It's June.
IT'S JUNE.
What in heavens name happened to May and to my commitment to be a good and regular blogger?
Here follows the excuse. Now that I blog (occasionally) I have begun to read other blogs (often) and consequently don't get round to doing the biz myself because I've used up my allocated blog time reading, not writing. This occasionally happens with my 'proper' writing too. Reading widely is imperative (happily) when aspiring to be a writer. I have discovered however that I need to be disciplined in these things otherwise I get carried away. No, wrong. I do not get carried away, I simply get lost in all sorts of alluring places. Ten minutes morph into four or five hours all too easily. I simply don't have built in time-awareness.
Does anyone?
At its worst this sort of time-warp episode can result in chaos, at best it results in the 'to-do' list for the day being shunted into the following day/week/month. But more often than not it results in said list being lobbed into the bin.
Now you may be thinking that I am a woman of lists and time constraints. Notionally I am. The concept helps me believe in my ability to organise myself and in days gone by, when all five children lived at home, it may have been necessary... or not. We survived even on the days that were entirely list-less. And there were many of those because I never found time to write them.
However. I digress.
I woke up this morning (blues riff running through my head; always does when I use those words) and I felt compelled to blog in the light of two 'bed versus shed' matters that came to my notice recently.
Just yesterday a friend, and I'll mention no names, was on Facebook enthusing about the imminent arrival of a shed. This shed is destined to be her writing shed. While I have never, face to to face, discussed the 'bed versus shed' debate with her, I felt... let down. I really had her down as a reclining writer. I'm coming to terms with her revelation. We can still remain friends, I think, I hope. I see her tomorrow. We will broach the subject, I'm sure.
On the other hand I attended a refreshing and entertaining reading by Tessa Hadley yesterday evening. She was introducing her new novel, Clever Girl (now added to my stack of books to read). The Q and A was informative and Tessa's responses insightful and detailed. Inevitably a question was posed concerning her writing methods and processes. Having been a bit down in the dumps about the earlier shed incident, my spirits lifted and my heart sang to hear tell of Tessa Hadley's need to remain, metaphorically speaking, in her pyjamas to write. Her dear, dear husband brings her breakfast in bed on her writing days and, breakfast taken and perhaps a little bit of reading enjoyed, she takes to her writing. How civilised.
To me, our common bond was entirely palpable. I could feel it across the room. Did Tessa feel it too? Hard to say but I'm pretty sure she saw me wink at her.
I made a mental note, there and then, to work on the little detail that separates her experience from mine i.e. the breakfast delivery bit. Until I get that sorted the current arrangement involving a quick excursion to the kitchen by my good self to grab a cuppa and a supply of chocolate Hobnobs will have to suffice.
I can't wait to tell my traitorous shed friend all of this. I will do my utmost not to be smug in my recounting of the details but I'm pretty sure she is a Tessa Hadley admirer so it will have an effect.
That said, I have to confess that my shed friend is also a damned fine writer*. Mmm. This acknowledgement does undermine, just a teeny little bit, my theory that 'bed' is better than 'shed'.
*With apologies to the wonderful Mimi Of-the-Shed Thebo.
Wednesday, 5 June 2013
Friday, 19 April 2013
Tribute to a friend
Yesterday I had a no-pyjamas-so-no-words-onto-paper day. I treated myself to a trip to my favourite bookshop; I met with a friend (a fellow writer - rather good one) and talked writing and books; I did a bit of literature tutoring; and I finished my day off with an outing to a poetry reading, hung out with some poet friends and drank some wine.
So my day was full of wordy bits and pieces but I wrote not a word... until I arrived home.
It was latish when I closed the front door on the night. I dropped my bag on the table and while sliding my arms from my coat sleeves I picked up the phone to chat with my man and to bid him goodnight. As I dialled his number I logged onto Facebook to see if any daughters were online so that I could touch base with them too.
On opening Facebook my screen was filled with a stunning picture of a friend of mine in a beautiful setting. More significantly, she was clasped in a gloriously happy embrace with her husband. Their faces radiated bliss. It's the kind of picture that could draw a smile from a doomster.
But my eyes filled with tears. I didn't need to read the caption that accompanied the picture. I knew that this beautiful, celebratory image had been posted to break the news of my friend's husband's passing.
I posted a comment.
I typed the first words that flew into my head (happened to include the 'F' word). Deed done I noticed that others had posted comments too. I read some of them. They were beautiful, well-thought out, considered. All I had managed to write was what some might interpret as an obscenity. And I call myself a writer. Huh.
So, today I have donned my pyjamas and I'm going redress the balance and pay tribute to my friend and her late husband and shout a little bit about this powerful and courageous couple here, on my blog.
Protocol would suggest I employ names but, as many of you do not know this couple personally, I will not do so as I would like to respect my friends' right to privacy. Cumbersome as it may be, I will refer to my friend as 'my friend' and to her late husband as 'my friend's husband'. Those mutual friends who visit my blog will know who I'm writing about. I should apologise to the rest of my blog visitors if this approach makes you feel 'left out'. That is not my intention.
Here goes.
To me it is memories of real episodes that make for the best tributes. Here are a few that have been running, Technicolour-like, through my head during the last few hours.
Those who knew my friend's husband would likely agree with me when I say he was hyper-energetic, hyper-intelligent, hyper-generous, totally fascinating and outrageously whacky. Added to that he was phenominal on the dance floor. I know this because on the occasion of my fiftieth birthday party the band started pumping out some great R and R and my friend's husband strode up to me, took my hand and said, "Let's jive, Bernie". And we did and it was stupendous. I'll confess, I'm no great jiver so it was a relief that by that point in the proceedings the champagne had rendered me giggle-ful, and I'd abandoned my heels under a table somewhere. Because, you see, there was to be no gentle introduction to the sport for me. Oh, no. That was not my friend's husband's way. He literally threw me into the dancing. It was exhilarating. He twirled me and pushed me this way and that with precision and with the authority and expertise of a pro dancer. We jived and danced our way through a couple of numbers and I started to get the hang of it. I laughed a lot, as did he because there were a few moments when it could have gone dangerously wrong (the danger being a serious loss of dignity on my part). Those few dances qualify as the best dance-floor workout I have ever experienced, ever, and, as those who know me can confirm, I love dancing.
I should have known that dancing with my friend's husband would have been an unforgettable, dervish-like experience.
My next memory is from their wedding day, only a few years ago. So many moments from that day are lodged in my mind but one image comes back to me again and again, one that for me epitomised the extraordinary nature of their partnership. It was the moment when, ceremonials over, vows exchanged, they drove off from the church to the reception. My friend hitched up her gown (a stunning vintage Ossie Clarke number if I remember correctly), threw her leg across the pillion of his old Ducati and wrapped her arms around his waist. He opened up the throttle on the bike and the threesome thundered out of the little country churchyard. None of the guests moved for several minutes. We were all transfixed, listening to the Ducati as it carried our two friends along otherwise quiet country lanes on their first journey together as husband and wife.
Great people, both. They perfected, as far as it is possible, the ability to partake in life heartily and honestly and they'd fine-tuned, also as far as is possible, the balance between giving generously and receiving graciously. As a consequence, being in their company was always comfortable, interesting and nourishing.
And now I'm going to sit quietly and rummage through some more memories and celebrate having known this good man who possessed gargantuan energy and a wild sense of humour.
So my day was full of wordy bits and pieces but I wrote not a word... until I arrived home.
It was latish when I closed the front door on the night. I dropped my bag on the table and while sliding my arms from my coat sleeves I picked up the phone to chat with my man and to bid him goodnight. As I dialled his number I logged onto Facebook to see if any daughters were online so that I could touch base with them too.
On opening Facebook my screen was filled with a stunning picture of a friend of mine in a beautiful setting. More significantly, she was clasped in a gloriously happy embrace with her husband. Their faces radiated bliss. It's the kind of picture that could draw a smile from a doomster.
But my eyes filled with tears. I didn't need to read the caption that accompanied the picture. I knew that this beautiful, celebratory image had been posted to break the news of my friend's husband's passing.
I posted a comment.
I typed the first words that flew into my head (happened to include the 'F' word). Deed done I noticed that others had posted comments too. I read some of them. They were beautiful, well-thought out, considered. All I had managed to write was what some might interpret as an obscenity. And I call myself a writer. Huh.
So, today I have donned my pyjamas and I'm going redress the balance and pay tribute to my friend and her late husband and shout a little bit about this powerful and courageous couple here, on my blog.
Protocol would suggest I employ names but, as many of you do not know this couple personally, I will not do so as I would like to respect my friends' right to privacy. Cumbersome as it may be, I will refer to my friend as 'my friend' and to her late husband as 'my friend's husband'. Those mutual friends who visit my blog will know who I'm writing about. I should apologise to the rest of my blog visitors if this approach makes you feel 'left out'. That is not my intention.
Here goes.
To me it is memories of real episodes that make for the best tributes. Here are a few that have been running, Technicolour-like, through my head during the last few hours.
Those who knew my friend's husband would likely agree with me when I say he was hyper-energetic, hyper-intelligent, hyper-generous, totally fascinating and outrageously whacky. Added to that he was phenominal on the dance floor. I know this because on the occasion of my fiftieth birthday party the band started pumping out some great R and R and my friend's husband strode up to me, took my hand and said, "Let's jive, Bernie". And we did and it was stupendous. I'll confess, I'm no great jiver so it was a relief that by that point in the proceedings the champagne had rendered me giggle-ful, and I'd abandoned my heels under a table somewhere. Because, you see, there was to be no gentle introduction to the sport for me. Oh, no. That was not my friend's husband's way. He literally threw me into the dancing. It was exhilarating. He twirled me and pushed me this way and that with precision and with the authority and expertise of a pro dancer. We jived and danced our way through a couple of numbers and I started to get the hang of it. I laughed a lot, as did he because there were a few moments when it could have gone dangerously wrong (the danger being a serious loss of dignity on my part). Those few dances qualify as the best dance-floor workout I have ever experienced, ever, and, as those who know me can confirm, I love dancing.
I should have known that dancing with my friend's husband would have been an unforgettable, dervish-like experience.
My next memory is from their wedding day, only a few years ago. So many moments from that day are lodged in my mind but one image comes back to me again and again, one that for me epitomised the extraordinary nature of their partnership. It was the moment when, ceremonials over, vows exchanged, they drove off from the church to the reception. My friend hitched up her gown (a stunning vintage Ossie Clarke number if I remember correctly), threw her leg across the pillion of his old Ducati and wrapped her arms around his waist. He opened up the throttle on the bike and the threesome thundered out of the little country churchyard. None of the guests moved for several minutes. We were all transfixed, listening to the Ducati as it carried our two friends along otherwise quiet country lanes on their first journey together as husband and wife.
Great people, both. They perfected, as far as it is possible, the ability to partake in life heartily and honestly and they'd fine-tuned, also as far as is possible, the balance between giving generously and receiving graciously. As a consequence, being in their company was always comfortable, interesting and nourishing.
And now I'm going to sit quietly and rummage through some more memories and celebrate having known this good man who possessed gargantuan energy and a wild sense of humour.
Monday, 15 April 2013
I've been absent....
I know, I know, all you lovely folk that visit my blog, it's been four months since last I posted a word.
FOUR WHOLE MONTHS.
Disgraceful that's what it is (that's Fragile Confidence putting her two bits in).
When I committed to write this blog the intention was to post a few times per week, word counts permitting. It appears that I have come dangerously close to falling into the most common 'new bloggers' trap. I very nearly fell right off Planet Blog - permanently - because I allowed myself to get distracted, sidelined, diverted from my ambition, even though I was clocking up plenty of book-words. Now I could blame this on FC undermining my confidence but you'll be delighted to know that this has not been the case.
My absence was all the fault of another old friend of mine who turned up at my bedside. Yes, Grim Determination put in an appearance, a most timely appearance, overpowered Fragile Confidence and banished her from the bedroom. It was quite a tussle; left me reeling for a few days. FC gone, good old GD sat with me the whole time while I finished the book, having convinced me, quite rightly, that I must make the book my top writerly priority. What a true friend. Must take him out for a drink by way of a 'thank you'.
It may be that none of you noticed my absence. Fragile Confidence is whispering in my ear (yes she's back - GD is having a well-deserved rest). FC's telling me that this is the one thing I am bang on right about, that no one, not a single living entity will have noticed my absence. She really is not very nice*. Excuse me for a moment while I slap her.
She's wrong, wrong, wrong. You see, I know, without doubt, that the cat adores my blog. I can tell by the way she rests her head on my right wrist as I tap the keys. She's doing it at this very moment and staring at the screen and... purring. It is a challenge for me, having her head resting on my wrist like this, and it must be very tedious for her - all that joggling up and down - but I'm happy for her to maintain her watch until I hit the publish button. FC can't argue with such devotion.
But I'm waffling. I must get on. Fill you in on my pyjama-inspired writerly goings on, cat or no cat.
So, yes, the book, in it's first manifestation, is 'done'. Three Boys, A Bike and A Barge has been final-fullstopped. You may be thinking that the title is a little unwieldy and you are probably correct. Further rewrites will have much to address, this I know. Mind you, it's not such a great portent admitting that the title is the first thing that likely needs a tweak. I will not dwell on this lest FC gets hold of this nugget of doubt and blows it up out of proportion.
There have been many Pyjama Days these last few months. Vast quantities of chocolate Hobnobs have been devoured. I believe that, single-handedly, my consumption of Hobnobs could keep McVitie's solvent throughout this multi-dip recession of ours even if the rest of the humanity were to give up biscuit munching entirely. Many, many words have been written. And, at the end of it, all my children (all five) still recognise me and I still recognise them (all five). Remarkable. Much has been accomplished.
But FC is back with a veangence. She edged her way back in last Friday just as I pressed the submit button on my laptop. Then she brazenly linked arms with me as I walked home from dropping a postal submission in the letter box just round the corner from our flat. She took it upon herself to laugh patronisingly in my ear and tell me not to go wasting all those busy, hardworking agents' precious time. It was horrible. GD is already off on his little holiday. Perhaps I should have asked him to hang around for a few days more. I hadn't anticipated FC's ferocity. She has obviously taken the hump at being exiled for so long.
Strangely, sitting here in my pyjamas, writing about her does help. I will ignore her. I will not spend the next few months scouring my inbox every ten minutes and cursing the postman for dawdling. I will not let her grind me down to a miserable, quivering blob of uncertainty while I await the fate of my book. I. Will. Not.
Ah, my Pyjama Days can be so productive, so useful, so therapeutic and, as GD pointed out to me (and he has such a sexy voice), the Schizophrenia seems to be losing its hold too. How handy is that?
* Damn it there's that word again.
FOUR WHOLE MONTHS.
Disgraceful that's what it is (that's Fragile Confidence putting her two bits in).
When I committed to write this blog the intention was to post a few times per week, word counts permitting. It appears that I have come dangerously close to falling into the most common 'new bloggers' trap. I very nearly fell right off Planet Blog - permanently - because I allowed myself to get distracted, sidelined, diverted from my ambition, even though I was clocking up plenty of book-words. Now I could blame this on FC undermining my confidence but you'll be delighted to know that this has not been the case.
My absence was all the fault of another old friend of mine who turned up at my bedside. Yes, Grim Determination put in an appearance, a most timely appearance, overpowered Fragile Confidence and banished her from the bedroom. It was quite a tussle; left me reeling for a few days. FC gone, good old GD sat with me the whole time while I finished the book, having convinced me, quite rightly, that I must make the book my top writerly priority. What a true friend. Must take him out for a drink by way of a 'thank you'.
It may be that none of you noticed my absence. Fragile Confidence is whispering in my ear (yes she's back - GD is having a well-deserved rest). FC's telling me that this is the one thing I am bang on right about, that no one, not a single living entity will have noticed my absence. She really is not very nice*. Excuse me for a moment while I slap her.
She's wrong, wrong, wrong. You see, I know, without doubt, that the cat adores my blog. I can tell by the way she rests her head on my right wrist as I tap the keys. She's doing it at this very moment and staring at the screen and... purring. It is a challenge for me, having her head resting on my wrist like this, and it must be very tedious for her - all that joggling up and down - but I'm happy for her to maintain her watch until I hit the publish button. FC can't argue with such devotion.
But I'm waffling. I must get on. Fill you in on my pyjama-inspired writerly goings on, cat or no cat.
So, yes, the book, in it's first manifestation, is 'done'. Three Boys, A Bike and A Barge has been final-fullstopped. You may be thinking that the title is a little unwieldy and you are probably correct. Further rewrites will have much to address, this I know. Mind you, it's not such a great portent admitting that the title is the first thing that likely needs a tweak. I will not dwell on this lest FC gets hold of this nugget of doubt and blows it up out of proportion.
There have been many Pyjama Days these last few months. Vast quantities of chocolate Hobnobs have been devoured. I believe that, single-handedly, my consumption of Hobnobs could keep McVitie's solvent throughout this multi-dip recession of ours even if the rest of the humanity were to give up biscuit munching entirely. Many, many words have been written. And, at the end of it, all my children (all five) still recognise me and I still recognise them (all five). Remarkable. Much has been accomplished.
But FC is back with a veangence. She edged her way back in last Friday just as I pressed the submit button on my laptop. Then she brazenly linked arms with me as I walked home from dropping a postal submission in the letter box just round the corner from our flat. She took it upon herself to laugh patronisingly in my ear and tell me not to go wasting all those busy, hardworking agents' precious time. It was horrible. GD is already off on his little holiday. Perhaps I should have asked him to hang around for a few days more. I hadn't anticipated FC's ferocity. She has obviously taken the hump at being exiled for so long.
Strangely, sitting here in my pyjamas, writing about her does help. I will ignore her. I will not spend the next few months scouring my inbox every ten minutes and cursing the postman for dawdling. I will not let her grind me down to a miserable, quivering blob of uncertainty while I await the fate of my book. I. Will. Not.
Ah, my Pyjama Days can be so productive, so useful, so therapeutic and, as GD pointed out to me (and he has such a sexy voice), the Schizophrenia seems to be losing its hold too. How handy is that?
* Damn it there's that word again.
Monday, 17 December 2012
I've been very distracted. Sorry. Had a bit of trouble with crooks, idiots and blocked drains. The latter is sorted now, thanks, but sadly the former two may require further attention. However I plan to ignore them until the season of jollity and fun is over so that I can get on and write and blog and enjoy life.
Almost back on track with the book word count so I thought I'd treat myself to a little bit of blogging. It's been a while. Where was I? Can't remember. May need to write amnesia into the blog's title.
There has been an interesting if a slightly alarming development on the writing front. I'd just found my word-churning stride when my two grand-daughters came to stay with me for a few days. This is always a delightful experience but on this occasion they provided Fragile Confidence with her mightiest weapon of writer destruction yet.
Let me explain.
It was bedtime and Willow and Bella wanted some stories.
"I'm sure Granny would love to read you some of her stories." Their Mum was all storied out, wanted (deserved) a night off. She knew that Granny could not resist an invitation to snuggle up in her big, comfy bed with the grandchildren for a bit of storytelling. "Bella, wouldn't you love for Granny to tell you the one about Arabella Rose and the Chalkdust Circus?" Bella's full name is, of course, Arabella Rose. She's very proud of the fact that her name appears in one of my picture book stories. She's equally proud of the fact the she is named after a real pirate.
"Pleeeease, Granny, pleeeeease." Bella and Willow were pyjama-ed and in my bed in a flash, arranging the pillows and making a perfectly-sized granny space for me right in the middle.
So we settle down to a lovely session of tales and talking, Willow on my right and Bella on my left. After a dramatic rendition of Arabella Rose and the Chalkdust Circus I read another of my stories to them, one called Jess and The Henbarrow Bus. They have an Auntie called Jess. I had to read Jess's story twice because Willow and Bella like to join in with that one. I was beginning to feel that Willow and Bella would keep me storying all night.
"Right my lovelies, teeth brushing time I think." I know, I know. You're thinking I'm a mean old party-pooper. The girls moaned and complained a bit but they're sweet little things. They slid off the bed and headed for the door.
Here comes the crunch.
Willow stopped in the doorway and turned to look at me. With a level gaze and in a quiet voice she said, "Granny. I have adventures too, you know."
I smiled at her.
"Yes. I do. And I really like animals. I thought you might like to know that, Granny."
These words, so precise and perfectly articulated for particular effect, were instantly translated in my head to mean, "So where the hell is my story, Granny?"
My mouth started working before the brain could intervene, as is its wont when it comes to the wishes and desires of the grandchildren.
"Would you like me to write a story for you, Willow?"
Her face lit up."Yes, Granny, I think I would." Then she turned and skipped off to the bathroom to brush her teeth.
I'd just been given my first commission....
Fragile Confidence exploded from the wardrobe.
"That'll be tricky. Got any ideas? No. Thought not. Well, you've promised her something now. Can't let her down. No backing out. Did you see the smile on her face when you said, 'Yes'? Aaw. She was tickled pink, chuffed as nine-pence." FC sat herself on the end of my bed (hate when she presumes to do that) and stared me down, with a sickly and somewhat menacing smile plastered over her smug face.
What had I just done?
Saturday, 3 November 2012
Oh deary, deary me but the word count is not behaving. Perhaps I need to treat myself to some new pyjamas. Or may be I should try plumping the pillows... or adjusting the angle-poise.
I must NOT let the Shed contingent get wind of this hiatus. Bed is best.
Believe me, do, when I say I am trying to be disciplined. I've locked Fragile Confidence in a wardrobe so she can't interfere and I've replenished the bedside supply of milk chocolate Hobnobs (true, that last act does not smack of self-discipline but it is essential). As anyone can see, despite our recent burglary, I'm doing my best, I'm soldiering on. However I have been knocked off track. I am utterly distracted; I can't for the life of me fathom why anyone would pinch my washing up basin, my washing up liquid and my washing up brush....
Perhaps my particular burglars suffer from some strange and debilitating form of Schizophrenia brought on by long years of thieving, a form of Schizophrenia that, ultimately, interferes with their 'value' judgements. It must be tricky locating a specialist fence for their brand of swag.
Will post again soon once my mists of confusion have dissipated and the word count has toe-ed the line.
I must NOT let the Shed contingent get wind of this hiatus. Bed is best.
Believe me, do, when I say I am trying to be disciplined. I've locked Fragile Confidence in a wardrobe so she can't interfere and I've replenished the bedside supply of milk chocolate Hobnobs (true, that last act does not smack of self-discipline but it is essential). As anyone can see, despite our recent burglary, I'm doing my best, I'm soldiering on. However I have been knocked off track. I am utterly distracted; I can't for the life of me fathom why anyone would pinch my washing up basin, my washing up liquid and my washing up brush....
Perhaps my particular burglars suffer from some strange and debilitating form of Schizophrenia brought on by long years of thieving, a form of Schizophrenia that, ultimately, interferes with their 'value' judgements. It must be tricky locating a specialist fence for their brand of swag.
Will post again soon once my mists of confusion have dissipated and the word count has toe-ed the line.
Monday, 22 October 2012
Returning to Schizophrenia and its numerous manifestations.
The next most prevalent variety that besets me would be the type of schizo behaviour my children and my nearest and dearest experience all too regularly. It's the form of WS (Writerly Schizophrenia) of which I believe I am least aware and that occurs when I've spent rather too long in bed with my characters. I emerge from my room and, to all intents and purposes, I am the matriarch, present once more at the heart of my household, capable of communicating with family and engaging in simple domestic affairs, such as cooking supper.
Trouble is there is a timelag (oftentimes significant) between my mind emerging from the story and me physically exiting my bedroom. This causes problems. I call everybody by the wrong name, I think I have said/done things but apparently I have not, I am dazed, forget stuff and am generally useless as wife and companion. It irks me; especially when I find that our meal has been sitting in the oven for one-and-a-half hours but the oven is not lit.... Or, worse, I forget to pick a child up from an after school activity. As soon as my phone blips with that text saying, 'Where are you, Mum?', I'm rocketed back to real reality.
These things happen yet I know I am a well-organised, highly efficient domestic dynamo. It happens because I have developed two realities: Bernie's World of Book and Bernie's World of Unbook. And it's hard to leap from one to the other.
Fragile Conscience has a habit of putting her two-bits in at the most excruciating moments of forgetfulness that occur mid-leap between these worlds. While pointing out that the book may be getting a bit too plotty, or that the dialogue's taking over and the whole thing's looking like a script, she will also take the time to remark to me that I may be failing my family, chronically. But my gorgeous children and my lovely partner step in at these times and help me persuade Fragile Conscience to 'shut it'. There are times when they are not as gentle with her as I would like them to be but their methods generally work and she scuttles off.
If I ever get a book to print (paper or e) I will have to include a long list of acknowledgements as I have five children to mention just as starters.
I'm not sure FC will feature on the list though.
The next most prevalent variety that besets me would be the type of schizo behaviour my children and my nearest and dearest experience all too regularly. It's the form of WS (Writerly Schizophrenia) of which I believe I am least aware and that occurs when I've spent rather too long in bed with my characters. I emerge from my room and, to all intents and purposes, I am the matriarch, present once more at the heart of my household, capable of communicating with family and engaging in simple domestic affairs, such as cooking supper.
Trouble is there is a timelag (oftentimes significant) between my mind emerging from the story and me physically exiting my bedroom. This causes problems. I call everybody by the wrong name, I think I have said/done things but apparently I have not, I am dazed, forget stuff and am generally useless as wife and companion. It irks me; especially when I find that our meal has been sitting in the oven for one-and-a-half hours but the oven is not lit.... Or, worse, I forget to pick a child up from an after school activity. As soon as my phone blips with that text saying, 'Where are you, Mum?', I'm rocketed back to real reality.
These things happen yet I know I am a well-organised, highly efficient domestic dynamo. It happens because I have developed two realities: Bernie's World of Book and Bernie's World of Unbook. And it's hard to leap from one to the other.
Fragile Conscience has a habit of putting her two-bits in at the most excruciating moments of forgetfulness that occur mid-leap between these worlds. While pointing out that the book may be getting a bit too plotty, or that the dialogue's taking over and the whole thing's looking like a script, she will also take the time to remark to me that I may be failing my family, chronically. But my gorgeous children and my lovely partner step in at these times and help me persuade Fragile Conscience to 'shut it'. There are times when they are not as gentle with her as I would like them to be but their methods generally work and she scuttles off.
If I ever get a book to print (paper or e) I will have to include a long list of acknowledgements as I have five children to mention just as starters.
I'm not sure FC will feature on the list though.
Thursday, 18 October 2012
The Schizophrenia Bit Explained
Target word count duly clocked up - in fact yesterday was a good day. I exceeded my target. I'm feeling smug.This does not always happen, which leads me, nicely* to the nub of todays outpourings: The Schizophrenia Bit Explained.
Today I am full of drive, ready to open the current draft of the new book, Recycling Dads, and crack right on. Today I love my story, my characters (even the nasty ones) and I can't wait to get with them again, find out where they'll take me. I am happy and enthused and this is good.
But this is not always the case. When 'yesterdays' go wrong and the words jam and those characters just won't commune with me, subsequent 'todays' are bleak; beset with foreboding. I dread opening that draft. It is not my friend. We both, writer and story, are strangers to each other. It's an utterly un-nerving state of being and there's a voice in my head, one that grates and whines, one that undermines Fragile Confidence and screams at me, things like:
What makes you think you can do this writing thing, fool?
Your story is rubbish - best place for it is the shredder
GET A PROPER JOB
Laughable, that's what you are, laughable
You call that a plot? Cat's cradle more like
Then it whispers, Gollum-like:
Give up. Give up. Give up...
But I won't give up. Doing that Gollum impression is always a mistake. It irritates me. Fortunately the voice does not know this.
I shut it out, have a cuppa, go for a walk, employ a few avoidance strategies (but never the ironing) and persuade myself after a suitable period of procrastination that my close acquaintance, Fragile Confidence, needs me to be strong. So I am... and I open up the draft... and I write some words while I murmur my much used mantra, 'any words are better than no words, any words are better than no words, any words are better than no words'.
This is just one form of my writing-induced Schizophrenia. I'll fill you in on its other manifestations (there are a few) in my next blog.
Not wishing to sound unkind, I do so hope some of my fellow writers recognise this condition. If not, and I find myself alone in my writerly schizophrenia, Fragile Confidence may have a break down. She may never recover.
*Am I allowed to use this word, its root being 'nice', if I want to be taken seriously as a writer? Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. Worry, worry, worry. FC
Today I am full of drive, ready to open the current draft of the new book, Recycling Dads, and crack right on. Today I love my story, my characters (even the nasty ones) and I can't wait to get with them again, find out where they'll take me. I am happy and enthused and this is good.
But this is not always the case. When 'yesterdays' go wrong and the words jam and those characters just won't commune with me, subsequent 'todays' are bleak; beset with foreboding. I dread opening that draft. It is not my friend. We both, writer and story, are strangers to each other. It's an utterly un-nerving state of being and there's a voice in my head, one that grates and whines, one that undermines Fragile Confidence and screams at me, things like:
What makes you think you can do this writing thing, fool?
Your story is rubbish - best place for it is the shredder
GET A PROPER JOB
Laughable, that's what you are, laughable
You call that a plot? Cat's cradle more like
Then it whispers, Gollum-like:
Give up. Give up. Give up...
But I won't give up. Doing that Gollum impression is always a mistake. It irritates me. Fortunately the voice does not know this.
I shut it out, have a cuppa, go for a walk, employ a few avoidance strategies (but never the ironing) and persuade myself after a suitable period of procrastination that my close acquaintance, Fragile Confidence, needs me to be strong. So I am... and I open up the draft... and I write some words while I murmur my much used mantra, 'any words are better than no words, any words are better than no words, any words are better than no words'.
This is just one form of my writing-induced Schizophrenia. I'll fill you in on its other manifestations (there are a few) in my next blog.
Not wishing to sound unkind, I do so hope some of my fellow writers recognise this condition. If not, and I find myself alone in my writerly schizophrenia, Fragile Confidence may have a break down. She may never recover.
*Am I allowed to use this word, its root being 'nice', if I want to be taken seriously as a writer? Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. Worry, worry, worry. FC
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