Thanks to an ever-expanding waistline, an increasingly appalling level of fitness and blinkered neglect of anything other than my computer, I decided I'd better have a break when I finished A Shaper's Birthright. It didn't stop me thinking about the follow up or the next book about Kat, but I was managing to stay away from the keyboard and was getting back into the gym - hurrah! Reassured that I appear to have a modicum of self-control, I decided to test the waters... I wasn't brave enough to plough on with a book, but my daughter gave me 'The Writers Toolbox' by Jamie Cat Callan as a gift last Christmas so I had a wee rummage and out popped a card saying 'mouldy oranges.' The topic decided, I gave myself one shot at writing something each morning, three mornings in a row. The following is what I came up with. I'd be fascinated to know what you think, so feel free to tell me here or on my Facebook page @strugglingauthor.
Mouldy Oranges I Her eyes are locked on the horror in the fruit bowl. Orange: the colour of sunshine, the colour of hope, smothered in blue. The pressure intensifies in her chest. A scream fighting to break free is building. It’s been building for years, on and off, making her catch her breath with its anguish, making her run towards another distraction to feed her denial. They’re gone now: the things she used to do. There’s nothing left for a gray-haired woman with legs that don’t work and a body that betrays her every command. She closes her eyes to dream of what used to be: memories of travel and study, of laughing and loving, of movement and beauty, of ambition and hope. The scream recoils momentarily from the fire of life, but, without anyone to share them with, her thoughts remind her merely of all that is lost. The reality of pain and loneliness defeats her. All that remains is the blue. Mouldy Oranges II It had been a good vacation by anyone’s standards. They’d gone back to France, where they’d first met. He’d been relaxed, charming, generous. It had reminded her of why she’d said yes. She’d seen him run his fingers over the hall table after chucking his keys in the dish, deliberately leaving an almost undetectable signature in the thin layer of dust. She’d made his tea as he’d walked the house, checking it was all as it should be. Her eyes had been almost closed when he’d returned. It had been a long journey. It was late. Her head ached. He’d pulled her to his bed anyway, the tea forgotten, her body's needs inconsequential. She’d spent the day plumping cushions that didn’t need plumped, polishing every inch of wood and glass, cleaning, cooking, getting everything back to just how he liked it. The house smelled of beeswax, warm bread and a rich, wine sauce when he got home. She’d been rewarded with a kiss. She’d checked again that the table was perfect and the coq au vin just right. She’d just started slicing the baguette when he'd surprised her by walking into the kitchen. He’d put his crystal glass on a coaster oh so carefully then come towards her. She’d seen that face a thousand times. She’d backed up from the scent of whisky and the look in his eyes. Stupid really, but human reflex after all. She'd tried to think what she’d forgotten, tried to think of a way to calm his fury, but her mind had frozen... The police officer stared at the ocean of blood slowly congealing around the body on the kitchen floor as he sealed the bread knife in the evidence bag. “Why?” he asked again. He saw the answer suddenly click into place on the blood-smeared face. “The oranges… I forgot to throw out the oranges.” Mouldy Oranges III The old truck rattled over the uneven surface, sending up a cloud of dust seen only by the creatures of the forest. Music covered the creaks and groans. The driver sang along, pleased to be getting away from the city. He nearly missed the bright plastic; he caught a glimpse in his peripheral vision just as he was going past and braked hard. Goddamn litter louts. If he could catch them, he’d string them up. It turned out to be a packet of crisps, a quarter full, as if someone had thrown it away in disappointment at the flavour or maybe kept some for later and lost the packet. Hikers, he supposed, shaking his head. He picked it up and chucked it in the back seat. He’d get rid of it responsibly when he got home. It must have been half a mile before he spotted the splash of silver foil reflecting the sunlight. He felt anger flush his cheeks. Disgusting, thoughtless tourists. No local would do such a thing, not that there were many. He picked up the ball. A sandwich wrapper? Curious, he opened the tiny parcel and sniffed. Marmite. The sort of sandwich a kid might like. It went in the back. The next mile brought him a small, squished up carton of juice. Fresh apple. He could do with some; his mouth had gotten dry. He reached into the cab for his water, the juice carton crushed in his fist. He sucked on the sports cap, his mind working hard, wondering what other crumbs he might find. He chose first gear and crawled along, looking for the rest of clever Hansel’s clues. There weren’t many: a shoelace, a school tie, a chocolate bar wrapper. He grew more anxious, thinking about what he might find at the end of the trail, but there was nothing. No one was hiding in the trees and the cabin was quiet, empty of all life. He opened the truck's rusty trunk, his nostrils flaring in anticipation at the lingering smell of sweet chloroform. He smiled as he lifted the pliant weight in his arms; he'd used more this time so it would be still for hours yet. It went on the sofa while he cleared its new home of the last toy, the clever one. He should have got rid of it last time, but he’d enjoyed himself so much, he’d decided to keep it for a while. It was a shame he'd not been able to get back until today: the smell was unpleasant. He threw open the windows then carried the broken toy to the cliff edge and chucked it over to join the others. Its backpack went second, careering off the side of the mountain, landing with a thud next to its owner. The Superman lunchbox was the last thing. Something moved inside as he picked it up... a mouldy orange, too big to fit through the hole in the trunk. Which reminded him: he best get that filled.
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The heroine faces two of her enemies, the atmosphere is tense, the reader isn’t sure what’s going to happen next… Neither, to be honest, does the author. All of a sudden, she finds herself typing inverted commas and a new voice joins the story: a weather-worn, elderly Devonian character, rifle under his arm and an Alswear wolf called Jack by his side. The author stops, bemused. Her finger hovers over the delete key. There isn’t supposed to be a character called Alan, but she rather likes him. She’d rather like to keep him. And so Alan survives, the heroine finds herself with a local ally and the author’s plan has to be adapted. Again!
Writing a novel, it turns out, is cannily similar to reading one, in my experience at least. Just when you think you know where it’s all going, something new springs out at you and the plot twists. For someone who’s spent much of her life writing formal, 'sciencey' stuff, it’s liberating, exciting and surprisingly addictive. It does, however, come with significant downsides including sleepless nights when the plot’s gone awry and the painful process of using that delete key when it doesn’t work out. When I first put fingertips to keyboard, ‘Kat’ was intended to be a story of love and revenge in the world of organised crime. Some may say it still is. You’ll have to take my word for it: the two stories are as alike as stilton is to edam. A victim of the new simplified approach to teaching in English in Scottish primary schools in the 1970s, I was never taught what a split infinitive was or even what a preposition or past participle was. Is it something I’d like to go back and slap a few educators for? Yes, it is, but I accept that most people wouldn’t share my view. After all, how many of us really need to know that stuff? The bit of me that would dearly love to be up to the task of writing a Booker-Prize-winning novel probably does but the rest of me is perfectly content with being someone whose grammar is less than perfect.
The hole in Scottish education did, at least, allow proper exploration of other writing-related matters. Punctuation, for example, was a relatively big deal and turned me into the pedant I am today. I confess, I even had a whole paragraph about grocers’ apostrophes in ‘Kat’ until I came to my senses. Do I always stick to the rules? Nope, but I chalk that up to author’s privilege 😊 “But, what about but?” I hear you ask. Is there anything more likely to split a crowd than whether or not it’s okay to start a sentence with but (or and)? As you can tell from my books, I’m a fan. It never ceases to amaze me that people will argue until they’re blue in the face that the word ‘but’ should never grace the space following a full stop but are perfectly happy with ‘on the other hand’, ‘however’, ‘although’, ‘still’, etc. Check a thesaurus, people! But then, we are all a victim of our educators. On that note, don’t get me started on the teacher who told my daughter’s class there were only three ways they should use an apostrophe: to show ownership, to replace a missing letter and, I kid you not, when the word is a plural. I think I might have ranted for a week after that one. I never look at the maps in fantasy books. Sweeping statement? Nope, I swear it’s true. I don’t find they add to the story one bit. Sure, the very first page of my ‘A Shaper’s Promise’ notebook has a rudimentary map of The Kingdom drawn on it in pencil because I had to work out distances and timings that made sense for a world without modern gadgets like cars and planes, but I hadn’t planned to add it to the book. So you can thank my big sister for the maps. She is a Geographer and therefore an avid map-looker.
Which begs the question: who looks at the maps in fantasy novels? Are there two distinct camps? Are we part of a continuum from ignorer to in-depth analyser with me at one end of the scale and my sister at the other? Maybe most people have a quick look and occasionally glance back to refresh their memory? I bet some have their ruler out to try to spot a flaw. (Please don’t, you’re bound to find more than one!) One of the things I regret having to delete from ‘Kat’ is the name of my brilliant fifth year English teacher at Williamwood High School in Glasgow. If you happen to know him, will you pass on my regards and let him know that he is probably the teacher I have spoken of most from my school days? He might be surprised; I’m sure some of my classmates will be as he didn’t have the cuddliest of approaches. My goodness, though, did I learn from him or what? (Rhetorical question – I know I’m far from perfect!)
He started our first lesson by telling us we were one of two top classes in the year who had got A’s in our O Grades. Egos bolstered, he then told us Highers were a whole new ball game, a million miles away from O Grades, and that he’d be marking our work against that standard from day one. I wonder what proportion of pupils thought we’d “show him”? Me, being a sassy, arrogant little **** at the time, thought he was talking mince (a good Glaswegian word for rubbish). I’ll never forget the day he handed back our first essays. No one had passed. The best mark was a D. He’d given most of us an E or F. Horrified looks and disbelief went around the room like a Mexican wave. We’d, gulp, failed? Was this some sort of joke? It became some sort of obsession for me to get an A from Mr Slesser. When it finally happened, I swear I walked on clouds the whole day. More than that, though, he taught me a love of literature, how to look beyond the words to the meaning, how to make prose flow and to never apologise for using your imagination. I don’t always apply his teaching as well as he’d like, but I will always remember the man who challenged the teenage me. Thanks, Mr Slesser. |