Baby isn’t so Blue: 2013 365 Challenge #158

I accidentally published a book today!

I got Baby Blues and Wedding Shoes out of the metaphorical bottom drawer this morning and dusted it off. I hadn’t intended to look at it again this year, having decided it needs too much revision and knowing how dangerous it is to revise it along side writing Two-Hundred Steps Home.

Last time I worked on it I kept confusing the protagonist Helen with Claire from Two-Hundred Steps Home, even swapping the names at one point. They’re not that similar, although I suspect they have a similar voice, as I’m aware I write mostly in my voice. They’re both late twenties, but that’s about it.

Claire is slightly older, more worldly-wise. She’s an Associate Director. Confident, maybe a bit arrogant in the beginning. Her career is important to her and she would rather lose her man than have kids.

On the other hand Helen chooses to give up her man to keep her baby, when her fiancé tells her to ‘Get rid or get out.’

Helen gave up her career to be with her fiancé, working for him as his hostess and diary planner. She isn’t a strong person, particularly where Daniel is concerned. She learns strength through adversity and necessity. She yearns for a happy home like the one she grew up in and is therefore happier in a relationship than out of one.

The park when Helen first suspects she might be pregnant

The park where Helen first suspects she might be pregnant

Claire is cynical about love and relationships because she didn’t really have a happy family home. Her formative years were spent in boarding school, with her family barely staying in touch. She keeps people at a distance. While Helen embraces her new photography friends and then Marcio and his family, Claire keeps everyone but Kim at arm’s length.

They both have a personal journey, and of course both are parallel-universe versions of me, taking tiny parts of my life and exploring them further. They’re different enough in character, if not in speech, that I can’t work on both novels together, not even to edit one while writing the other.

When I got Baby Blues out, though, and began skimming it to correct a grammar fault I didn’t realise I was prone to (not putting commas around names in dialogue) I found it wasn’t as awful as I remember. I can see some wordy chapters, probably a bit preachy, that want trimming. I need to find someone who reads Spanish to validate my lovely Google Translator bits of text, but it’s not awful.

Helen’s street in London

The best part is I’d already formatted it for Smashwords so it only needed tweaking to get it passed the Autovetter. So, if anyone fancies reading it and helping identify the weaknesses, the woolly chapters, or if anyone speaks Spanish, drop me a line. It’s not live on Smashwords, as it’s not quite ready to be released into the wild. But if you let me know your preferred format, either in the comments or via email/facebook/twitter I’ll send you a copy.

Postscript: Oops! The book is live on Smashwords because I uploaded a version then went to get the kids from nursery, forgetting to ‘unpublish’ it. When I got home, 41 free copies had been downloaded. I want to keep it live in case anyone leaves a review (the ultimate Beta Reader experience) but I have put a price on it now, so I don’t expect to sell any copies until it is cleared for the Premium Catalogue. The above still applies: if you’d like a free copy, let me know.

________________________________________________________________________________

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:

________________________________________________________________________________

“Where are we going?”

Kim looked over at Claire, who had her eyes on the road. “You could at least let me drive. The doctor told you to rest your wrist for 48 hours. I can drive, you know. Just because we can’t afford a second car.”

Claire bit back a sigh. When did Kim start worrying so much about money? I’m driving a Skoda, not a jag. She kept the words unspoken. Who knew what hormone-induced turmoil was churning in her friend’s mind. Maybe all the stuff with the wedding and the baby has made her realise that money is important. I doubt Jeff earns a fortune working for a charity and I know the acting doesn’t pay. Well, at least there’s one thing I can do without hurting her sensitivities.

“So, where are we going?”

“You’ll find out when we get there.”

“You sound like my mother.”

Claire laughed. “You sound like Sky.”

Kim tilted her head to one side and said in a sing-song voice, “Are we there yet?”

Claire turned the car into a side street and killed the engine.

“Yes.”

Kim looked around the residential street, perplexed.

“And where are we, exactly? I thought you said this was exciting.” She pouted. “I don’t call visiting someone at 10am on a Sunday morning exciting. I could be reading the paper over coffee and croissants. Or toast at least.”

“Well, seeing as you’ve given me no notice of your impending nuptials, time is of the essence. Sharon was free to see us. Remember it’s early on a Sunday for her too.”

“But who is she?”

Someone I used to work with. Well, she headed up Compliance, but we got on well.”

“I don’t need a Pre-nup you know.” Kim went pale. “Jeff would kill me. Besides, neither of us owns anything. If I ever make my fortune on the big screen I’ll be happy to share.”

“She’s not in Compliance anymore, silly,” Claire said, as she led the way along a path of nodding daffodils to ring the bell.

“Well, what does she do?”

“You’ll see.”

“You’re being horribly cryptic.”

“I know.” Claire giggled. “I’m getting my own back for your little bombshell.”

“You fiend. I didn’t mean to keep it from you.”

“Well, you’re about to be put out of your misery.”

Footsteps could be heard approaching the door, which was opened by a fresh-faced woman with short dark hair. She was wearing an apron.

“Claire! Lovely to see you, you look marvellous. I’ve been following the blog, travelling suits you. And this must be the bride. Come in. Only two weeks to the big day? You must be excited. I do love a whirlwind romance.”

Kim raised her eyebrows at Claire, before following the chatty woman down a corridor. “Actually, I’ve been engaged for ages. Call it a shot-gun wedding.”

“Oh.” The lady turned to face her, eyebrows raised, and her eyes twinkled. “Do you need a christening cake too?”

“Cake?”

“I assume that’s why you’re here. I don’t do flowers.” She laughed at her own joke, while Kim scowled at Claire.

“What?” Her voice was a whip.

“You said yesterday you were going to buy a cake from Tesco.”

“What’s wrong with that?” Kim hissed at her friend. “They do three-tier iced cakes for thirty quid. I can’t afford anything else.”

“You don’t have to, this is my gift. Look, come and see Sharon’s scrap book. If you don’t like anything, you can have your supermarket cake. And I’m sure it will be lovely,” she added hurriedly, seeing Kim’s expression. “I’m not saying Sharon’s cakes are better, only more personal. I thought you could have something incorporating the theatre and birds, you know, unique to you and Jeff.”

Sharon, who had discreetly left the girls to their muted discussion, now came back in with a tray, laden with coffee, tea and pastries.

“At least have your Sunday brunch.” Claire smiled and Kim shrugged in defeat.

All through coffee she maintained a polite flow of conversation but Claire could tell she was itching to open the scrapbooks on the table. At last, Sharon passed them over, and Kim grabbed at them like a child reaching for a Christmas gift.

Sharon caught Claire’s gaze and winked.

***

Using the Senses: 2013 365 Challenge #143

The fields of oil seed rape

Good writing is all about recreating a sensation for the reader: an emotion, an experience, a place. To do this we are taught to use all the senses; to show rather than tell. It’s probably one of the hardest parts of writing to do well. I know it’s not one of my strengths.

I do try to include smells and sounds as naturally as possible but it tends to be an element added in a later draft rather than intrinsically there from the beginning. Which is odd because I do live in all my senses. I’m very sensitive to sounds and smells. A piece of music, bird song. Even the dog that’s been yapping at the vacuum cleaner next door all morning, these all create the mood of my day.

As I write this I’m walking through a field of oil seed rape, a plant that gives off a very strong smell. One with equally powerful memories for me. I am instantly transported to my childhood, around ten or eleven, when I would run through the fields with my two best friends at the time – both boys, not that it mattered at that age. We ran free and hid in the fields, racing along the tractor lines between the tall yellow plants.

Even though I smell the darn stuff every year, and have developed an allergy to it in later life so that it makes my eyes itch, the memory that sticks is that one from 25 years ago. Year after year, the smell of the crop reinforces that memory.

I guess the problem with trying to introduce that effect into my writing is that smells always seem to take me off on a tangent, to a memory that bears no relation to my current situation. Still, it would probably be good to dig out some of my old writing exercises on the senses and have a refresher. Find some better way to invoke the senses than endlessly writing about thudding hearts and the smell of aftershave.

________________________________________________________________________________

Claire watched the sensuous lips moving, aware she had no idea what words were being spoken. With a mental shake she tuned back into the conversation.

“…wouldn’t stop coughing, right by the Number Three speaker. I had to ask Simon to offer the woman a throat sweet. I mean, what can you do? I couldn’t throw them out the cathedral for coughing, but it was live on Radio Three. A dreadful dilemma.”

Anthony turned a worried frown towards Claire, seeking reassurance that he had done the right thing offering the persistent cougher a Halls. Realising some response was required, Claire nodded, as if discussing the viral ailments of visitors to Lincoln Cathedral was everyday fare. “I’m sure you did the right thing. So very selfish, coming to a concert with a cough.”

She was rewarded with a grateful smile that caused forgotten regions of her body to flutter in a disturbing way. Cupping her hands around her giant, sadly empty, coffee mug, Claire dredged her mind for a new topic of conversation. Hopefully a more stimulating one.

You’d think being in charge of recording concerts for BBC Radio would be an interesting job. Turns out I was wrong. How disappointing that every job is dull when it’s your job.

“Where to next then, Anthony? What marvellous audio delights do you have to share with the nation?”

Anthony looked vaguely perplexed, as if Claire had spoken in a foreign tongue.

Come on, my accent isn’t so very different from yours, though not nearly so appealing. She gave a small shiver of pleasure. Claire found the Scottish brogue inexplicably sexy, particularly when she was able to understand the words being spoken. Anthony’s silence gave her an excuse to gaze at his attractive face without hiding a yawn.

At last he translated her words in his head, and his face fell, like a school boy discovering he’d got double Latin next instead of Games.

“Opera.” He shuddered, so comically that Claire had to stifle a laugh when she realised he was in earnest. “Britten. The Turn of the Screw.”

Never heard of it. I’m such a philistine.

“Not that I’ve ever heard of it,” Anthony added. “But Opera, eugh. At least it’s back in London, at the Barbican.” He glanced at his watch, as if only now realising he had to get from Lincoln to London in time to oversee set up.

“Christ, is that the time?” He pushed his chair back with a nerve-wrenching screech, and spilt the remainder of his half-drunk latte across the table. Claire stood up just as swiftly, to avoid coffee spilling into her lap. She looked up at Anthony’s soft, wavy hair, the kissable lips, the heavenly eyes framed by eyelashes that wouldn’t look out of place on a cow.

He would be a worthy replacement for Josh in my dreams. If he wasn’t such a boring idiot.

Claire held her hand out to the frazzled man, who took it with a weak grasp, leaning forwards to plant a kiss on her ear, before fleeing the coffee shop.

“Bye,” Claire said to the empty space in front of her. Then she collapsed back onto her chair and gave in to the storm of laughter swirling in her breast.

***

“I’m Just…” 2013 365 Challenge #130

I’m Just Finishing my Lunch Mummy

One of the things I’ve discovered since spending many hours a week writing for a living (and since having children) is that I have lots of phrases and words that I say too often, without realising it.

I noticed it from the children first, when phrases like “that’s so random” started coming out of my daughter’s mouth.

I haven’t tallied it, that would be too depressing, but I imagine I say it a dozen times a day. That at least is quite cute coming from a four-year-old. There are other phrases, some repeatable, some not, that I’d rather my kids hadn’t learned.

Phrases crop up in my writing too. I’m considerably more aware of them since starting the daily blog, because I’m also editing every day. In the past editing happened in chunks, I would use ‘find/replace’ to remove evil, repetitive words, and they would disappear from my mind. Words like “Wow” and “Absolutely” spring to mind. I say them, I write them. Far too often.

I’m Just looking at these gnomes and flowers Mummy

If only speech was as easy to edit as a manuscript. If I could ‘find/replace’ in my head and remove all the annoying words from my speech. Because, then, I could stop my kids saying them.

The naughty words or bad phrases they pick up from me in my weaker moments are easily controlled because they come back rarely and then only to test me.

The harmless words, though, the ones that are simply annoying: they’re much harder to remove, from their mouths or mine.

At the moment the evil word is “Just”.

I suspect I say it a hundred times a day. Something like this:

Kids: “Mummy, sit with us!”

Mummy: “I’m just going to stack the dishwasher/make a cuppa/ put the dog out”

I’m sure “Just a minute” is a standard parenting phrase, however horrible. Only, now the tables are turned. It’s:

Mummy: “Time to go kids, put your shoes on.”

Kids: “I’m just finding my toy/ making my bed/ putting this irrelevant thing into this box.”

Knowing you started it makes it no less frustrating. More so in fact. Now every time I hear myself saying “Just”, I cringe and attempt to think of another word. I’m as self-conscious in my speech as I am becoming in my writing, through editing Claire every day. I just need to think of different words, then I just need to say them often enough that the kids just forget they ever heard the word just. Hmmm.

________________________________________________________________________________

Claire stood chewing a fingernail, watching the two men talking through the small pane of glass in the door. A knot behind her ribs throbbed in time with the ache in the back of her skull. I should probably drink something other than caffeine before my head caves in.

She could hear Ruth breathing softly behind her. The sound was no longer comforting. Her sister hadn’t woken once in the twelve hours and more since Claire had arrived at the hospital. She studied the faces of the doctor and her brother, trying to guess the gist of their conversation from their expressions.

Both looked serious but Claire knew that was Robert’s habitual expression, and tried not to let it twist the knot ever tighter in her tummy. The room closed in around her, hot and muggy. Claire had already tried the window but it didn’t open.

What do they think Ruth will do, try and shimmy down the drainpipe and run for freedom. Or maybe someone will climb up four stories and break in to steal the personal effects of a sick person. There must be easier methods of security.

A dry cough behind her caused Claire to spin round. Grasping the wall to steady herself as lack of sleep and too much caffeine made her head spin, Claire peered at the lump of sheets on the bed to see if Ruth was awake. There seemed no life and for a moment Claire felt her own heart stop. Don’t let her be dead, I couldn’t stand it. Not on my watch. Not ever.

With a push against the wall, Claire propelled herself towards the bed, slumping onto the pull down mattress before her knees betrayed her.

“Ruth? Can you hear me, sis?” And still the motionless silence dragged at the air, making it hard to breathe. Claire leaned closer, trying to see her sister’s face. It was turned into the pillow as if hiding from the brightness.

“Do you want me to turn out the light, Ruthie?” There was no response. Then Claire thought she could detect a flicker of movement, a flutter of eyelash. One eye flicked open, searched around, then closed again.

“Light’s fine.”

Claire exhaled loudly in relief.

“But, Claire…”

She waited, straining to hear the whisper of sound.

“If you’re going to lean so close after coffee, can you at least suck on a mint?””

Claire sat back in shock, heat flooding her face. Then she heard the dry coughing sound again and realised her sister was laughing. Feeling as high as helium, she began laughing too. She saw the doctor and Robert turn towards the sound, their matching frowns deepening. The sight only made Claire laugh harder.

***

Breaking the Rules and the See-Saw of Self Doubt: 2013 365 Challenge #88

My new YA cover

Well, here it is. My new cover. Apologies to everyone bored to the back teeth of my self-publishing adventures. I have to make sure this blog is about my writing as well as my parenting journey!

Actually today has been a watershed sort of day in my personal journey as an author. I’ve been oscillating between hope and doubt since breakfast. First off I flexed the credit card and bought this gorgeous photograph – isn’t it stunning? Oh to take a picture like that. It reminds me of a bit in Baby Blues, when Helen takes an amazing photograph that leaves everyone stunned. It’s hard to imagine how one image can have that impact until you see one.

I asked the photographer if he had a vertical version better suited to a book cover (the original of this one is horizontal) and he sent me another from the shoot. It wasn’t the same at all. The expression was more sulky than vulnerable, as if the model was saying, get me out of this damn rain, I’m cold. So I had to work with this horizontal one and create a ‘rainy’ background for it to sit on.

That was my high (working with beautiful photographs is like a drug).

My low came after reading a post on Catherine, Caffeinated‘s blog, by an editor, about why you must have an editor if you intend to self publish. I posted a comment along the lines that I just plain can’t afford one and her response was, well then you mustn’t self-publish. I’ve thought that before and I don’t blame her for saying it. However if I listen to that advice I’m back to querying agents and wondering everyday if I’m meant to be an author. It took the edge off my excitement about the new cover. Especially as hubbie confessed to hating the type font of my novel (I do too, so that’s okay) and to finding another typo. I’m sure the manuscript is littered with them and I do intend to have another run through with fresh eyes. Only now I’m scared to look in case there are hundreds!

Sneak Preview of March Cover

My see-saw of self-doubt tipped upwards again with a lovely comment on my blog from someone who is also self-publishing (albeit with the use of a professional editor!). She stopped by to tell me not to be disheartened by Catherine’s comments and that people will forgive a badly edited book for a good story. Well, they did with Twilight so I know that’s true.

I’ve ended the day somewhat level on my see-saw. I know I’m breaking the rules by self-publishing without paying for the services of an editor or proof-reader and without going through my manuscript again the minute someone spotted a typo.

I will do. One day.

But if I wait for the right time I might never get anything done because by the time the kids have started school, or left home, or whenever is a good time to focus, I will have talked myself out of doing it. I have a short attention span and a small amount of self-belief so I have to carpe diem.

There’s been a song floating round my head for weeks (hubbie has it on his ipod playlist I think) and I heard it on the radio today while working on my front cover. It sums up where I am nicely:

You’ve got the words to change a nation
but you’re biting your tongue
You’ve spent a life time stuck in silence
afraid you’ll say something wrong
If no one ever hears it how we gonna learn your song?
So come on, come on

I don’t think my words will change a nation but I do so love Emeli Sandé’s song and I love the concept of Our Version of Events. Everyone has an opinion on the right way of doing things – be it writing, parenting or anything else. Our job is to discover our version of events and stick to that.

__________________________________________________________________________________

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. You can catch up by downloading the free ebook volumes on the right hand side of the blog:

__________________________________________________________________________________

Claire looked up at the hills towering either side, blocking out the sun. Bloody typical. It was almost spring-like back at the hostel. I could be sitting in the lounge ignoring the awful floor covering, reading my book and drinking tea. An image of the scene she’d left behind floated into her mind: Fiona and Josh entwined on the sofa, chatting to baby Lily, while Sophie and Lucas played snap on the bright blue carpet. Even though she was pretty certain the domestic bliss had lasted approximately five minutes before one of the children was screaming or sobbing, the sight had still left an odd taste in her mouth. I’m better off out of it. A morning spent in the Hall grounds with Josh’s kids was sufficient to convince her peace was rare and fleeting.

I certainly didn’t need to come out on a five-mile-hike to escape. Although I guess I do need something for the blog. I can’t coast on the concussion excuse forever.

Her rough research had suggested a walk along Wolfscote and Beresford Dales would be picturesque and easy-going. Unfortunately the website’s estimate of a two-hour circuit hadn’t allowed for the snow. The path was hidden and she had slipped several times on the crunchy ice-crystals that had formed in the heart of the dale.

To her right the river Dove gushed along, swollen and grey from the melting snow water. On the internet pictures the brook had sparkled in summer sunshine. You’d think an Advertising Director would be trained not to believe everything she sees, especially online.

The footpath snaked through tightly packed hills, making Claire feel like she was walking between a giant pair of breasts. Lovely. Josh will piss himself when I tell him. He’ll be gutted he didn’t come. Then she remembered Fiona’s expression as she announced her afternoon plans, and her smile dropped away. Josh had glanced at his wife and met a blank stare, as if she had decided not to influence her husband’s decisions. Claire hadn’t been so lucky. The woman had flashed her a micro-glance that had slapped her across the face. It wasn’t necessary. I wouldn’t have let him come. Wandering around with a single man is one thing, but hiking alone with a married man – even one who is just a friend – isn’t my style.

Lost in her thoughts, Claire didn’t realise she had left Wolfscote Dale and entered Beresford Dale until she saw the looming pile of limestone ahead of her. Ah, the Celestial Twins. Look like lumps of rock to me. The Twins didn’t seem as impressive as they had in the pictures. Claire guessed it was because they blended into the dirty-grey snow lying thickly on the Dale floor.

She took some snaps of the edifice for the blog, before hurrying on along the path. The valley narrowed, enclosing her like a rumpled duvet, until she was striding along a gorge. Despite the blue sky and hints of invisible sunshine, the gorge was lost in shadow. Claire felt the air temperature drop even lower, but sighed with relief as the blasting wind fell away. It wasn’t late but it felt oppressive in the gorge and Claire was glad when the footbridge came into sight.

She stood at the edge of the bridge, listening to the roar of the river beneath her. The water was only inches from the bridge, although the planks were still dry. I wonder how low the water is normally and how long before the bridge is complete submerged. As if she feared that might happen imminently, Claire forced herself to plant one boot on the wood and then another. Closing her ears to the thunderous noise, she scuttled as fast as she could across the bridge and only breathed when her boots landed in snow again.

At last the valley opened out and the sun twinkled on the horizon, dazzling Claire’s eyes even though it no longer held any warmth. The field stretched ahead of Claire and she realised she had no idea which way to go. In the dales and the gorge the path had been obvious, despite being mostly buried by snow. Now, out in the open, there were no obvious markers to follow and no footsteps to show the way.

Fear tightened in Claire’s chest until her ribs ached. She tried to keep calm but memories of the mugging tugged at her mind and wound up her pulse. Great. I’m lost. The hostel is only a mile or so away. I can almost taste my cuppa and feel the warmth of the wood burner. She shook her hands in an attempt to bring life back into them. Her fingers tingled with the loss of sensation caused by the wind penetrating her flimsy gloves. Mental note to buy some fleece-lined gloves at the next opportunity.

Claire fumbled through her pockets for her new phone, praying there was signal. Eventually, with nerveless hands and thudding head, she managed to load up her satnav system and find out what direction would take her to the village.

I hope the drive to Cambridgeshire tomorrow is easier than this, or I’m going to be late to collect my niece. And Ruth will kill me.

***

Publishing for beginners – a few easy steps (patelliott.blogspot.co.uk) – This is very funny and written by the lovely lady who gave my confidence a boost! 🙂
25 Ways to be a Happy Writer (terribleminds.com) – Full of swearing but very funny
Help Is Out There (elizasarahgraham.com)
Publishing non – negotiable: Hire an editor (megaphonesociety.wordpress.com)
7 Things Editors at Children’s Book Publishers Wish Writers Knew (write4kids.com)
The Last Minute Editing Process Made Easy With Scrivener (everythingscrivener.wordpress.com)

Dressing up, Dog Walking and Self Doubt: 2013 365 Challenge #63

My proof copies and my craft books

Today was a lovely Sunday of swimming, dog walking, family visiting and playing dressing up with Mummy’s wedding dress. (Not me, obviously, I can’t get it on any more!)

My little babies managed to walk all the way to the top of the field behind my parents’ house and back without being carried. That’s a first. We saw deer and rabbits and the kids and dogs had a great run in the sun.

Perfect.

It made up for getting to the pool this morning to find a Gala on. We had to drive to the next town and suffer an inferior swimming experience. At least we’ll appreciate our local pool all the more next time we get there, especially a dry changing room floor! It’s the little things.

Self-doubt came swooping down today, through the medium of Social Media. I read two things that reminded me not to get too cocky or over confident, although neither was intended that way or was even directed at me. (And I can’t imagine being cocky or self-confident in any universe).

The first lesson came from a thread on a LinkedIn Group I follow and it was about self-published authors not having their manuscripts properly edited. Lisa Tannier wrote:

I see so many complaints lately from Indie readers about lack of editing. It is like the author is in such a hurry to publish that they skip over a crucial part of writing the book.

Guilty! I can’t afford an editor and I know I should probably have done at least one more revision on Dragon Wraiths before I stuck it on Kindle. Lisa’s comment was followed up by one written by an Editor (although I did note it had a couple of I-wrote-too-quickly typos, which wouldn’t endear me to an editor!) Caryl McAdoo replied:

And, thing about self published authors, many DON’T have a good story told from characters from their Point of View – their work is full of passive to-be verbs, attributions, too many ‘ing’s and ‘ly’s, and unnecessary prepositional phrases.

I confess I didn’t even understand all of her comment: my grammar is pretty poor and mostly I’ve focussed on getting my punctuation right. I know full well my writing is too passive and I don’t use enough punchy verbs, instead of littering ‘ing’s and ‘ly’s through my prose. It made me shiver to read her comment because I fear a slating review (though with only 4 Dragon Wraiths copies sold I don’t think anyone is going to bother writing one!)

My little girl growing up

The second chastening lesson came via a conversation with Charlene K Blackwell on Twitter. She mentioned that she’s reading Orson Scott Card’s craft book Characters and Viewpoint. I have a copy on my shelf, it’s a great book. But I haven’t read it in at least a year, possibly more. I bought my craft books when I taught Creative Writing briefly to an adult education class (much to my shock and terror as I never expected to get the job.) I also studied craft with the Open University while pregnant with my first child. I confess, though, that I rarely open a craft book these day. They sit on my shelf next to my print-proofs and that’s probably as close as they’ve got to each other.

The thing is, I’m impatient. Terribly, terribly impatient. And easily bored. I can cope with two, maybe three, revisions of a manuscript then I’m sick of the sight of it. Part of the reason I put Dragon Wraiths live was to get some critique on it because I don’t have the guts to join a critique group. How nuts is that? I don’t want honest feedback from a small group of fellow writers so instead I’ll put it out for any random stranger to tear it apart!

Actually I have spent more time editing and rewriting my Claire instalments than any of my manuscripts. I used to think I had to plough through a first draft and then edit it after the words were out. Now I suspect the new way is better for me. Write a little bit every day and then polish it until it shines because chances are I won’t have the patience to do it properly when the book is finished. It’s a lowering thought.

So my new aim is to start re-reading my craft books and to incorporate bits into my Claire posts. I’ll relearn the things I’ve forgotten and maybe I’ll manage to eradicate some of the passive verbs and ‘ly’s. Here’s hoping.

_______________________________________________________________________________________

Claire paced through the milling crowd of passengers and tearful family members without registering them. At the back of her mind a nagging sense of loss itched like nettle rash. She patted her pockets for the fifth time, convinced she must have left her phone or keys in the café.

“Claire?”

The sound trickled through the hubbub of noise and brushed at Claire’s cheek. She half turned her head then carried on walking.

Even the memories are taunting me now. Thanks guys, impeccable timing.

“Claire Carleton?”

Stronger this time; more stream than trickling brook. It cut through the swaying trees of strangers and curled around her feet. Her heart stopped and her body followed suit, frozen in place by an impossible sound.

Not impossible though. Not even unexpected. He practically lived in this place when he wasn’t at mine.

Glacier-slow, Claire twisted her head to locate the source of the sound without giving away that she’d heard. Except of course her body had betrayed her by standing still. Stillness gave you away in a place of perpetual motion and Michael was by her side before she’d even had a chance to locate the direction of his voice.

“It is you.”

He stood too near for comfort but too far for touching. His hands hung loosely as if they had already reached out for an embrace and been repulsed.

Claire kept her head low, allowing a wall of hair to shield her. She could tell Michael was itching to reach forward and brush it behind her ear as he always did: to laugh as he always did when it fell forward again with the irresistible pull of gravity.

His breathing was fast, as if he had run across the Arrivals hall to catch her. A hurrying man with a case on wheels and a laptop bag pushed between them, oblivious to the tight cord his movement had severed. The wave of his passing swirled the scent of Eternity round Claire, weakening the joints of her knees and making her tummy wobble.

They smiled then, sharing a moment of humour at the severance of their precious moment. As always, his smiled jolted her heart and warmed her skin like summer sun.

Oh Michael. Damn you for being here. Now. When I desperately need a hug.

She raised a foot to step towards him, reached a hand to clasp his arm and lean in for a continental greeting. Another voice called out; spewing forth like a burst pipe.

“Michael? Where are you? We’re going to miss our train. Oh…” The voice approached and stopped short of where Michael and Claire stood face to face.

“Claire. How lovely to see you. Michael said you were in the Outer Hebrides or something.” The clipped tones could cut glass. Or hearts.

Claire heard only half the sentence: the remainder was drowned out by the roar of blood in her ears. She felt it rushing to her face, heating the skin until it glowed like blacksmith’s steel.

Michael’s face drained of colour in response, as if she now had all his red hue too. He opened his mouth to speak but Claire raised a hand to fend off his words. She blinked at the tears welling in betrayal and spun herself round before he could witness them.

As she stalked away she heard Debbie’s strident tones curling after her.

“How rude. She never did have much grace.”

Claire broke into a run, not caring who saw, the need to escape stronger than her sense of pride.

***

Writer’s Guilt: Don’t Let it Drown You (Writability: http://avajae.blogspot.co.uk)
Can you Lose the Ability to Write? (Writability: http://avajae.blogspot.co.uk)
Why Critiquing Others Helps You (Writability:http://avajae.blogspot.co.uk)

Addicted to Artwork: 2013 365 Challenge #60

I need to learn to finish a book before I design the cover! 🙂

Okay so I really need to either a) start a business designing cheap book covers for people or b) remove Adobe Photoshop from my PC.

I spent a precious hour today trying to find the right image for my next self-publishing adventure – even though I haven’t finished proof-reading/editing the final draft yet. It was originally called Pictures of Love (and I did a cover for it, with a picture of a camera). But I decided it didn’t sell itself or its genre properly in the tiny image you get on Kindle.

I decided to come up with a more genre-appropriate title and book cover. I settled on Baby Blues & Wedding Shoes although I’m not sure that’s brilliant either. My original concept for the cover was to have it as an illustration, with a picture of a teddy or rattle and some nice white shoes… Then I discovered illustrations are expensive to buy (and book covers designers are even more expensive when you’re starting out and have no budget.) I tried to create it myself but after spending an hour photographing my son’s teddy and trying to Photoshop it next to an image of wedding shoes I gave up. Maybe I’m not a book cover designer after all (unless you want a nice stock photo with some lettering on it – good at that!)

So anyway, this is my attempt. I like the image but I’m not entirely sure it goes with the title (the image seems quite serious, which fits the book to some extent, but the title sounds like Chick Lit). I need to tweak the lettering too, as it disappears into the shadows at the bottom.

The more I try and get my head around marketing the more impressed I am with people like Nicola May and Susan Buchanan. Their covers are eye-catching and they have a distinct brand. Incidentally three of Nicola’s books are free today (I discovered on Twitter – see, I’m learning how to use it at last!) so go and grab them for kindle if they sound like your cup of tea. I haven’t actually read any books by either author – I came across them on Twitter only this week – but they do look my kind of read.

Of course all this self-publishing stuff came today because I uploaded the second volume of Claire’s exploits onto Smashwords. I can’t believe I’m at 50,000 words including today’s post. I can see how addicted self-publishing can be and how tempting it is to put a book out before it’s ready. If I didn’t know that Pictures of Love/Baby Blues & Wedding Shoes needs a good polish I’d be formatting it for Kindle as we speak! And as for the three other manuscripts languishing on my laptop, when am I going to get back to those? The more I go down this writing path the more I have utter appreciation for the skills and talents of others! It’s not a journey for the faint-hearted.

________________________________________________________________________________________

Claire peered through the windscreen at the blue sign and swore. It was time to edge her way between the rows of traffic, to change lane and leave the motorway. Gritting her teeth Claire tried to see her mirrors through the lashing rain and cursed when she realised the wake of a passing lorry had pushed them out of position. She muttered a quick prayer and squeezed between two dirt-encrusted HGVs, wincing at the sound of horns as the rear one was forced to apply his brakes.

Her hands were shaking by the time she reached the exit and her temples ached. I’ve only been gone a couple of weeks. How can you forget how to drive like a normal human being in that time? Stupid car. I’d have been fine in my Audi.

She drove the familiar route into the city, relieved that the rain was beginning to stop. Even at midday the sky was dark, casting a gloomy light across the buildings and cars around her. Landmarks loaded with memories whisked past the window like luggage on a carousel. She exhaled. Not really the homecoming of the prodigal Marketing Director.

“Why the sigh?”

Claire looked at her passenger and gave a small shrug. “I didn’t think I’d be back so soon. Well, actually I did, but I thought it would be because Carl had changed his mind about trying to sack me or because I was booked on a flight to the Maldives, or…” She stopped.

Josh raised an eyebrow but she didn’t accept his invitation to elaborate. She wasn’t the one with explanations owing.

As the rain eased Claire was able to take some of her attention from staying on the road and apply it to the prickly problem sitting in her passenger seat.

“So, when are you going to tell me what this is really all about?”

Claire threw the words out there knowing they would fall on sterile soil. She’d tried to prise information out of Josh the night before, without success. Instead he’d introduced himself to Maggie and retreated back behind the backpacker persona. It had been the same at breakfast and during the two-hour rain-drenched journey to Manchester.

“Tell me why I am ferrying your arse to the airport to meet your wife when you won’t give me a damn thing.”

Josh hitched up his cheekiest smile and fluttered his eyelashes. “Because I’m a handsome Aussie bloke and you’re a swell Sheila who can’t resist me.”

Claire fought the grin but it crept across her face in betrayal.

“Ah ha see! No chick can withstand my charm.”

“And how are you going to explain that to Fiona?” Claire pictured their near kiss at the Observatory, thought about Beth and Chloe, and the anger returned.

“Your poor wife”, she bit out the words. “And children, I’m sure you mentioned children before you invoked your own Official Secrets Act.”

The smile dissolved from Josh’s face. Claire thought he was going to defend himself but he turned to look out the window. As she negotiated the busy streets into her home town she tried to ignore the growing tension. Do I push it or let him explain in his own time?

Angry words bubbled beneath the surface as she recalled the events of the previous evening. Josh’s highhanded summons, his shock revelation. Finding out he had kids after his avowed dislike of ankle-biters. Forgot to mention he had some of his own. Finding out he was married. What about all the women he’s come on to, for Christ’s sake, and done lord-knows-what with? What about me? How am I meant to face his wife at the airport? Just because nothing happened. It might have done. If he’d tried again. Which he hadn’t. Now she thought about it she had never actually seen Josh embracing anyone.

“You’ll have to talk to me eventually. You asked me to help you create a believable story for Fiona. I can’t do that if I don’t know the plot, or the key characters and their motivations.” She let her words hang in the air as she followed her Sat Nav to the hostel. She passed bars and shops that beamed like pictures in a family album.

I’m not here. No one can know I’m here.

Claire averted her eyes and gripped the wheel until her knuckles went white. A stab of sunlight broke through the clouds as she turned the car into a wide street bordered by three-story Georgian houses. Something sparkled ahead and Claire looked up to see the looming monstrosity of the Hilton Tower dominating the skyline. She was glad when the Sat Nav sent her right, down a cobbled street, and she spied the green triangle of the YHA.

Pulling into a parking space she cut the engine and sat with her hands resting on the steering wheel, waiting to see if Josh would say anything before they left the private cocoon of the car to join the cacophony of a busy city hostel.

She was about to open her door and get out when she heard Josh inhale and sensed he was about to break the silence.

His words fell between them like rocks.

“I don’t want to tell you. How can I?” The sharp edges of his voice rent the air. “How will you ever remain friends with me when I tell you I killed someone? I killed a child.”

***

Book Cover Design 101 OR, “That which does not kill me, makes me stronger” – Friedrich Nietzsche (thelindenchronicles.com)
Under the Covers (smalltownworld.wordpress.com)

Finally at Fifty! 2013 365 Challenge #50

Humpty Dumpty basking in the sun in our garden

I can’t believe I have reached day fifty of my 365 challenge. There were days I didn’t think I’d get through the first month. Now I’m 42,000 words and fifty days in.

I am beginning to see a pattern between my mood and the posts, with the daily installments getting darker and duller recently as the cold/cough/flu thing that’s been dragging me down continues. I’m finally starting to feel better today – the sun has shone since Friday, I’ve had some time home alone and it feels like Winter might finally be on its way out.

Definitely time for a more light-hearted post. If I can remember how! Back in the beginning I wrote a post about Writing Funny and I haven’t found any more answers since then.

The sun is shining outside the window, hurrah!

My main question is why people like the posts they do: is it because of the Claire installment or my daily diary/diatribe?

My last post was reblogged (thank you allaboutmanners) and I wouldn’t have said either section was particularly entertaining. I guess it’s like the whole head-shot debacle (see previous post). We will never know what it is others see in us/our photos/our writing and it will always be something different to what we see ourselves.

I guess the trick is either not to care or to find Beta readers (or life’s equivalent) who share our world view! Thankfully my husband is mine. He wrote me a gorgeous email to pick me up from my head-shot funk. And he has rooted for Claire since the beginning (largely because he fancies her). He’s a few posts behind though, since started his job searching in earnest. Maybe that’s why I wonder what it is people are drawn to when they follow WriterMummy.

All Seeing Eye by Freeforms: Ideas for the Dragon Wraiths Cover

The flipside to reaching Day Fifty is that I’m ready for a new challenge. I have the attention span of a two-year-old and like to keep moving on. I don’t mean giving up the daily blog, I can’t do that. But I do need a new something.So I’m investigating trying to self-publish Dragon Wraiths. I’ve always dismissed the idea because the text relies on using several fonts and that isn’t very ebook friendly.

My challenge is to see if Smashwords will accept it as is and, if not, how it can be altered. Of course what I’ve actually done is spent the day looking at stock images of dragons for the front cover. You can take the girl out of marketing and design but you can’t take the need to create pretty pictures out of the girl! 🙂

Anyway, enough ramble. On to today’s post…

___________________________________________________________________________________________

Claire swallowed a yawn and commanded her eyelids not to close. The words washed over her, refusing to enter either ears or brain. If the smiling volunteer in front of her had requested one single fact from the short video Claire would have had to admit defeat.

Besides, who cares? I learned enough about Ruskin at Uni to last a lifetime.

She glanced round at the other avid viewers wondering if they, too, were just waiting for the moving pictures to finish. Her fellow tourists included a retired couple and a gaggle of students with their Tutor.

I wonder if they’re Art, Science or Architecture boffs? She looked at them with a mixture of sympathy and envy. As long as they’re not in front of me when it comes to queuing for coffee I don’t especially care.

Claire gazed surreptitiously out the window, not wanting to be berated for her lack of attention but in dire need of something to stave off sleep. The restless night, coupled with an early start, was taking its toll. Maybe this wasn’t such a smart plan. At least if I’d been dangling by a rope 18m up I’d be wide awake.

Her early-morning internet trawl for ideas had thrown up only three options: kayaking around Coniston, Go-Ape, and a wander through John Ruskin’s pad. She’d decided to risk a short kayak on the morrow, when the forecast was for warmer weather. Go-Ape had been immediately dismissed. I’ve done enough monkeying around for this week. Maybe I’ll swing by later in my Lakes tour. She sniggered at her own puns and then decided she should stop before she went completely bananas

At last the video ended. Claire was free to meander round the old house and lose herself in the splendour of an earlier era. A soporific calm descended as she settled into the slow tread of the gallery viewer. It reminded her of college field trips and lazy Sundays.

This isn’t particularly thrilling blog copy but who cares. I’ll write something lyrical about the view. She glanced out the window at the lake, pewter-dark beneath cloudy skies. Hmm maybe not. She smiled. Despite the overcast day she felt at peace.

“Claire? Claire Carleton?”

Her tranquillity was shattered by the screech of estuary vowels.

“ Blinkin ’ell it is you. What’re you doing up ’ere in the arse-end of nowhere?”

Claire turned, heat radiating from her face. Please, no. I’ll do anything. Let it not be her. She raised her eyes slowly, as if allowing the universe ample opportunity to correct this terrible mistake. Her gaze took in sensible black shoes, tights, black skirt, and her heart lurched optimistically. Cherie would never wear such normal attire. Her head lifted to face the owner of the dreaded voice and hope died. Grinning cheerfully from atop a steward’s shirt and jacket was the face she knew and loathed.

“Hello Cherie, how lovely to see you. I hardly expected to see anyone I knew working here in the back of beyond or however it was you so eloquently put it.”

“I’m just helping out me ma for a week, she was left stranded by one of her staff.”

“Your mother works here?”

Claire had never met Cherie’s mother and had always assumed they were cut from the same cloth.

“Yeah she came up ’ere when pop died, couldn’t wait to leave Essex. Always said she’d made a mistake marrying ’im.” Claire looked over her shoulder as Cherie’s strident voice echoed around the room.

“Is she here? Won’t she be upset to hear you talking about her?”

“Nah she’ll be in the office. Besides we’re always ribbing her for her la-di-da ways.”

This from the girl who spent ten years at a public school and still can’t pronounce the letter H?

Cherie looked Claire up and down and her grin widened. “You’re looking a bit rough. Times ’ard is they?”

Claire gritted her teeth and then forced them to relax into a smile. “I’m on a special assignment for Coca Cola. I’m an Advertising Director.” She squared her shoulders before swearing silently. Damn, she did it again. How does she do that to me? She could see by Cherie’s sparkling eyes that the woman had achieved her intention of winding Claire up.

She hasn’t seen me for, what, a decade and her first aim is to antagonise me? Silly cow.

Unwelcome flashbacks from school filled the space between them. Claire looked around for a neutral topic, not wanting to get into a fight and ruin her serenity. Her eyes alighted on a poster with a Ruskin quote on it.

“Sunshine is delicious, rain is refreshing, wind braces up, snow is exhilarating; there is no such thing as bad weather, only different kinds of good weather.”

The appropriateness of it made her laugh out loud, remembering her trudge across the snowy Pennines and the scramble through hail to reach the top of Skiddaw. No such thing as bad weather? Right.

“Still larfing at me then, Claire? You always did fink you were better than me; lording it over us when your folks are nah better than mine.”

Claire flushed with shock at the bitter words hurled from frost-pink lips that no longer smiled.

“Me laugh at you? I spent my whole school life trying to stay away from your vicious tongue. I’m surprised you can stand upright with that chip balanced on your shoulder. Not that it’s any business of yours but I was laughing at the Ruskin quote.” Claire indicated the poster to her right.

“Still trying to get one over on me aren’t yer? Laugh at this dry old trout’s stuff? Now I know yer talking bollocks. I’ve never read such a steamin’ pile of poo in me life.” Cherie shook her head as if Claire’s words had merely confirmed her dislike. She threw one more spiked look at her erstwhile school companion and stomped from the room.

Claire stood motionless as the footsteps receded, unsure whether to laugh or weep. She became aware of shakes coursing through her body and a loud hammering in her chest. She nodded an apologetic farewell to Ruskin’s room and headed for the café.

I need caffeine.

***

John Ruskin Quotes (www.midnightangel308.com)

NaNoWriMo irony

The cover I mocked-up for Dragon Wraiths to print a copy via Lulu

I’ve been really struggling this week. Not just with a bad cold, conjunctivitis and a newly-unemployed husband at home scuppering my writing routine. None of those things has helped, of course, any more than the freezing rain, or the end of British Summer Time that has resulted in my kids getting up at 5.30pm every day.

No, what’s really killed my Muse at the worst possible time is the appearance of an unknown character in my head: my Willing Editor.

I’ve met my Inner Editor before – that nasty critic who stops me writing before I’ve even started and tells me everything I write is rubbish. I’m even on nodding acquaintance with my Reluctant Editor. The one who half-edited Pictures of Love before getting bored, and who tortuously ploughed through Dragon Wraiths to meet a deadline.

But to want to edit? To want to edit more than write something new for NaNoWriMo?

Unheard of.

Until now.

I think the change came when my husband commented on how much easier it was to read the second draft of Dragon Wraiths and has told me several times since how impressed he is at how good my editing was.

Praise – it works every time.

Also I’m deliriously happy that I managed to edit Dragon Wraiths enough to make the darn thing actually made sense. For the first time editing has produced tangible results rather than just giving me a headache. Hurrah.

The irony?

Well it’s Nano. I wasn’t going to do it this year, knowing I had too many projects on and am neglecting the family as a result. But I got swept up in the online chat, the excitement, the buzz (although that’s not being helped at present by the fact I’m not receiving the pep-talk emails. I really miss them and hope the guys at Nano fix the problem soon.) I persuaded my husband and my best friend to give NaNoWriMo a try this year. I wrote my top tips which said just get on and do it.

Then I got Writer’s block on a scale I’ve never experienced before. It has taken me five days to even settle on a topic and the one I have chosen is an old novel idea that’s so technical I keep getting dragged off into research. Thus far I’ve managed 1600 words including the synopsis.

Oh, and I’ve edited 30 pages of Pictures of Love. Properly this time. And do you know what? I think I enjoyed that more!

What if anything has derailed your NaNoWriMo this year? Will you get back on track? I now have a dual target of 50k words and 500 pages of editing for November. Apparently I work best under pressure.

p.s. one of my best NaNoWriMo-avoidance activities this week was making a mock front cover for Dragon Wraiths so I could print a copy for my mum for her birthday. It’s not what I’d choose for a final cover but I was pleased I managed to turn a word doc into a printed Lulu book (interior and exterior) in eight hours!

Revision blues

I have revision blues. I was so excited about starting to revise my WIP but I still have no real understanding of how to go about it, and when I can’t do something it makes me sad. Not very helpful or grown up, I know. If my daughter said such a thing to me I’d tell her it just takes practice and it’s okay to ask for help. She’s three. It’s okay not to know how to do something when you’re three!

I like to think it’s the impossible deadline (combined with a killer cold) that has sucked my motivation, but that’s just an excuse. I’m good at excuses. If I’m honest (in a way you can only really be with yourself at 1am) the difficulty with revision is that it exposes how little I truly know about writing.

I hate being a novice.

I nearly sobbed in rowing today because the coach was telling me I was doing it all wrong. It was only my fourth lesson but I’d done so well the week before it was crushing to be told I was rubbish. No one is more critical of me than me and I get extremely frustrated at myself if I can’t do something. To the point that – like my stroppy three-year-old – I stomp my foot, yell “Can’t do it!” and chuck whatever item I’m holding across the room. (Did I mention I’m more of a child than she is sometimes?)

I read another instructive blog by Kristen Lamb this week, this one was about structure and how it separates the beginners from the professional writers. I confess I didn’t completely understand the blog which probably puts me firmly in the not about to be published anytime soon camp! I do at least own the Plot and Structure book she quotes from: I just need to read it.

So, as well as trying to polish a first draft in an impossible six weeks, just in case I’m shortlisted for the Mslexia award, I’m trying to learn how to write and how to revise all at the same time. It’s no wonder I’ve picked up Garth Nix’s Keys to the Kingdom again. I’m already on Drowned Wednesday. I may not know much about scene and sequel or Goal – Conflict – Disaster but when it comes to displacement activity I’m a master.

The one positive I’ve had so far is discovering a useful revision summary by KittyB78. It doesn’t tell me how to revise but it does give some things to look for, such as scene flow and characterisation. I like the idea of highlighting different parts, like dialogue, internal thought, characterisation, in different colours. There are also some other great revision tips in the comments.

My biggest challenge this year might be resisting the urge to do NaNoWriMo again. I love it and several of my (unfinished) novels were born in November. However the last thing I need right now is another first draft to nag at me and distract me from actually finalising one of my existing manuscripts. Kristen Lamb is always talking about writers being distracted by the next new shiny.

That’s me!

Writing first drafts is so easy compared with revision and yet seems more like Writer work, so I don’t feel guilty for being unemployed as I do most days. If only they could do a revision equivalent of NaNoWriMo, to help and motivate you to beat a Nano first draft into shape. Now that I’d sign up to!

Anyway I think my darling son is finally asleep, despite the tap-taping of my mobile phone and the eerie sight of me up-lit in the darkness, so it’s back to bed for me. I haven’t revised more than a page in a week so must get a good day in tomorrow.

May the muse be ever in your favour.

Renewing my love affair with dragons (and editing)

Still from Stefen Fangmeier’s 2006 film Eragon.
Photograph: 20th Century Fox/Allstar

I find myself in the unprecedented position that I am itching to start editing my work in progress, Dragon Wraiths.

Usually I only enjoy the writing part and approach revision and editing much as I would a trip to the dentist. This time, though, I am having to force myself to finish the four or five chapters in the final section before I start taking it all apart. Thankfully I decided on a structure of nine 3,000-word-ish chapters per section (although I have added a whole extra section in my usual scope-creep), otherwise I would take the easy way out and decide the first draft is done already.

For most of my novels I am aware that I have underplayed the climax because I ran out of steam, or ideas, or a new book lured me away. So I am determined to battle through my battle scenes before I let myself review the whole and start drawing out the themes.

This time I think my last-chapters-lethargy is caused by things other than exhaustion or boredom (although with an average word count of 10,000 a day on the two days a week I get to write, exhaustion of ideas is definitely a factor. Hence no blog posts for a couple of weeks – all out of words!)

Firstly I’ve already closed out the love story and written the final scene. A mistake, but an unavoidable one. The final scene presented itself while I was walking the dog (see next post) and I never look gift words in the mouth. As a result I have written the bit of the story I’m interested in and skimmed over the same parts I often skim-read, namely the battle scenes.

The other problems are more positive. I am nervous, elated and excited about this book. It feels good. I have ideas about themes, character development, setting and so on that I want to build on during revision. All the wonderful blogs I read have clearly had an influence and I am eager to put them into practice.

I have also been reading some excellent and varied middle grade and young adult books about dragons, including Eragon by Christopher Paolini (written when he was fifteen!) and The Dragon’s Eye by Dugald A. Steer. These were complemented by an interesting blog post from 2009 that I discovered when searching for an image for this post: Dragons in Literature by Imogen Russell Williams, adding yet another great blog writer to my growing list.

As well as my eagerness to get going on revision I am also conscious of my deadlines. I am writing this book to enter in two Children’s Novel competitions, with deadlines of 10th September and end October. Clearly there is not enough time to revise properly so I need to get started as soon as I can or face a difficult decision: Whether to forget the competitions and focus on finishing the novel to the best of my ability or do a rush job (including reducing word count from 110k to 80k) and hope for the best.

What are your views on dragons in literature?

Have you ever had to rush revision to hit a deadline? All advice gratefully received.