Blogging in the Wind

I've been in a bit of a funk lately.  It feels like nothing is moving forward but rather life is stagnating. No-one can afford to do much, business is quiet. I write and write but feel like I'm not getting very far. It's become abundantly clear to me that I'm not cut out to be a stay at home mum.  It feels like something has to give but I'm not sure what. 

I met an acquaintance on the train this morning. A completely random meeting, I'm not usually on that train and missed the one before by a nano-second so it feels like fate. I don't know her fabulously well, although we've been more than nodding neighbours for around three years.  Our conversation covered a lot of ground over the twenty minute journey and she helped me to realise how blessed I am. I thought I'd write it down for my own reference so I can refer back in my darker days.

Here we go:

I have my own business. It allows me to spend a tiny bit of time with the children in the morning and more importantly leave early so I'm home in time for bed/book routine.  Work has been quiet lately but I enjoy my job, I always have and know how lucky I am to be one of the few people who can truly claim that,

I work near a park where I go running during my lunch hour three times a week. London Zoo is on my route so I see Giraffes and Camels a couple of times a week. Also Herons, Ducks and Canada Geese. The gardens are beautiful and today they were rehearsing a musical for the summer open air theatre programme and strains of Chorus floated through the air. The park is full of happy tourists, students, families and lovers. It's a privilege to spend time there.

I have two beautiful children and a fantastic husband. He's not much domestically but is my tower, my strength, my better half. I would be lost without him and I am a better person with him.

I started writing last September. Since then I have been long listed for two writing competitions, received six publisher rejections for my children's story and am about 43k words through my first adult novel.  Being a writer might be a pipe dream, but at least I'm working to make it happen.

The nice thing about Blogging is it's a bit like therapy. You get to talk, follow your own stream of consciousness and articulate things that are going on in your head.

I've got to sign off now. I should be focusing on my business and trying to drum up some new clients. It might be a bit late for a New Year's resolution but my New Week resolution is to be positive, grateful and try harder.

Wishing you all a good week.

Submitting a Manuscript

I've just received my first rejection letter from a literary agent. It's liberating. Rejection isn't as bad as one might expect. Admittedly it was a very nice letter saying that as a small agency they take on very few of the many writers who approach them each year and, having reviewed my work, feel they are unable to effectively represent me.

Now that is a gentle fob off and it's clearly a standard response but they didn't laugh at me. Some young intern didn't shoot off a cynical, sarcastic missive suggesting I don't give up the day job just yet. For that I thank them.

The downside to this is having followed all the advice from my adult education class, as well as other blogs, I only submitted my manuscript to one agent.  I waited 9 weeks for their response.  Combining this timeframe with  JK Rowling rejection statistics of 18 rejections before finding a publisher it would take me 162 weeks to find an interested party. That is 3.12 years.

I'm not the most patient person in the world but surely that would truly test the commitment and self belief of any author.

The good news is I've since googled 'multiple submissions.' The general rule of thumb is that it is acceptable to make multiple submissions to agents so long as if and when someone does indicate an interest in your work you let the others know.

So go on, get your work out there, give it a go. I truly wish you the best of luck and really hope that soon we have some good news stories to share. 

The Perils of Scriptwriting

Our last assignment of term was to write a script in 100 words or less.  The brief was very straightforward, we read a script. There was a lot of dialogue, as you would expect, punctuated by stage directions in italics. We did a class exercise about a wedding and a big secret and off we went. Simples.

Or maybe not. I was really happy with my output and looking forward to the last day of term. We took it in turns to cast our plays and hear them acted out by our peers. It was great. Then it was my turn. I cast the teacher to read the stage directions. The prolific stage directions. At once I sensed a problem. She looked at the script and wrinkled her nose. Turned the first page. Exhaled. Sat back.

Everyone looked at her expectantly. 'I think I won't read the stage directions in this. See how we get on.'
'OK.' I agreed. Inwardly knowing it would never work, there was a lot that went unspoken in my script. The actors bravely did a read through. The class was silent. It made absolutely no sense.

'Perhaps we should try it with the stage directions?' The leading lady suggested.
'Hmmm.' Our teacher wrinkled her nose and sat back folding her arms.
'Yes, I think it would make far more sense.' Agreed the leading man.
'It's almost prose.' Argued our learned leader.
'It's very well imagined. I think it would bring it to life.' Pressed the supporting actress.

Thus pushed the teacher capitulated and a second read through went much better.
The gradual realisation dawned on me. I hadn't written a play at all. I'd managed to come up with a half play/half short story hybrid. Lazy. Caught out.

Of course if I'd visited the website that we'd been told to look at before doing our homework I might not have made this mistake. Or maybe not. 100wordplays.com.http://100wordplays.com/

She ain't heavy, she's my Novella..

This week our homework was to write a short story for teenagers. Eek. I've found a genre that simply isn't for me. Not yet anyway. Maybe when my kids get a bit older and I have an insight into teen culture from their perspective. For now I think I'll stick to what I enjoy, that is short stories and my burgeoning novella.

Yes I dare call it that now. It's taken on a life of it's own and I'm well past the 21k word mark. Even with ruthless editing it is clearly beyond a long, short story. It has been a voyage of discovery but I haven't been travelling alone. My characters have their own clear ideas of where they want to go, I just need to keep up with them. From time to time the muse deserts us all but going to class where I hear other people's writing and get set new exercises provides inspiration time and time again.

I guess that adult education is another form of 'salon'. We listen, share, inspire and support each other. Feedback from the teacher, who is herself a published author, is invaluable. We even manage to squeeze in a glass of wine after our session.

I'll sign out today with this wonderful quote;

I know that the best stories are those that are still untold -
so keep writing, keep creating, keep the faith. - COLUM McCANN

Well Read

We are in week 7 of homework, week 8 of term. I had my work read out for the second time since the course started during the last class. I have to admit that while I thought I didn't need the ego boost from a public audience it is good to hear your piece. It takes on a new life and gives the writer a different perspective.

My Magnum Opus is coming along OK. I think I was sub-consciously trying to finish it before the end of term but since my reading I've felt re-energised. I think there is still a lot more of the tale to tell and so I'm going to keep letting it unfold.

One of the many great things about doing this course is that the weekly classes and homework give direction and impetus for the student to keep producing work. In my case each homework assignment has given my story direction, my characters their own voice and my writing its own style. It's great.

I still haven't got anyone to read my work but I don't think I'm ready to show it yet. At lunchtime I thought of some new scenes to fill in some of the yawning holes in my prose. Then I went on to consider how my first story could become a critically acclaimed work and turned into an Oscar winning film starring Olivia Williams. Well. All dreams have to start somewhere don't they?

The Big Secret

I made an interesting discovery at class last week. It seems that quite a few students, myself included, have opted to keep our pursuit of literary technique a secret from everyone except our very nearest and dearest. Friends, colleagues, siblings and even children are ignorant of the fact that we are earnestly meeting in hallowed halls of learning and engaging in secret scribbling.

Is this a terribly English thing? Are we so afraid of failing before we start that we don't want to broadcast our imminent failure? Is it the fear of ridicule? Or is it our guilty pleasure? Could it be because we are  taking time out for ourselves? Time is so precious it seems over indulgent to even consider taking a 2 full hours out of a week, away from work and responsibilities to pursue a skill that eludes so many and favours so few? Shouldn't we be ironing, driving, organising, cleaning, gardening, volunteering, caring?

The thing is of course that it's not just the two hours at school. It's the surreptitious ducking out of life, excusing yourself from a room to jot down the character traits, plot lines or perfectly crafted expressions that pop into your mind while you're supposed to be concentrating on more important things. One of our lovely ladies likened it to having an affair. With a pen and paper? It could be far worse.

The lsland

Back then I was a writer who....
... read a lot
Now I am a writer who....
... wants to be a writer when I grow up
Soon I will be a writer who...
... will find out if this is going to work out

OK so not the most auspicious start to our first lesson. On the plus side I arrived on time, I got the right room and the natives (well regulars) seem friendly. The other newbies - and there were a lot as our class is over subscribed - seem to be in the majority middle aged, middle class women (like myself). I'm wondering whether this is the first indication of a mid-life crisis or simply whether this is how it's been since the birth of the written word. When was that anyway?*

SO lots of ladies who don't look too dissimilar to me with varying aspirations which all vaguely allude to a hope that at least one of us is going to be the next BIG THING. I say that in caps because it was like the elephant in the room. The unspoken hope. The big dream. That thing we cannot say aloud.

We had a lovely chat, it seems that part of this course is going to be a pretty touchy, feely voyage of mutual discovery. Some participants are a lot more vocal than others, there's the lady who makes up bedtime stories for her children, the mature lady who recently returned from back-packing and the lovely gentleman with a disabled son who having spent a career in science and technology is now looking to explore his creative side. Oh and a yummy mummy who is on maternity leave and looking to keep the old grey cells churning so they don't turn into baby brain baby mush.

It's a tentative, hesitant atmosphere which is bolstered by the presence of a handful of creative writing stalwarts. They've been doing it for years, clearly love it and lend the weight of experience to the class. Our learned leader is a published poet who is also a 'life writer' (that's biographies and stuff).

After a couple of timed, warm up exercises we scribble, read out and share (back then I was a writer...) we get to our first 'proper' challenge. Firstly our teacher reads a poem to us. It's called 'The Island' and was written by Langston Hughes. A couple of students take turns to read it out to the class so we can hear the different nuances that different readers lend to it then we discuss how it makes us feel. In the main it seems optimistic yet depressed simultaneously. We're then given 10 minutes to write about our own island.

Ermmmmmmmm.

The class bow their heads, cover their writing with one curved arm (no copying) and all you can hear is the sound of pens scratching on paper. That's weird really isn't it? You don't really hear people write anymore. Well apparently you do if you go to a writing class. I guess the clues are there.

I clearly want to start by making literary history by creating the perfect 10 minute novelette but after a couple of false starts, some pen chewing and 5 minutes of time wasting I decide instead to take my lead from the man Langston and write a poem which personally I think is pretty catchy. For a Hallmark card ad.

The lady next to me has also written a poem which she is very keen to read out. Its good. And dark. And runs circles round mine. I'm thinking about ripping the page out and throwing it away but don't want to spoil my perfect bound note book.

The teacher sets our 'homework' - we have to come up with a character no story as yet, we're going to talk about that in our next class, a full side of A4 'should be sufficient'. We need to know what they eat, where they shop, what they sleep in, where they come from. Oh yes and they need to live on 'our island'. Time to come up with a new island I think. Then onto my homework.

Until next week....

*A quick check on google indicates it's cuneiform which according to wiki is one of the earliest forms of written expression.

Picture 'The Island' (c) Little Voice

Che Sera Sera

There are a few things I think you should know before we go any further. Just so you know who we're talking about here.

• 41
• Female
• Married with 2 small children (3.5 and 2)
• I love my husband and children
• Employed full-time
• I love my job
• I go running twice a week during my lunch hour
• Our family includes 2 rabbits, 2 goldfish (which aren't gold) and an aquarium with a variety of tropical fish, a sea cucumber, starfish and hermit crabs
• My husband is a graphic designer who goes kick-boxing 3 times a week. His biggest dream when he was growing up was to be a ninja

A couple of months ago, when the children had gone to sleep and we'd just opened a nice bottle of Red, Mr Me asked what I thought the future held - What happens when we retire? It had never occurred to me. I enjoy my job and my life and can't imagine what I'd do if anything changed. But change is irrevocable and unavoidable. In the words of Van Halen 'you've got to roll with the punches to get to what's real'.

Wise words and a philosophical wisdom I'm about to experiment with. In anticipation of said punches I've enrolled in Creative Writing Levels 1 & 2 at our local 'Adult Education' centre. At 41 I'm returning to the hallowed halls of academia - the same year that my firstborn takes her first tentative steps into her own academic career. If you can refer to preschool in that way.

I'm unsure how this is going to pan out, and apprehensive about my first class but you've got to put yourself out there right? Right. Here goes....