Only a Small Peek

Here's the thing about me – I cheat. Not on significant things, like taxes, tithes or library reservation lists. But I lick the spoon after I bake a cake (though I am supposed to be losing weight), I look up the answers in the back of my Welsh book, and sometimes, despite my best intentions, I contradict what I have said on my blog. I wouldn't normally admit this. Only this week I have to – because I got caught.

I had dinner earlier this week with a newly married couple – let's call them Sophie and Tony (this is a clever ploy to protect the identity of persons concerned). Tony has a significant birthday approaching and Sophie had purchased him a gift online. We had finished main course (actually the only course) and were onto the Lindt chocolate when Tony said: 'My camera lens arrived to today.'

'That's quick,' Sophie replied, looking up. 'I hope you didn't open it?'

'Just s peek. To check it wasn't broken.'

'Tony! I told you not to look.'

'I didn't take it out. Or put it on my camera. So, it doesn't count.'

'You're hopeless,' Sophie shook her head.

I felt pretty smug at this stage. I mean I haven't peeked at a present since I was eight years old. Even then, I didn't mean to find the present. But it was a walking doll and mum had hidden it under my bed. It took all the surprise out of Christmas. I can safely say I haven't been tempted to peek at a present since. But I do cheat on other things and I was out of luck because, at that point, Tony needed a change of subject.

'What are you reading?' he pointed at the papers piled up on the arm of my chair.

'Oh, just some maps I copied from the State Library.'

'Old maps?'

'Yes, of Covent Garden,' I felt my face reddening. 'One's from the Regency Period. The other is late Victorian. I am trying to work out what the area looked like in 1841.'

'What for?' My husband (let's call him Joe) butted in.

'Well actually,' I swallowed it's for my novel.' Silence. I hurried on. 'It's just I did some TROVE searches and I found out the library had these old maps. And then I realised the Survey of London was online and a book called Old and New London. And I just started reading … I'm still having a break,' I added. 'I'm not writing or anything. Only thinking …

I looked away. Joe didn't say anything. Or Sophie. But I saw Tony smile because he knew that like him I'd been caught.

But, here's the thing about me. I love research. To sit poring over old maps trying to work out what a street looked like on a given date. To wonder how people lived in that room, in that house, or in that street. To read, and read, and read some more until I begin to see. Only a small picture, at first. But expanding like heat on a misted wind-screen. That is the way it works for me. It's heady. Like silver. Or nitrate. Or adrenaline. But is it cheating? The look on Joe's face told me it probably was. But really? I can't agree. It's not tithes or taxes, for goodness sake. I'm not diddling a library reservation list. And I certainly haven't un-wrapped my birthday gift. I'm just peeking – yes, that's it, like Tony. I'm having a quick glance in the drawer.

  

Drawer Therapy

Winning a writing competition is scary. And if the winning story happens to be the first short story you have ever written (apart from a rather dubious effort in year nine), then it will is much worse. The first thing you think after, oh, gee, wow, I can't believe it, that's marvellous, is: now I have to write another story - and keep winning.

The trouble is stories (short or long) don't start out as winners. They come out as crappy half-baked words all written around the pin prick of an idea. Infact, they are so elusive that when you workshop them for the first time your writing group sit, eyes round, faces slack, until someone finally has the courage to mouth the fatal words: But ... I don't get it?

At this point you seriously consider changing writing groups. I mean, all that subtlety wasted. All those metaphors unappreciated. The times you have said nice things about their rather ordinary efforts ... But you don't got to a workshop for praise. As masochistic as it may sound, you go there to pull the story apart. Layer by layer, like an onion; to analyse what is working, and what is not. To be grilled, questioned and challenged, until you know exactly what the narrative is about.

If you are a clear sighted sort of person, clarity will come early in the process. If you are me, you will fumble about as if in a fog. You will sit up late drawing mind-maps. Jiggle things about and make minor changes. Treat favourite parts as if they were indelible. Foist the narrative on another, more discerning, writing group (yes, it is necesarry to have two). Worry it over and over. Test it out on your long-suffering family until, at last, you give up and shove the whole damned thing in a drawer.

The word drawer in this context, is a metaphor. Not a wooden box slides on runners into a dark space. It means stepping back. Getting on with something else for a while. Letting your subconscious do the work. This is called Drawer Therapy, by the way. It is an essential part of the writing process.

But does this therapy actually work? Or is it merely a soft option? A way of giving up by degrees? Well, I don't know (not truly, deeply irrevocably). But at Easter, I wrote a short story. I re-drafted it a number of times. I sensed it needed to start differently. But I couldn't see how to make the changes. After a few months in the drawer, I began to get an inkling. It was time to re-visit the story.

I spent a day faffing about with the start. Then it dawned on me, my character motivations were all wrong. Scrambled infact. They were diluting the story's final impact. Yes, of course. Why didn't I see that before? Once, I had the motivations worked out, I started re-arranging the time sequence. I then added a whole new scene. Finally, it was starting to make sense.

So, is the story finished now? Is it stronger? A winning story? When will I send it off? I don't know the answer to those questions. Writing is a complex, mysterious process. But I certainly didn't have solutions before I put the story in the drawer. So the therapy must have worked.

Helpdesk eng sub.

Words

The greatest part of a writer's time is spent in reading in order to write. A man will turn over half a library to make a book.
Quotation of Samuel Johnson

I find this quote rather encouraging as I am currently in a non-word producing phase of writing my novel. In short, it is in the drawer. I am told this is what one must do when they reach a stalemate. When they have tried re-writing the same scene a dozen times, have sat staring blankly at the screen for hours on end, when they have risen to sit, head in hands, tears coursing down their cheeks, for too many mornings in a row.

I have an image in my mind of my father, sitting thus (although, without the tears). His creased brow resting in a pair of big warm hands, his navy flannel pyjamas all wrinkled with sleep. It was his morning posture. And now it is mine. An, oh my God, how am I going to face the day sort of pose. What am I going to do without my novel – the project that has consumed me body and soul for the last six years? Will I ever get back to it? What if I don't? Will my characters ever leave me alone?

I don't know the answer to those questions. For now they are in the drawer. But I am reading, more than I am writing. I am thinking, sleeping, laughing, praying and trusting – yearning for a still small voice. I am confident – at least, I think I am – that in time a pattern will emerge.

Bread Run

Last night we had Bread Run and, just between you and me, I have always struggled with Bread Run. I mean, who'd want to go out on a winter's evening, bag up bread and drive round the neighbourhood delivering it to people?

I don't know why I find it so difficult. I mean, it doesn't take long, and we often had coffee afterwards, and these days Andrew and I can generally do the navigating without having to serve a divorce notice. But for some reason, Bread Run brings out the multiple personalities in me.

Yes, that's right, my name is Legion. But not to worry, this week I sent those bad gals into a herd of pigs.

Here is how the process worked itself out in me.

The first person I had to confront was Lizzie Liar: an I-don't-feel-well-tonight, perhaps-I-won't-come,' kind of gal. She was quite convincing. But, her lies didn't wash in the end, because, even though she was adept in the art of twisting the truth, she couldn't help bitchin' about Bread Run for days beforehand, and I was onto her.

Number two was Lizzie Light Fingers. The moment she entered the church kitchen and saw the mountain of bakery items on the bench, her eyes lit up. I mean it wasn't just white block loaves, but pull-aparts, and coffee scrolls and jam doughnuts, and cinnamon buns and scones and pizza breads and cheesymite rolls. And even though she'd already had dinner, Light Finger's mouth started to water, and she just wanted to try one or two scones … or slip one of those doughnuts in her bag.

In fact, if I hadn't kept an eye out, Light Fingers would have squatted down behind the counter and just start stuffing those bakery items into her mouth.

The third, and by far the more sinister, persona was the Lizzie Legalist. As she drove up to houses, knocked on doors and handed over bread, she found herself trying to work out why these people even needed Bread Run. I mean some of the houses were big, bigger than hers, and the lawns were mowed, and the cars in the driveway were pretty spiffy, and she always thought, hey, who's helping who here?

That is when Look Again Lizzie had to step in. She reminded Lizzie
Legalist that looks can be deceiving. She told her someone in that house might be sick, or recently bereaved or suffering from more personalities than she. That it might not even be their house, they might be house-sitting. That we can never judge, ever. Never tell how long or dark someone's road is or what might lie around the bend.

This shut the Legalist down completely. But then, Lizzie Logistics weighed in. She said, think about it: six people, three cars, time, petrol, risk, all for twenty dollars worth of bread.

I mean, how sustainable is this process?

Actually, I thought Logistics had a point, if you forgot about that long dark road.

But you can't forget that highway, not for a minute, because, let's face it we are all on a journey. At different stages in our lives that road may be rocky, lonesome, smooth, downhill or twisted. The only thing keeping us going might be the little brightly coloured stones we find along the way. And that's when it hit me. Bread Run is not about the bread (or the scones), the time, logistics or the legalities, it is about – dropping stones.

About putting something bright down on a dark path, and somehow lightening the load.

A shopping centre snap of my new specs ...

Old age here she comes!

Before I got glasses, I thought my Nutrimetics anti-age ultra firming foundation was doing a good job. I thought I was keeping up with the grey in my hair too. That the house was clean and freshly painted. 

That new kitchen we installed twenty years ago was holding up just fine.

I was wrong.

Goal Setting ...

I am in Tassie. My first ever trip to the Apple Isle. It looks gorgeous, but I haven't come for sightseeing.

I am here on a writing retreat - along with Denis, Lloyd and Mel.

Tonight, we are setting goals. But first, odd things I have learned about my writing mates on day one.

Denis has a pink camera. Okay, not such a surprise.

He also a snuggle blanket. It's brown and he looks like Obi-wan-kinobi. 

It's a little scary.

Lloyd eats Heinz frozen peas and corn for  snack. Hmmm... and he is denying himself internet access in pursuit of a higher artistic calling.

Mel has an extremely cool tattoo on her back - no I mean her whole back - she is a girl with a dragon tattoo.

I am jealous - but, don't worry. My nose ring is enough.

Okay, now for the goals.

Denis:

I need to do at least five scenes - each two thousand words. So, that's five days of writing.

Lloyd:

two twenty four page comic strips and settle on all the character's names, backgrounds and an outline for where it is going (the latter is the easy part, apparently).

Mel:

first child free week in ... actually, she can't remember, but maybe eight years. She is working on a short story, the whole rule of thirteen (to have thirteen pieces out in the market at any given time), and a feature outline for screen writing.

Liz:

I have reached a crisis point. Do I try to edit little bits and produce a patched together attempt at a novel, or take it on the chin and go for broke - like completely re-write the damn thing. I have passed the nervous breakdown stage and now I am trying to really, really brave.

This is no picnic folks - it is a writing week.