs because I get too much screen time and prefer the written word for my downtime).

What made the beans message stick, however, was a comment hubbie’s Aunt left on the post, when I shared it. She said that’s why she feels guilty when she doesn’t walk the dog, because dogs have fewer beans. That phrase has wedged firmly in my mind.

Our little Kara as a puppy

Our poor dog spends much of her life trying to figure out what she’s done wrong. Mostly it’s me telling her to lie down and relax even though I’m rushing round the house and she thinks she needs to keep me company (we got her as a puppy when I was heavily pregnant and I called her to me a lot, to make sure she wasn’t chewing anything, so she thinks her job is to follow me round like a ghost.)

Or the kids will send her away before calling her back a dozen times and then complain when she accidentally whacks them with her tail.

Labradoodles are smart dogs (and get easily bored, unfortunately). Ours can count: when there are two adults minding the children she immediately asks for a walk because she knows that’s when it can happen. So then she gets told off for being clever, and for (rightly) reminding us she hasn’t been out. When I’m working at home I have to close my laptop quietly if I get up to make tea because, if I shut it with a snap, she jumps up thinking it is time for her walk. The same goes for coming downstairs in a jumper, or saying “Right!” (all cues she recognises. And for goodness sake never say “Daddy’s home!” unless you want to unleash chaos.)

Lady of the manor!

She gets told off for begging while the kids have their tea, then is fed scraps from the table. She’s allowed to chase rabbits in the fields but not the bunnies at the farm. She’s allowed to dance with Mummy but not to jump up at strangers. And often, when the kids are finally in bed, and she gets her fifteen minutes of quality bean time, the last thing I feel like doing is taking her for a walk.

But, even before my Aunt-in-law’s comment, I made a commitment to walk her every day. I don’t always manage it, and it’s usually the same boring walk (she hates the car). But now I do it willingly. Partly because it means I can tap out my daily blog in my phone, as I’m doing now. And partly because I hear in my head all the time, “She has fewer beans”.

________________________________________________________________________________

Claire scrawled her name in the ‘out’ section of the visitor book and turned to face the man who had come to escort her from the building. Conor reached out to shake Claire’s hand and there was a flicker of a wink and the suggestion of a smile. His hand felt warm and smooth in hers and she was surprised to discover his eyes shone like green glass. Sensing her scrutiny, the man laughed, revealing unnaturally white teeth.

“See anything you like?”

Aware of the blush rushing up her neck, Claire dropped her gaze down to her bag on the pretence of searching for her keys, letting her heavy hair fall over her face.

Clearly one for the ladies, she decided. Mr Cheeky was right. Or maybe Mr Smarmy. In no danger of falling for his charm she was, nonetheless, grateful for his support throughout her ordeal.

Jason, or Mr Mean, as she preferred to think of him, had earned his moniker during the hour-long interrogation. Everything from her marketing qualifications (limited), tourism credentials (non-existent), Myers-Briggs profile (forgotten), reason for changing jobs (undisclosed) and recent history (blagged) had been torn apart and challenged.

The remaining individuals had thrown out one question each on cue but Claire surmised that they were there for aggrandizement purposes only. Except Conor, head of marketing and business development and her potential line manager. His questions had been thorough and relevant and sometimes too acute for comfort. It seemed, like now, that he liked to put her on the spot to see how much he could make her blush.

“Thank you for showing me out.” Claire flicked her hair away and shone her coolest smile. No need to give a man like that encouragement.

“It was my pleasure.”

Claire shivered. Even the most innocent statement sounded like a come-on. His words lit an unexpected fire in her belly, and she gritted her teeth. Glaring at him through narrowed eyes, Claire turned and headed for the door.

“Wait!”

Claire looked back, eyebrows raised.

“Don’t you want to know what happens next?”

The eyebrows shot up further. “What happens next? Jason interviews a man, who clearly will be more suited for the role, and I carry on with my life?”

Conor frowned at her words. “Is that what you think? That he gave you a hard time because you’re a woman? And I thought you were smart.”

She turned again and didn’t stop when he called for her to wait a second time. She heard his footsteps as he strode after her and fell in step with her as she walked across the small car park. She stopped before she got to the Skoda, some part of her unwilling to give the man more ammunition.

Facing him, she waited for him to speak.

“He gave you a hard time because you’re by far the best candidate for the role, and if something looks too good to be true it usually is.”

Claire felt a pulse throb in her temples. How long had it been since anyone told her she was good at something? She couldn’t remember.

“If I have my way, he’ll hire you. We need someone like you to bring some life to the company.” He ran a hand through his sandy hair, as if unsure of what to say. “Look, I’m sorry you had a tough time. You have to understand, this is a new organisation. There’s a limited budget and no strategy. But I see huge potential. Jason, Tim, and the others, they’re public sector workers. They came over from the Council to set up this venture. They’re bean counters, regulation enforcers.”

Taking a breath, Conor rubbed at the stubble on his cheek. “I’m not sure why I’m telling you this, except you’re the only person to walk in here and get what we’re trying to achieve. Purbeck is an amazing part of the country, with beaches to rival the Continent. But people came here as children, and stayed in caravans with their gran. They see it as old-fashioned, out-dated. It needs an injection of life, of world experience, to show people what it can be. Look at Swanage. I came here when I was a kid. There was life. Now it’s practically an old-people’s home. We need you.”

Claire looked round the car park, unsure what to think. Conor’s passion surprised her. She had taken him to be a salesman, in for the quick buck.

“I need time to think about it. Besides, I’m not sure you’re right. Jason didn’t strike me as the type to take a chance on someone.”

“He’ll come round, leave it to me.”

He gave her a grin that made him look about twelve, then, with a half-wave, he headed back into the building.

Claire stood for a while, deep in thought. When she was sure he was gone, she paced to the Skoda and hid herself inside.

***

Pantser and Proud: 2013 365 Challenge #202

Riding on the mini train today

One of the blogs I follow – Write on the world – had a post today about structure in novels. The author, Mandy Webster, referred to another post called How to Structure a Killer Novel Ending.

I was seduced.

I don’t have a huge problem wrapping up my stories: it’s the flabby beginning – drowning in back story – and the soggy middle that I struggle with. By the time I get to my climax and happy ever after I’ve hit my writing stride. However I know I don’t put enough conflict in my writing so I’m always eager to read about how it’s done.

When I read the post, however, I didn’t come away with a plan to write a killer ending so much as a view that Pantsers (those of us who write by the seat of our pants, rather than plan and outline) only write that way because we’re too lazy or stubborn to do otherwise. That may be true. It may be true for me. Particularly as I’m about to make excuses for why I write that way.

Like a million and one other people, I’ve always wanted to write a novel. I tried, as a teenager, and again in my twenties. I couldn’t get past the first page. Not for want of trying but for want of ideas. No matter how hard I tried to come up with a story, it just wouldn’t happen. It was all boring and predictable.

Grooming Elsie the Shetland pony

Years of academia has taught me how to plan. I can write an essay outline blindfolded. Well, probably not now, but then, easily. Even in exams I would structure essays rather than just writing whatever came into my desperate brain. I’d been taught how to do it and I did it, and did it well.

With fiction, though, it wasn’t until I turned off that left brain thinking, put my editor in a box with some chocolate and told her to stay there for a while, that anything came. It was a freewrite during my OU creative writing class that sparked my first (and still my favourite) protagonist, Lucy. Nanowrimo came shortly after and Finding Lucy flew from my fingers. I couldn’t stop to think.

As a result I still don’t know how the novel ends. I’m looking forward to finding out, when I finally finish it. I genuinely don’t know which of the two male protagonists, if either, she’ll choose. I don’t entirely know the big secret her gran was hiding, though I have my suspicions. As a result, I don’t over explain or drop massive hints. No need to write RUE over this manuscript – even I don’t know what’s going on. But that’s what’s exciting. I write to find out. If I knew beforehand, I’d be bored and so would the reader.

My Pantser writing has come out most in Two-Hundred Steps Home. For example I don’t yet know what job Claire’s being interviewed for today. When I’ve figured it out you’ll be the first to know (hopefully by 10am!)

The problem, of course, as the author of How to Structure a Killer Novel Ending explains, is that:

“If you engage in story planning through a series of drafts, rather than an outline, you’ll need to write enough drafts to finally understand what Part 4 [the killer ending] should be. Same process, different tolerances for pain.

But there’s risk in that. If you are a drafter instead of a blueprinter (notice I didn’t say outliner—that’s a different process yet, one of several viable ways to plan a story), the likelihood of you settling for mediocrity is orders of magnitude greater. The prospect of rewriting the first 300 pages does that to a writer.”

Model boats at the farm

So if you don’t write to a structure, one of two things happens. You have to do a LOT of rewriting or (more likely) you end up with a mediocre novel because, quite frankly, who wants to rewrite 300 pages. Not me. However, he goes on to say:

“Make no mistake, a rewrite is always a corrective measure. Nothing to brag about”

I’m not sure I agree with that. Redrafting is still writing. Not something to brag about, but something that is necessary for most of us.

As I suggested in my comment on the original blog (it’s probably as well I couldn’t comment on the killer ending one as I’d have embarrassed myself!) I hope that, one day, I’ll understand structure, conflict and stakes as well as I once understood writing a good essay. Maybe one day I will be able to outline without killing my muse, or maybe the blueprint for structure will be in my subconscious and will come out in my right brain first drafts. Either that or I’ll have to be able to afford a damn good editor!

Here’s hoping.

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________________________________________________________________________________

“Do come in, Miss Carleton, sorry to have kept you waiting.”

Claire looked up at the careworn woman holding open the door and felt her palms prickle with sweat. Reaching for her bag, she headed towards the room, nearly tripping over a low table lurking unnoticed in front of the uncomfortable fake-leather sofa she had been perched on for forty minutes.

With a wobbly smile in greeting, Claire followed the woman into the room. She let her gaze take in the full horror awaiting her, and had to mask a sharp intake of breath with a cough. A pungent cloud of aftershave caught at the back of her throat and the cough became genuine. It was several moments before she could stop.

“Would you like some water? I apologise for not bringing you tea or coffee while you were waiting; I’m afraid we’re a bit short staffed at the moment.”

Short staffed? There are enough people here to play doubles tennis and have an umpire.

Claire turned away from the row of blank-faced men and nodded at the woman who had ushered her in. She wondered if she was the secretary, then admonished herself for the sexist thought.

Sipping gratefully at the water, Claire allowed herself two or three deep breaths to calm her agitation.

Come on, it isn’t the first time you’ve had to present to a gaggle of stern suits who last smiled in 1962.

The words were no comfort. Yes, she’d given presentations before, but not in an interview about something she knew nothing about.

“Please take a seat.”

The low voice issued from the second man from the left. He gestured at a single plastic chair, facing the long desk and the seated men. It felt more like a court hearing than a job interview.

Forcing herself to walk slowly, Claire crossed the room and sat in the chair. There was a small table for her water but, as it was at elbow height, Claire viewed it suspiciously. Placing her glass as far away as possible, she retrieved her notes from her bag and rested them on her lap.

Eventually, hoping her make-up hid the worst of the panic, Claire raised her eyes to face her interrogators. No wonder the last interview over-ran. How can you learn anything with five people asking questions?

She glanced at the woman who had shown her in, hoping for some female support, and realised her first assumption about her role was the right one. So, five stiff suits and a secretary. And they want me to work for them? I don’t think so, somehow.

Except she didn’t have the luxury of walking back out, head held high. Not since resigning from her job at AJC. Stupid girl.

“Good afternoon, Miss Carleton. Thank you for joining us. I understand you are here for the role of marketing director?”

No, I’m your stripagram. Biting back the retort, Claire nodded.

The man addressing her was in the centre of the five, and she guessed he must be the boss. Grey streaks speckled his short black hair, and her first impression was that he was in his fifties. His face was unlined, however, and something about his demeanour suggested to Claire that he was ten or twenty years younger than that. He oozed presence.

With a shiver she dragged her eyes away from him and tried to differentiate the other men. It wasn’t easy. They all wore dark suits, some grey, some navy. The man second from the left, who had asked her to take a seat, wore a pink shirt.

He was the only one who looked under 35. Claire guessed he was her age, maybe even younger, although with men it was hard to tell. As she gazed at him, he flicked his eyelid in the merest hint of a wink, and Claire felt the warm flood of gratitude spread through her limbs.

An ally. Thank god.

“In your own time, please present to the group your vision of the future for Isle of Purbeck Tourism, and the unique elements you will bring to the role.”

Claire wrenched her gaze back to the man in the centre, who she was fast thinking of as Mr Mean. He hadn’t even introduced himself or his colleagues. How could she present to the faceless five, without knowing their roles in the organisation?

Fear ran through her limbs, until it met rage bubbling the other way. No. I won’t. I won’t sit here and be humiliated by yet another self-satisfied stuffed suit who thinks he can treat me like crap because I’m a woman.

Sitting up straighter in her chair, Claire fixed her gaze on the dark eyes four feet in front of her. “Of course, it will be my pleasure. I wonder if, first, I could know whom I am addressing? It is easier to present when one knows one’s audience, I find.”

Where did that posh plummy accent come from? Behind her mask, Claire quailed, waiting for annihilation. It didn’t come.

Flicking her gaze at the man she’d dubbed Mr Cheeky, she saw a twitch at the corner of his mouth. Realising he was trying hard not to laugh, Claire exhaled through her nose, releasing the breath she hadn’t realised she was holding. She felt her own lips twitch in response, and dragged her eyes away to gauge the reaction from the rest of the group.

The two men to the right of Mr Mean looked bored. Finance and maybe IT she decided, assuming a tourist company had an IT Department. Her expectation for the interview had been a quiet chat with some lovely harassed woman who needed an extra pair of hands. In her scariest nightmares she couldn’t have imagined that the people in charge of tourism could be so humourless.

The last person, to the left of Mr Cheeky, was taking notes, alongside the secretary. HR, definitely. Strange to have a bloke. HR personnel are usually women. What a boys club. Oh well, New Zealand it is then.

She heard Mr Mean clear his throat and was gratified to see a faint blush of embarrassment. Is he bothered because I’ve pulled him up for being rude, or because he just got outplayed by a woman? Honestly, guys, this is the twenty-first century, not the nineteenth.

With the knowledge that she definitely wasn’t going to be given this job, Claire sat back in her seat and prepared to have some fun.

***

Road Trips – Plotter or Pantser (writingwranglersandwarriors.wordpress.com)
No Longer a Pantser, now I’m a Patster. Er, Plotser? (writetoperfect.wordpress.com)
The Pantser, The Plotter and The Inbetweener (strugglingwriter.wordpress.com)
A Pantser’s Look at Story Physics (garridon.wordpress.com)
Becky Banks: Plotter vs. Pantser (guest post) (girl-who-reads.com)

Marketing and Mummy’s Day Off: 2013 365 Challenge #201

Butterfly eggy bread recipe found in a magazine

Today I switched off. I took a day’s holiday. Unfortunately I had the children at home with me, so my timing wasn’t great.

I hope that, by sometimes leaving the children to fend for themselves, they will learn self-reliance, and come to appreciate the times I am present, and the days we do go on fun trips to the Farm or the Zoo.

Okay, who am I kidding? That’s just an excuse. I didn’t feel like being Mummy today. I wanted to curl up with my book (Emotional Geology – fab), listen to the cricket (nail-biting), stay out of the sun (too hot for me) and speak to no one (bliss).

I’m already feeling the effects of hubbie being at home this week. I don’t do well if I can’t have a few hours without responsibility for anyone but me. Even though hubbie is a grown man, I still have to take care of him when he’s in a ten-mile radius. I can’t help it!

Front of Bookmark

The rather busy back!

Anyway, the kids coped. They got fed, watched too many movies, made butterfly eggy toast for tea. They were finally allowed out into the sun at 4.35pm, they got to swim at grandma’s and fell asleep at bedtime, instead of an hour later as it has been recently. Not a bad day.

Best of all, I designed my free promo bookmark!

I’m getting quite excited about releasing Baby Blues officially. I should probably be drumming up a blog tour or guest posts, but I still struggle with book marketing. I can just about manage the occasional tweet or KDP free promo. But I come from a direct/offline marketing background. As a result I’m much happier with printed marketing (I used to control a million pound budget to produce junk mail!). Hence the bookmarks, I suppose.

Unfortunately paper marketing isn’t likely to sell digital books. For example, I can’t leave the bookmarks in my local bookshop or library, when the book isn’t available there (although I could donate a few paper copies of the book I guess). I like print marketing; digital printing is amazing. To design something like this bookmark on my home computer, knowing I could hold it in my hand in a week, is great.

(I learnt my marketing trade in the time of four-colour plate printing, when digital print was in its infancy. I remember being dazzled by an agency showing us a personalised mail pack featuring that day’s newspaper. Incredible then, commonplace now).

Above all, I’m afraid I get seduced by pretty things. I enjoy the design process and I love having a finished, tangible, product. I’m a Luddite at heart! Time to go brush up on selling for self-published authors and forget my marketing past!

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Yellow light poured in through tall windows, dragging Claire’s eyes to admire the blue sky, just visible between the curtains. After the overcast skies of the previous day, the sun promised a new start. Resisting the urge to pull the duvet over her head, Claire pushed it back and swung herself round to sit upright. Her skull ached. Thoughts had tumbled and jumbled for what seemed like the better part of the night. Replays of the day, questioning her actions, planning for the future.

I didn’t even have a drink. I wouldn’t mind feeling this dreadful if I had.

Listening closely, Claire decided the room was empty. She used the bed frame to lever upright, and peered round at the other bunks. One contained the suspicion of a slumbering figure under the covers, so Claire tiptoed out to find the bathroom. A beautiful National Trust property it might be, but Ilam Hall wasn’t over-blessed with en-suite facilities. It no longer bothered Claire, as long as she remembered to take her key. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d had to loiter outside her room waiting for someone to come back.

Refreshed after her shower, Claire contemplated her long drive south. It seemed a tragic waste of a beautiful day, even with the excitement of what lay at the other end.

Excitement isn’t quite the word I’d choose, actually. Abject terror is probably nearer the mark.

Claire couldn’t remember her last job interview. The position at AJC had come through a headhunter and had been agreed over coffee.

While she drove, Claire’s thoughts chattered away in her mind as if she was eavesdropping at a party. Little snatches of sense rose to the surface before sinking beneath the general hubbub.

What is Carl going to do? He looked terrified. What about that odd phone call when he gave me the week off?

She’d thought it was because he was worried about a tribunal, but if that were the case, her resignation would have been a relief. He didn’t look relieved. Am I crazy, to quit before the interview?

No matter how she played it in her mind, the sudden impulse that took her to Manchester, with a resignation letter in hand, made no sense. But then so little of the last three months did. The important bits, the memories that made her smile, were about people, not things. You couldn’t fathom people, they fought categorization.

As she stopped for lunch and a Starbucks, Claire’s thoughts turned to Kim. It was opening night for Kim’s play, the day after her interview. She had her tickets already – she had agreed with Ruth that Sky could come, despite the late finish. Claire wasn’t sure of her plan, but if Kim wouldn’t talk to her maybe she’d relent for Sky. Even though they weren’t the type of friends who talked often, Kim’s silence nagged like a festering wound. Pushing aside the pain, Claire tried to concentrate on thinking through possible interview questions – and answers – for the morning.

At last the satnav announced her arrival at Salisbury. Claire looked at the villa, set amidst beautiful grounds, and felt a stab of fear. This is a mistake. I’ve only seen a quarter of all the hostels. So many amazing places yet to visit. She thought about Ruth, and the hostel manager from Gradbach, each eager for her next instalment.

Why do I want to get a proper job? Back to rules and schedules. Commuting and deliverables and staff depending on me.

She reminded herself she hadn’t got the job yet.

What if I don’t get it. Do I go cap in hand back to Carl? Carry on with the assignment out of my own pocket. And, what? Write a book. I guess there’s always New Zealand.

Slamming the car door, Claire tried to leave the noisy thought party behind and concentrate on the task in hand. Researching for her interview. Let me get the job first, and then decide what to do for the best.

***

More Amazing Milestones: 2013 365 Challenge #200

Top 200 words in Two-Hundred Steps Home

Today is a milestone day. Two-Hundred Steps Home reached 150,000 words and this is the 200th installment in my daily blog challenge for 2013. Wow.

It seemed fitting for Claire to receive some recognition, so I’ve given her a little pat on the back and sent her to a gorgeous-looking hostel that I quite fancy visiting myself! (I investigated, but it would be cheaper to stay in a hotel, although not the same as a Victorian Gothic Manor House!)

I’ve also been playing with Wordle: creating word maps of the most frequent words used in the novel (top 150 and top 200 words). I’m concerned that ‘like’, ‘felt’, and ‘thought’ are up there: a bit too much telling and not enough showing going on! Making word maps was a lovely way to spend an hour listening to the cricket when I should have been writing. I’ve found a breezy spot at the kitchen table, but the brain is still full of fog.

A time-eating exercise for a creative person

It seems fitting to use a milestone post to talk about my second-ever piece on this blog.

As I mentioned yesterday, I originally had the intention of discussing writing craft on Writer/Mummy. However I began following great blogs like Novels from the Ground Up (sadly no longer updated, but still with some great posts worth reading) and Daily Writing Tips, and a hundred others, and realised that I was in no position to preach.

Re-reading those early posts, though, I do think I had something to share. Many people want to write a novel but have a zillion reasons why they can’t. That was me, five years ago. The posts talked through how I turned that around. However, of my top tips for How to write a novel (with young kids underfoot), I only wrote posts on half, because it turned out I didn’t have enough experience to cover them all (even though I was teaching Creative Writing at the time!).

Playing with Wordle to celebrate 200th post

These were my top tips:

1. Throw away the excuses

2. Write what you know

3. Carry your story with you

4. Get Professional Help

5. Find fabulous friends

6. Finish, Finish, Finish

7. Put your critical hat on

8. Get it out there

As you can see, I only wrote posts on the first four points. When it came to writing about beta readers, critique groups or social media I hadn’t a clue. I was too scared to join a critique group and I didn’t have a beta reader, except my husband. The same went for finishing a novel (to final edit, not just the first draft), undertaking critical editing or getting to a point of releasing a book into the wild (either traditional route or via self-publishing).

Hard to choose my favourite (I have 12!)

Now I feel I can write about those things. Apart from critique groups: that fear still stands (and it’s harder to fit that in around a sporadic schedule than any of the other elements.)

It will be difficult not to reinvent the wheel, but at the least I can direct people to some of the amazing websites I’ve since discovered (like Catherine, Caffeinated: the self-publishing guru!)

I just have to decide whether to write them as standalone posts, on top of my daily blog, or cheat and combine the two! I think I’d prefer to do them standalone, and re-blog all five original posts as well, but that might be overkill: what do you think?

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Claire made it back to the car without crumpling. Her hands shook as she tried to fit the key into the lock and, for the first time in weeks, she missed her Audi with its central locking fob.

Will they take my car back? Claire climbed into the Skoda and ran her hands around the sticky steering wheel. Loathe as she was to admit it, she would miss her little Stella.

Perhaps they’ll gift it to me as a leaving present. Her laugher filled the enclosed space. The idea that anyone would miss her was a joke. I haven’t heard from a single person in three months.

Although Claire had discovered how deep her work-friendships ran at her leaving party, it still hurt to realise she could vanish so completely from their lives without so much as an email to say farewell.

The adrenalin continued to rush through her veins, giving the sensation that she could scale a cliff face or run a marathon. Knowing the payback would be vicious, Claire pushed aside her emotions and shoved the gear stick into first.

Wandering around town earlier, Claire had toyed with the idea of staying the night in Manchester. Maybe Great John Street hotel, where she could lounge in the roll-top bath, safe in the knowledge that someone famous would be sleeping in a room nearby. By the time they saw her expenses it would be too late to challenge the cost.

Now, though, she had no desire to linger in her former home town. Her nose itched with the grit of traffic fumes and her temper frayed as she jostled with the sleek silver commuter cars heading for the suburbs.

Choosing the route south, Claire ran through the map of hostels in her mind, trying to decide the nearest one that she had yet to visit.

I don’t think I stayed in all the Peak District hostels round Buxton. If I have to work to the end of the week, I may as well stay somewhere pretty.

Claire pulled up outside Gradbach hostel, glad to finally come to a halt. The drive had taken twice as long as it should have, due to rush hour traffic leaving Manchester. In front of her was a building that looked like an old mill, nestled deep in the trees. Drinking in the clean air as she might a chilled glass of rosé, Claire felt the space and silence surround her, and smiled.

The reception desk welcomed her with polished wood and bright lights. A smiling lady, with a smart dark bob and glasses, approached with a question on her face.

“Can I help you?”

“Yes, I’m hoping you might have a bed for tonight?” Claire’s tummy rumbled and she remembered she hadn’t eaten since breakfast, twelve hours earlier. “And somewhere to eat?”

The woman’s face fell and she shook her head. “I’m so sorry; this hostel isn’t open to the public during term time. School and group visits only. We have a group in at present.”

As she said the words, Claire heard the sound of chatter coming from deep within the converted mill. Disappointment dragged at her limbs and she grasped the reception desk for support.

I could be lying in a bubble bath, looking forward to a rare steak and a gin and tonic.

With a sigh, Claire raised a smile and directed it at the hostel manager. “Can you tell me where the nearest hostel with beds is, please? Or do you have internet so I can get online?”

With a nod, the woman began tapping away at a computer. A frown pulled down her dark eyebrows, and Claire felt ice slide into her stomach.

“Hartington Hall has a vacancy?”

Claire shook her head. “I’ve done that one. And Ravenstor, Yougreave, Eyam.”

Her words brought a puzzled smile to the woman’s face. She turned, as if to speak, but seemed to realise it wasn’t her concern. “How about Ilam Hall?”

It didn’t ring a bell. “Hang on.” Claire pulled out her iPad and looked down her notes. “No, I don’t think so.”

“There’s nothing showing on the website, but I’ll give them a ring. They sometimes reserve a bed or two for emergencies, or someone might not have turned up yet.”

Claire flicked through her guide book to find Ilam Hall. She took in the pictures of the Victorian Gothic manor house, with the double-height windows and sunny, beautifully decorated, rooms. It knocked spots off Great John Street hotel, which she had felt was a bit dark, the one time she had stayed there.

This is why: This is what it’s about. Gorgeous, undiscovered properties. Who knew they were here, or that you could stay in them for a small amount of money? Okay, they’re not all like that, but enough. Who needs the Maldives, or New Zealand, when there are such gems right on the doorstep?

Claire held her breath, as the hostel manager began talking to someone on the phone. Please have space. My soul needs this.

As the woman smiled, Claire felt her heart lift and began to breathe again.

“You’re in luck,” she said, as she hung up the phone. “They’ve had a couple of girls call up to say they’re staying in their current hostel a further night. It’s only a dorm room bed, but I assumed you would take it, given how late it is.”

Claire looked out the window, surprised to see it had gone dark. “Oh yes. Will I still be able to get dinner?”

“I should think so. I’ll call and tell them you’d like to eat when you arrive.”

“Thank you, and thank you for your help.”

The woman hesitated, then spoke in a rush. “I have to ask. Are you the lady writing the blog? About the hostels? Only we’ve really enjoyed it and I wondered when you might come here.”

Surprised, Claire nodded.

“Will you come back? We’re open in the school holidays for families and other travellers.”

Claire thought about her meeting earlier with Carl, and her interview later in the week. “I don’t know. I am thinking about doing something different for a while.”

The manager’s face fell, but she nodded. “I understand. It must be exhausting, moving every day. Let me know, if you do decide to come. We’ll make sure you get a nice room.” With a shy smile, she added, “I understand you probably stay anonymous. Otherwise how could you write a fair review? It’s been great learning about what the other hostels are like. I haven’t been to many. I don’t have time!” She gestured at the mill around her and laughed. “Anyway, I’m detaining you. I’m sure you’re ready for dinner and bed. Do you need directions to Ilam?”

Claire shook her head. “No, I have satnav. Thank you, though, for reading the blog. It’s nice to know the words aren’t just disappearing into the ether.”

With new food for thought, Claire made her way back to the car.

***

Wordle Wednesday (wordlewednesdays.wordpress.com)
Wordle Wednesdays (kirawoodsbury.com)

Sleepy Thursday: 2013 365 Challenge #199

My new ‘keep the kids cool’ weapon

Ah hello Summer cold, we’ve been expecting you.

Little man coughed every 30 seconds for most of the night. I went and gave him milk, calpol and a cuddle on his new (child sized) sofa for as long as I could, to no avail. I thought he was asleep until he climbed into our bed ten minutes later and coughed and wriggled for the remainder of the night. Yawn. Pass the coffee.

At least the oppressive night-time heat broke like a fever around 2am, leaving a calm cool breeze washing through the open windows.

I was going to write today’s post about some old blog posts of mine I stumbled across yesterday, on how to write a novel with children underfoot, back in the day when I thought this would be a writing-advice blog, rather than a diary-cum-confessional. I will have to save that for tomorrow as I can barely keep my eyes open and I have an hour to get kids to nursery and write Claire’s showdown with Carl.

Even baby Annabelle’s had enough (or is she drunk?)

These hot days are sapping more than my energy and good humour, they’re wiping away any remaining vocabulary left in my addled Mummy brain.

The thing I noticed most about my first posts on WriterMummy, written last March? They were penned with a sharpness of phrase I can only dream of. I don’t know how: I imagine I was getting less sleep then than now. Maybe only blogging every couple of weeks meant I stored up good phrases, or I was less self-conscious about my writing, knowing no one was reading it.

I also had more time to read other people’s posts back then – funny parenting posts, mostly – and that style of writing rubs of. It just proves the point that writers must read as much as write.

I think that might be my ‘homework’ today! I’ve just started reading a recommended book, Emotional Geology, which is reminding me of Virginia Woolf in style, as it’s quite stream-of-consciousness in the way it jumps about. Enjoying it though. Now I just need to tackle Carl, and consume some caffeine!

________________________________________________________________________________

Despite quivering limbs, Claire felt happiness bubble deep inside. The look in Carl’s eyes, as he gazed at her across the desk, reminded her of a hunted animal finally cornered and aware there is nowhere left to run. It strengthened her resolve and calmed some of the jitters.

“Hello, Claire. This is an unexpected pleasure.” Carl’s mouth worked silently, as if more words wanted to be spoken but were under restraint.

“Yes, isn’t it. How are you? Are you well?”

Carl’s eyebrows flickered up almost imperceptibly, flummoxed by Claire’s affable conversation.

“Yes, very well. The Birds Eye account renewed, and we’ve secured three new clients this month already.” He sat back in his chair, his elbows resting on the arms of the large leather seat that diminished his stature rather than enlarging it as intended.

Sitting forward, Claire glanced sideways at the door. A flicker only, but Carl detected it, and shifted uncomfortably. Claire watched him squirm with indecision. If he called Julia in to take a drinks order, he would be treating Claire as a welcome visitor, despite her impromptu visit. On the other hand, if he didn’t follow normal protocol, he would communicate to the rest of the office that she was not there at his bidding. Claire nearly laughed out loud as the thoughts waged war across his face.

You should take some lessons from your receptionist; she’s a much better poker player than you are.

After a moment that stretched to eternity, Carl leant forwards and pressed the intercom on his desk.

“Julia, can you come in, please?”

The door opened immediately, and Claire suspected Carl’s PA had been hovering with her fingers already round the handle.

“There you are, Julia. Coffee for me, if you will.” He tilted his head in question at Claire, and she turned to face her erstwhile tormentor.

“Hello, Julia. Earl Grey, thank you.” She smiled sweetly, keeping her expression neutral.

Julia’s mouth dropped open and she shut it with a snap, before spinning away. Claire took the opportunity to inhale deeply and rub her sweaty hands down her dress, while Carl was distracted.

“So.” Carl turned, resting his arms on the desk. “To business.”

“It’s always business, isn’t it.”

Claire reached into the bag at her side, before Carl could answer, and retrieved a pristine white envelope, which she slid across the desk.

“I think you’ll find this self-explanatory.”

Carl looked at it and the colour drained from his face. A sheen of sweat made his brow sparkle in the office lights.

“You’re resigning?”

“I thought you’d be pleased.” Claire frowned, her poise slipping for the first time. “Isn’t that what you’ve been striving for since February?” She closed her lips, unwilling to give any more away.

“Yes, well, no. Of course not.” Flustered, Carl stumbled over his words.

“Oh, come on, Carl. There’s no need to play the game any longer. Not with me. You’ve won. That should make you happy.”

“Why? Why now, I mean.”

“I’ve had a better offer.” No need to mention she hadn’t even had an interview for the new role Linda had called her about. The potential had been enough to convince her of her next move.

“How much?”

Claire felt the heat rise in her cheeks at the audacity of Carl’s question. Refusing to rise to the bait, she crossed her legs, gazing coolly at him. “That’s all it is to you, isn’t it? Money. I pity you.”

Carl sat back as if she had spat at him. “If it’s not the money, why are you leaving?”

“Need you ask? You sent me on some fool’s errand, fit only for a manager at best, to force me to leave. No, don’t tell me that bullshit story of proving myself fit to the directors. We both know that was tosh.”

Carl shrugged. “The deal was real.”

“But the idea to send me was yours? Was I treading on your toes? Making you nervous? Well, you can relax. I wouldn’t have your job if you paid me double whatever exorbitant salary you’re on.” She paused, as Julia re-entered with their drinks.

The PA hovered, sensing the atmosphere and desperate to leave with some gossip. She glanced at the white envelope untouched on Carl’s desk, and Claire knew that was fuel enough for the rumour machine.

“Thank you, Julia, you may go.” Julia flinched at the icy tones, and scuttled from the room.

“What do you want, then, if not money? Prestige? A new car?”

“Nothing you can buy. In fact, I have to thank you. If you hadn’t sent me on that stupid assignment, I might still think cars and titles were worth something.”

It was Carl’s turn to sneer. “Oh, come on. You can’t tell me you’ve turned hippy. Look at you, still the heels and sharp suit. You haven’t changed. You’ve met some bloke, that’s it, isn’t it?” He jeered lasciviously and Claire crossed her arms, resisting the urge to throw her tea over him.

“No. No man, no money, no shiny car or bigger office. Just an opportunity to make a difference; to be me. To live a little in the real world.” She looked round his minimalist office, with the tinted windows obscuring the view outside. “You should try it sometime.”

Draining the last of her tea, Claire stood up. “I still have three weeks holiday, with what I carried over from last year. I’ll work to the end of the week.”

“What? You can’t. You’re on three months’ notice, and you took that week last week.” Panic raised his voice to a squeak.

“No. You gave me last week in lieu of the weekends I have worked, and if you check my contract I’m only on a month’s notice. I would like to say it’s been a pleasure, but I’ve had enough of lying.”

Leaving her boss gaping like a landed fish, Claire placed her cup on his desk, and glided from the room.

***