Oh dear me. The idea with blogs is, I’m told, to keep them updated - for reasons that I can’t quite fathom and it feels a bit more like homework than it should.
Make note to myself: must try harder.
I have managed to finish chapter thirteen of my new novel today, always good to get into the teen stage. My editor’s seen the first ten chapters which is reassuring. She made some positive sounds and when I have twenty chapters she will see them again. This time round it's all there, the plot. Everything thought about, chewed over, planned for months, rehearsed and ready to go. But who am I kidding? Have a character who was meant to meet his maker in chapter seven and he refused to. So there I am in chapter twelve and finally he agrees to his fate. You see for all my careful planning, characters do seem to have a life of there own and that I find fascinating.
But wait! I hear you say - aren’t you in control? You are the writer, if by chapter seven you deem your character dead than dead he must be, after all your plot demands it. That is one way to look at it but not my way and also slightly too control freaky for me. Instead I am intrigued as to where my hero and villains are going and what they will do when they get there.
When I was writing I, Coriander, I had it in the back of my mind that Hester would be horrible, but the minute Hester began to speak she had the sweetest kindest voice and try as I might horrible she refused to be. I am beginning to think I am nothing more than a electric currant through which stories find there voice. Do I mind? No I am darn lucky that they choose me at all.
So my one and only reader, you. Have worked out this much (and even this much I am not sure of). I think it might be very simple. Not rocket science. I am a human hamster: I go round on my wheel, I live to write and I write to live.
On a different note - bought more bookshelves from IKEA, the cheap and cheerful ones that now look amazing due to my beloved daughter who today has plastered them with black and white photos from twenties & thirties old book - very designerish. Quite a work of art and finally when they are full which is likely to be on Wednesday I will have some shelves that aren’t just books piled in masses upon chairs; vague tumbling towers of research and literature.
Last of all to the mice. They’re not nice, they’re not hamsters. I tried pretending it was wind in the chimney all last week, saying no no that's not mice, it’s nothing, even when loud undeniable squeaking could be heard. Well, you guessed it. They sent out invitations to other mice in the area on their Whiskerbook and on Squeaker, which is Twitter for rodents, and invited their friends and distant relatives over for a Halloween party in my cupboard, where they all dressed up as rats.
Came home on Saturday to hear loud mouse music and joyous celebrations, even with a rodent rapper leading the gang. They were making enough noise to keep the ghosts and ghoulies very happy and quite frankly scaring the pants off me. I’m typing louder than ever did to drown out the noise, have music playing and I still can hear them. This is one long party I tell you. Thought about getting a cat. Still wondering if said cat might eat my mini dachshund instead of mice. Phoned for mouse man, he’ll come tomorrow to lay out little guillotines for them all. Oh dear what’s that? Did you hear it? They’re at it again those mice and their wild parties.
Make note to myself: must try harder.
I have managed to finish chapter thirteen of my new novel today, always good to get into the teen stage. My editor’s seen the first ten chapters which is reassuring. She made some positive sounds and when I have twenty chapters she will see them again. This time round it's all there, the plot. Everything thought about, chewed over, planned for months, rehearsed and ready to go. But who am I kidding? Have a character who was meant to meet his maker in chapter seven and he refused to. So there I am in chapter twelve and finally he agrees to his fate. You see for all my careful planning, characters do seem to have a life of there own and that I find fascinating.
But wait! I hear you say - aren’t you in control? You are the writer, if by chapter seven you deem your character dead than dead he must be, after all your plot demands it. That is one way to look at it but not my way and also slightly too control freaky for me. Instead I am intrigued as to where my hero and villains are going and what they will do when they get there.
When I was writing I, Coriander, I had it in the back of my mind that Hester would be horrible, but the minute Hester began to speak she had the sweetest kindest voice and try as I might horrible she refused to be. I am beginning to think I am nothing more than a electric currant through which stories find there voice. Do I mind? No I am darn lucky that they choose me at all.
So my one and only reader, you. Have worked out this much (and even this much I am not sure of). I think it might be very simple. Not rocket science. I am a human hamster: I go round on my wheel, I live to write and I write to live.
On a different note - bought more bookshelves from IKEA, the cheap and cheerful ones that now look amazing due to my beloved daughter who today has plastered them with black and white photos from twenties & thirties old book - very designerish. Quite a work of art and finally when they are full which is likely to be on Wednesday I will have some shelves that aren’t just books piled in masses upon chairs; vague tumbling towers of research and literature.
Last of all to the mice. They’re not nice, they’re not hamsters. I tried pretending it was wind in the chimney all last week, saying no no that's not mice, it’s nothing, even when loud undeniable squeaking could be heard. Well, you guessed it. They sent out invitations to other mice in the area on their Whiskerbook and on Squeaker, which is Twitter for rodents, and invited their friends and distant relatives over for a Halloween party in my cupboard, where they all dressed up as rats.
Came home on Saturday to hear loud mouse music and joyous celebrations, even with a rodent rapper leading the gang. They were making enough noise to keep the ghosts and ghoulies very happy and quite frankly scaring the pants off me. I’m typing louder than ever did to drown out the noise, have music playing and I still can hear them. This is one long party I tell you. Thought about getting a cat. Still wondering if said cat might eat my mini dachshund instead of mice. Phoned for mouse man, he’ll come tomorrow to lay out little guillotines for them all. Oh dear what’s that? Did you hear it? They’re at it again those mice and their wild parties.
