Reflections, realisations and resolutions

My resolution for this year was to write more poetry. I can safely say that I stuck to it very closely, writing one hundred and fifty four poems. Can I get a "whoop whoop!"? No? Okay. I won't hold it against you. Killjoy.

In terms of poetry, this year has certainly had its ups and downs. One of my creative low points has got to be writing a poem about the flexibility of eyebrows. Or those three awful poems I wrote while drunk. I shudder at the memories.

I was, however, able to write what I think is pure poetic gold (for me anyway) and entered my best poems for competitions which close early on in 2014. So I still don't know whether or not I've won. My money is on not, but at least I had the guts to enter. Before this year, I never would have dreamed of entering any poetry competitions.

I was searching for a new resolution for 2014 the entire month of December and it came to me like lightning through a clear night sky: I should speak out more. Looking back at my year, I realised that of all the things I wanted to achieve (begin learning Japanese, get back into art, write a collaboration, spend more time with my family), I never once made a move to get into spoken word poetry. The closest I came was reading some poems to my friend on the tube in a fairly average inside voice. Which, let's be honest, isn't anything to brag about in terms of a poetry performance.

2014 shall be the year I stop making excuses and claiming to want to perform my poetry. It shall be the year I actually do it. I won't let fear hold me back. I'll just go for it: seize the opportunities that come towards me with both hands. Or try really hard to, at least.

Pretend this is my diary

I haven't really written much this week. I think I got two poems and two half chapters for different stories. I'm on Christmas break until January 13th so I've mostly been catching up on sleep - and by that I mean staying up late to watch Derren Brown videos and waking up at 10/11am. I've barely felt human since last week, before my weekend trip to Bournemouth to see a couple of friends. One of whom is an undercover dance freak.

It's nearly Christmas (hooray!) so its the perfect time to mull over a Christmas-themed short story about aliens. Right? Right??

Gawd what is my life. Here, have a picture of me looking vaguely human:

Jezebel

The witch Jezebel had promised Lady Darleen that she would be pregnant within the year. After seven years of fruitless love-making Lady Darleen and her husband, Lord Barnaby, were sick of being patient. They had tried everything the well-meaning villagers had suggested. They had sacrificed an ox, given up ale for a year, invested in certain oils from travelling merchants, recited incantations over special amulets, took brisk walks as part of rigorous aerobic exercises – nothing worked.

The villagers were not cruel or uncaring towards the wealthy couple and Lord Barnaby and Lady Darleen were fond of the small country village they governed. They shared a partnership; Lord Barnaby and Lady Darleen were kind and fair and in return the villagers were happy and pleasant to one another. All the people who lived there were sympathetic when the couple's misery of childlessness grew into depression.

My favourite books growing up

It's been years since I've read (or even seen the front cover of) most of these titles. But here is a list of books I thought were simply the best things since sliced bread. Or socks. They are in a vaguely accurate chronological order.

Animal/Bedtime/Magical Stories

HarperCollins

My mother bought these three anthology-type books for me when she realised I liked reading and she was tired of going over 'So Much', 'Tickle in My Tummy' and others to me and my brothers. I read them like once a week each, and still have them SOMEWHERE in my house (probably). One of my favourite stories from this collection was about a boy who gets his teddy bear to check under his bed for monsters every night before going to sleep. Every night the bear tells the boy that it's safe to sleep. One night, the boy stays up really late and his bear falls asleep before him. He checks under the bed himself and... There's a monster there! The monster lives under the bed but isn't going to eat the boy so the bear always said it was safe. The boy felt so betrayed until he realised the monster was more fun than his bear. He didn't ever want to sleep after that.

I would have put a picture up for these books but all over the internet I was told things like "We don't know when or if this item will be back in stock", "No image available" and "Unavailable. Sorry we can't get this title, the button below links through to AbeBooks who may have this title" (they didn't). Maybe they are now a collectors' item?! I'm sitting on a (possible) gold mine.

It's a lesson in progress

I think I'm at a place with my WIP where I can just write it and be conscious of what I'm doing instead of simply writing whatever comes to mind. Erm, what I mean is I'll write a scene and erase all the unnecessary filler words I usually fall back on before I've even written them. Pretty neat, huh?

Another thing I've noticed about my writing is that when things are missing or not phrased quite right, I'll go back to them and fix it. If the problem was recognised three chapters later, I'll remember what I've learned during that time and apply it on the work as a whole. This is all probably stuff experienced writers do anyway but I'm not quite there yet, although I'd like to think I'm on my way. These are just the baby steps to my international best-sellers. Ahem.

I've also avoided falling into the trap I usually dive head-first into: writing more than one story at a time. And yeah, okay, I am writing more than one story right now but one of them is a collaboration so when it's not my chapter I get time off. The workload is halved - it's not my responsibility 24/7.

What often is an issue is when I'm really into a story and then, maybe four chapters in, I'll get a super-brand-spanking-new-awesome idea for another story. And everything hits the fan. I end up convincing myself that I can totally juggle two multi-chapter stories around my education and having a life. It's fine. I won't get confused, or frustrated, or overwhelmed. It will be just great. (That's all sarcasm, in case you didn't pick up on it.)

However! Where I'm at now in terms of my writing, when this super-brand-spanking-new-awesome idea came along, I didn't jump on it like a starving vulture, oh no. I thought about it. Let it simmer. Then, when it had been stewing just long enough, I wrote it all down in a quick plan and shoved the notebook out of sight. I'll get back to it when I finish the WIP I'm on now, thank you very much. There'll be no Shiny New Idea Syndrome this time around, Life!

Weeping for 99 chapters in a row

It wasn't my best move, choosing a module based on my liking for a Disney film that related rather obscurely to it, but now I'm stuck doing literature of the later middle ages until summer. It's not all bad I guess: I can understand most of the language and the stories aren't really taxing to read. Some of it is actually quite interesting and I was generally interested in Medieval times at some point in my life.

That being said, I want to shoot my eyeballs for choosing this module.

This week I had to read a Middle English text that had 99 chapters and was all about a (real!) woman called Margery Kempe who wanted to be a saint so badly she spent all her time praying and crying and regretting the fact she had fourteen children with her unfortunate husband. It was torture. Every time I read the words "wepyn" (weeping), "sobbyn" (sobbing) and "sorwe" (sorrow), I died a little inside. It was all so repetitive - and it didn't help that Margery liked to bang on about her hallucinations talks with God/Jesus/Mary/some reputable saint or other.

Not only did all this happen in the text, but it was also meant to be Margery's autobiography. Written in the third person. There were all these phrases declaring her as sweet and precious and bleugh. I mean really, conceited much, Mrs Kempe?

I feel sorry for her husband. He married a bag of crazy. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to erase all instances of characters crying in my WIP. I simply can't stand it in literature any more.

Fuck you, Margery.

Depleting my creative juices

(The title is weirder than this post is.)

When I turned sixteen, something magical happened to me: I stopped being able to sleep late into the afternoon. Going along with this, I also started taking myself to bed at around 9ish. I had just finished my GCSE exams and thought I would spend my long summer sleeping off the "stress" (I revised for two subjects - Religious Studies and Geography. The rest I winged). Little did I know that the summer of 2010 would be full of rising with the sun and going to sleep long before my friends were. It made text conversations quite difficult, actually.

Since then I've been going to bed early and getting up early. Most people who know this about me are surprised and call me either an old woman or a little child. I like old woman better, since I plan to be one some day.

Earlier this month, I got a job (this is totally relevant, I promise). I had to go to a couple of training days and the first one was the most exhausting thing I've experienced since I went to the gym three years ago. It started at 9.30am and ended at 4.30pm-ish. Also, it was at my university so I had to travel there pretty early, causing me to have to be up from half six in the morning. Remember when I said I usually go to bed early and wake up early? Yeah, half six is even early for me. I'm more of an 8/9am type of girl.

Okay so I came home, full of optimism and wanting to write an essay. It's the essay portion of the first term so I've been focused on them. I managed to finish the first one in two days and thought I'd be able to knock the second one out like that. Boy, was I wrong. I turned on my laptop and couldn't find the physical will to do anything academic. Instead, I thought maybe doing some recreational writing might help loosen me up a little. I opened up my WIP.

After bleeding from my fingertips writing 300 words, I realised I was simply too tired to function. Particularly as I had just written the word 'matchinging' and couldn't for the life of me understand why it had a red squiggly line underneath.

I hauled my tired ass to bed. But really, why is writing when tired so difficult?

For sale

Item name: Safi Kinson

Category: Character

Product description: Safi Kinson is a woman in her twenties who won't get out of my head. Seriously. She's there, dancing away like an arrogant, selfish protagonist who is trying to convince me to write her into a story. I ALREADY HAVE TWO WORKS IN PROGRESS, SAFI. I DON'T HAVE TIME FOR YOUR NONSENSE. If interested in purchasing the product, please contact your nearest mental health facility and book me an appointment. I will be crying in the corner meanwhile.

Safi's prototype appearance. Ignore her
lack of eyebrows, I'm tired.

The first person

When I was young, all my stories were told in third person. I didn't really understand the concept of being in someone else's head yet and my stories were in that stilted narrator voice of five year olds. You know the sort: "John went to school. He liked school. He saw his friends and they had fun because they were happy at playtime." As I got a little older, I discovered first person narrative. And boy, did I love it.

Everything I wrote from that point on was in first person. I wrote full-length, multi-chapter stories in first person. I thought it marked me as a writer. Turns out, it probably just marked me as a tween with a working internet connection, a big imagination and a cringe-worthy obliviousness to the lameness of clichés. Ouch.

A couple of years back, I decided that first person narrators were beneath me. Yeah, it was fun when I was a kid but really, who was I kidding pretending to be someone else while writing a story? Nobody believed in phrases like "Jenna's face was bright red with anger. I took a few wary steps back". It was just so stupid and childish and Terri? You could do so much better than that.

I started writing in third person again and didn't look back. I LOVED third person. It made me feel powerful, like a god of my own imagination, deciding the fates of these unfortunate characters. I probably went a little crazy with the power lust but that's for another post. The point is, my third person stories were simply mind blowing.

And then I hit a wall.

A new age

I've recently discovered technology. Sort of. You see, I'm used to writing story plans by hand, using my favourite type of pen (blue papermate, if you must know). This includes character profiles, settings, chapter summaries, history... The sort of thing that takes up a lot of time and ink and leaves an indentation of the pen on your hand. You know what I mean. I excused it all though, because that was what writers did. They suffered for their art. Right?

Wrong! At least, in terms of handwriting a plan. I was complaining internally about having to write out the same character profiles for the fifth time because my ideas had changed (as ideas do) when a sort of revelation hit me: surely not everyone goes through this torture?

I asked around. Turns out, I'm one of the last few dinosaurs who actually bother with such an extensive waste of time.

My obsession

Have I ever told you about TV Tropes? I probably shouldn't say things like this but it's like my Bible for writing. Or my encyclopaedia. Or a very, very, very useful book. Whatever, it's a great website for all sorts of things.

Need to know what an epic is? TV Tropes. Not sure what Cyber Punk consists of? TV Tropes. Have an interest in tearjerkers? TV Tropes. Want an effective way of keeping toast crumbs out of the honey jar? Me too.

The point is, no matter what the genre, subgenre, category, cliché, popular phrase, media, topic, misconception is - TV TROPES HAS IT. At least, there was never anything I couldn't find on TV Tropes that had to do with any of those things.

Tools of my trade

I've gone all artsy and obscure this week. I've been considering what tools I use for writing and what I have to show for it. It's more than just about notebooks and pens, I wanted to look more closely at the basic instruments that allow me to write. For example, an athlete or a dancer use their bodies for what they do and it shows a lot in the way they look. Forget a nice crisp tracksuit or dark leggings, their passion shows in every muscle and bruise of their body (if they're really good and dedicated, that is).

What do I have? When it comes right down to it, my hands. And oh boy, are they interesting utensils for writing. Ladies and gentlemen, here I present to you the incredibly pretentious faux-art exhibit I'm calling "Hands":

This is a random dark area on my left hand that appeared a couple of years ago with no warning. Funny thing is, my 'twin' brother now has the same thing.

Rarely shared fiction

Earlier this year I entered a short story competition, held by Laura Thomas Communications. I didn't win. I didn't even get shortlisted. But I did have fun and I received a lot of useful advice, so it wasn't all in vain (I'm pretty sure I need to work on my endings...). Thanks to a drive to enter another competition, I didn't feel like writing much of a post today so here is my entry for your perusal:

Witches Aren't Born

Tansy Klemens, six year old chatterbox, had pushed her parents to exhaustion in anticipation of their visitor. She followed them around the house, pestering them with a hundred questions until they shut her in the playroom out of desperation. By five o’clock, Tansy had tired herself out and resigned to taking up a vigil by the window.

She saw the moment the mysterious guest arrived. A woman in a bright floral dress flew down in front of the house from a fluffy white cloud that descended gracefully from the sky. Once it was near the ground, the woman stepped off neatly and the cloud returned to its place in the sky.

Novel or novella?

The dictionary definition of the word 'novel' explains it as a "fictitious prose narrative of considerable length and complexity, portraying characters and usually presenting a sequential organisation of action and scenes". Hmm. "Considerable length". Not what I'm writing at the moment, then.

There's another definition of it as an adjective that goes "of a new kind; different from anything seen or known before". Sort of what I'm writing, I hope.

In a weird sort of plot twist of real life, under the first definition of 'novel' as a noun is this:

"(formerly) novella". Which, as it happens, is what I'm apparently writing. I've learned to kind of accept that. I don't know why I was so opposed to this before. I suppose a novel just has more social standing in the world. When I hear the word novella, I just picture a little book that will maybe one day grow big enough to be called a novel. Like a kid who wants to go to big school and puts on his older brother's blazer that doesn't in anyway fit, though is still absolutely adorable.

What I'm trying to say here is that...

Actually, I have no idea. Scrap everything.

Something like a panic attack

If there's one thing I know about myself, it's that I have a tendency to get pretty hysterical over minor things. I'll freak out and worry obsessively about trivial things like what if I'm not ten minutes early to meet my friend? but big things I tend to breeze through without a care because, as per my motto, "it's only life."

With this in mind, I had a complete breakdown of trust in my self earlier this week where I panicked about the standard of my WIP. I began to worry that at just over 24k words, it wouldn't be long enough to be a novel in four chapters when it ended and I'd be left in the gutter of life, bemoaning my pitiful planning abilities. Really, why did I ever think thirteen chapters would be long enough for a novel??

One of my main points of concern (okay, one of the reasons I started mentally shooting myself in the head) was that I don't actually have a proper ending to my story yet. I kept meaning to figure one out but I couldn't think of a definitive scene and decided that it would be fine when I got there, because I would understand the story more and know where it should conclude. Yeah, so not the case. My head was a MESS trying to work out how I hadn't thought up a wicked cool ending yet.

After about seventeen minutes of pure, blind panic and unending self doubt where I considered packing it all up and becoming an elephant breeder instead, I turned to the internet. I found that yes, the way I was heading was a little short off the mark but that was okay. Ladies and gentlemen, I was reminded that what I'm writing is not a novel - it's just a first draft. And it only took ten tabs to reassure myself things would be okay for me.

Meet the team

As a result of not having a better idea of what to write about in today's post (plus I'm lazy), I've decided to do something a little bit different than usual. A picture speaks a thousand words and writers should show, not tell. With those two bite-sized pieces of theory in mind, I give you the main characters for my WIP, Venture Crew:

From l-r: Gilad , Farren , Philadonna 'Pip',
Kaden , Solara and Mathus.

My drawing skills aren't half bad, are they? Ignore the dark smudges on the left side, my scanning skills leave much to be desired. Just  be thankful the image is straight. Ish.

Here's a fun fact about me! Whenever I'm working on a multi-chapter story, I like to draw the main characters. Sometimes I sketch their image repeatedly, trying to get the feel of what their face looks like. Farren has been completely changed about six times in my sketchbook, earning the title of most changes I've given to a character - ever. First she was male, with straight hair, brown eyes and was quite skinny. Then he grew taller, gained some muscles and his hair got messier, but still straight. Farren progressed until he was short, slightly muscular with red eyes and curly hair. And a woman. She and Mathus switched genders at some point during my planning process. Mathus used to be Madi.

Talk about an identity crisis.

Please, be serious now

Earlier this week, I reached the halfway point in my WIP. That's right: halfway. Get the balloons out people, it's time to celebrate!

Since I'm at the halfway milestone, I decided it would be a good place to take a breather and look back at what I've written. Normally after every chapter I get someone to go over it and correct typos and such, but I haven't with this story. The people who I used to turn to for advice on my writing have (gasp!) outgrown their desire to write and have gone on to pursue completely different things. Like jobs, other interests, boyfriends. A life.

Because I was looking at my writing seriously for the first time since my "One day a girl went to the shops and didn't end up at the shops instead she..." days, I've noticed a few things about my writing. Bad things. Like, my sentences don't always make sense because I'm trying too hard to make a unique metaphor. And I overuse the word "but". And the narrator's voice is all over the place.

But However, all of this is easily fixable (I hope). It won't be long until I've completely finished the first draft and then we'll see how my writing fares from there. My sensei Sharena recently posted about making deadlines and (more or less) sticking to them. Which got me to thinking: shouldn't I make myself a deadline?

The voices in my head

Characters are interesting creatures. They have the power to make me see the world from a different perspective. They allow me to experience things I'll never do, like understanding a dog's conversation or flying a ship through a lightning storm. I can be excited about the things my characters are excited about, or don't yet know about. But it's important to remember that characters don't exist outside of my imagination.

So why do they have such control over my writing?

I know the plot. I know the structure. I know who becomes the hero or the coward, I know who dies, I know who survives and I know what they're eating for dinner later.

What I don't know is how they'll react to things. Which sounds weird, I know, but let me explain.

I was recently writing a passage of my WIP that winds down from several fights and reveals more about who the characters are. That was when I discovered a few things about my characters that even I didn't know. Like one of them has a girlfriend and they've been together for nearly two years - that came as a surprise to me. It makes sense story-wise though, since it helps explain his stony relationship with another character. But I hadn't planned for this.

I'm back!

Hello, my sweet rainy London! It's been more than forty days since we've been apart but I have returned now, with even more writing tricks up my sleeve. Don't believe me? Check this out:

I waited by the front door for the postman to arrive so I could catch him before he rang the bell and woke Mum.

Fed up of watching her parents slip closer to death, Farren Biratba had left the Ley City hospital abruptly, and nobody had seen her in two days.

Yep, that's right: I totally just let you read the opening sentences of my two main stories. The first one is a collaboration story I'm writing with my good friend Daniel and I can't remember if I've mentioned it before now. We take turns writing the chapters, from different character's POV and if it's anything like our personalities, the story is insanely mad. In a good way naturellement (because a nice bit of Google-translated French is always cool). So far, we're up to chapter four but already have plans for the television spin-off series, million-pound budget film and how we won't let the fame from our success go to our heads. We're that grounded in reality.

The second one is the story I've been planning for about 150 years, which I summed up at the end of this blog post a while ago. If you've already read it, then you don't have to read it again. But if you haven't, then we are no longer friends and you're not invited to my birthday party. Somebody call the fire department because you just got BURNED.

Typing vs Writing

When I was younger (the pre-laptop days), I wrote all my stories by hand. But when I got 'Sheila Toshiba' - what I named my old laptop - I wrote it all on my Microsoft Word free trial. It was quick and easy and I could make a really cool cover for all my stories in next to no time.

Since I've been on holiday here in Trinidad, I haven't been writing on Microsoft Word at all, or any sort of typing program on the computer. I've just been scribbling away in my notebook diary and I've noticed several huge differences in the two methods of writing.

With typing a story, the words flow like an email. By that I mean: I know what I want to write and it just sort of happens on the screen. Also, in the corner there's all sorts of helpful numbers that tell me what page I'm on and how many words I've written. Which is handy. I can scroll to whatever page I need to in order to refresh my memory about what I've already written and I can do a few bullet points at the bottom so I know what to write if I'm stuck.

Writing in a notebook is a whole other bowl of porridge. I never have any idea how much I've written, or what page I'm on. I can't even make a cool cover (*wails*). There's always the danger of my pen running out or the spine of the notebook leaving lines on my bare leg in a very unattractive manner. It totally sucks out all the glamour of being a writer!

Obviously, that last line was a joke because everyone knows being a writer is anything but glamorous. We all live in garden sheds with spiders building webs on our glasses, etching our masterpieces in the wood grain with our fingernails.

In all honesty, I do like writing in my notebook because it is a serious time-killer. Last week I was so caught up in it that before I knew what had happened, I had been writing for five hours. I couldn't do that on my laptop for one main reason: eyes.

My eyes are dry as it is (just ask my optician) and can't really withstand long hours staring at a screen. I'll usually take a break a couple of hours in for a snack and then just... Forget to go back to my room. This is such a regular occurrence that my brother is no longer surprised that one of my catch phrases as we're playing PS3 is "Oh yeah, I left my laptop on".

Perhaps when I return to bonny ol' London things will be different. But I'll cross that bridge when I get there - and you'll cross it with me!

Building confidence

Just a short post, because I want to get back to my holiday (in other words, I may go to the groceries in a moment to buy lactose-free milk...). But hello, dear readers! I'm having a whale of a time out here in Trinidad; the sky is amazingly open and just invites me to daydream frequently.

I have been doing a fair bit of writing in my super fat notebook, though not as much as I would write if I was at home. Just bits and bobs here and there, little snippets of short stories featuring the same character's life. My older cousin snatched my notebook last week and read some of it while I sat next to her and pretended not to notice.

Inside I was dying to know what she would say about my writing. And mostly just dying inside.

First of all, I was surprised she could read my handwriting because it has seriously declined since summer began. When she was finished, she handed it back and I just stared at her expectantly, waiting for a comment. I got none.

So I prompted her, and found she had some useful critiques for my work. Which was good for two reasons. One, constructive criticism is always good to help the improvement process and two, I think I can now handle anyone just randomly reading my stuff. My cousin is quite a fierce person, so for her to be positive about my writing was incredibly encouraging.

Hopefully one day soon, I'll be shoving my writing in people's face, begging them to critique it instead of them prising it from my unwilling hands.

Sun, sea, sand and more sun

So some of you may know that my mum's from Trinidad. Most of my family live there (her side, anyway. I haven't got a clue where the majority of my dad's family live. Barbados? America? Here??). I have a huge family and haven't really met them all, and if I have it was when I was too young to remember. This summer, we're going to do a massive family reunion which should be great!

My mum, brothers and I are going over there for six weeks for our first family holiday in twelve years. Plus my best friend since we were three will join us for the first two weeks, because I will get lonely struggling to understand what people are saying to me. My grasp of the Trinidadian accent is appalling.

But where does that leave us, my beautiful readers and I? What shall become of our delicate relationship?

What is it about?

There's a reason I went through my GCSE's proclaiming to be smart on paper but dopey in real life. I lacked the skill to speak as if I knew what I was actually talking about. It didn't help that I said stupid things like this:

"Do watermelons grow on trees?"

"I thought we had three kidneys..."

"Uhm... I don't know." (In answer to the question "what's your name?")

And the worst part is, that last one was only a few months ago.

Yes, I have daft moments. We probably all do. But this post isn't about that. It's about my inability to explain things clearly unless I've written it down. For example, I could not tell you what the last film I watched was about in person. I'd stutter and be all "there was this guy who wanted to kill the main character because he had the thing that would save their species but it would kill everyone else and they kept fighting about it oh and the bad guy killed his dad like thirty years ago and he gave him a scar but that's not really important. And the girl tries to find out who the main character is because he saved her life after she followed him into the ice tunnel and..." You get the idea. It's not coherent, it's not interesting, and it sounds like it's not enjoyable.

Status: hiatus

Since last year I've been writing a story that I absolutely love, but only for the characters. I always knew it wasn't good enough for anything other than FictionPress, because the plot isn't that well developed and full of holes because of it, but I didn't care. I enjoyed writing about the exploits of a woman who hates kids but is forced to be around at least two of them in close quarters due to unfortunate circumstances. She was the rudest, most selfish and unattractive character I had ever dreamed up and I enjoyed writing her story.

But I've come to the realisation that if I want to get anywhere with the story I'm actually serious about, then I'm going to have to concentrate on it more. And that means not pausing every five sentences to write another chapter of my FictionPress story. I need to love the characters in my new project more than the old characters because otherwise, what would the point be?

So I'm dropping my FictionPress - not just the story, but the entire account. It's not that I'm going to delete it, I'm just not going to spend time on it any more. It was good while it lasted and taught me an awful lot about writing, but it's about time I moved on to bigger and better things. The same goes for FanFiction (unless of course the stories I follow update, because then of course I'm going to have to read the new chapters).

This is it. My final farewell to my anonymous online writing accounts. From this point on, anything I write will be for all to see - probably. Maybe. We'll see how it goes... The point is, I want to focus on developing myself professionally instead of just mucking about with stories 'cause it's fun.

Dear curious readers

Everything I wrote up until 2011 is crap. Two-dimensional characters, clichéd expressions, shallow subject matters, angsty poetry. I've got nearly 30 pieces of work on FictionPress, which includes nine poems, sixteen short stories (one of them is a collection of short stories based on the same theme), seven one-shots and three longer stories. I think that adds up.

The longer stories were good for practise, but have little-to-no planning, so the chapters don't flow well - if at all. Out of everything, I think only one poem, eight short stories and one one-shot have any potential. The rest are just eurgh - I'm anonymous on there for a reason, okay?

Remember when I said my New Year's resolution was to write more poetry? Well I've stuck to it and, six months in, I've written about 35 poems in my super-secret notebook. When I told my friend Rose this, she freaked out - I had written 35 poems and hadn't shown her? She also writes poetry but far more secretly than I do, since she doesn't boast about it shamelessly in a blog. Hah.

Anyway, so I realised 35 poems is sort of a lot. And I hadn't once gone back and revised any of them. So one morning, armed with a blue pen and too much time before sunrise, that was exactly what I did.

I was astonished by what I read. Not only did I have atrocious handwriting (although to be fair, I did write a lot of it while on a moving bus) but most of the poems were utterly depressing. Which just goes to show, you can look happy on the outside, but inside you're just a melancholy poet waiting to be unleashed on some paper...

Superficial me

Appearance matters. No exceptions. If appearances didn't matter, then we'd all be blind. And yet the old cliché persists: don't judge a book by its cover. Obviously, there are times when that saying is relevant and full of wisdom. When it's talking about an actual book though, I'd say it is completely wrong.

I always judge a book by its cover. The cover is the first thing you see with a book! It has to be eye-catching, or at the very least interesting. How I choose which books are for me is simple: if the cover interest me, I pick it up. I read the blurb. If I'm still interested, I read the first page. If I'm still reading by page two, I know to get the book. Alternatively, if I'm buying the book online, I'm usually prompted by somebody's recommendation, be they known or anonymous. If the cover is interesting I click on it, read the description, skim the extract/intro pages etc.

This system works for me. There have been a few times when it failed me - it's not exactly perfect - and I end up with a pretty-looking book with an engaging first page and flat storyline. It happens. I don't let it get me down though, because the system usually pulls through for me. It's how I got into The Wee Free Men (Terry Pratchett). I'm lucky in the sense that all of the books on my shelf currently re-readable. But just recently, it has come to my attention that some books have alternative covers. What would be on my shelf if I had seen the other cover?

False starts and re-imaginings

After writing 31 A4 pages of planning for my new passion, Venture Crew (including a contents page - how else could I sort through all those notes?), I finally sat down to write some actual story. About 900 words in, I had second thoughts.

'Should the main character be such a jerk? Surely not.' Delete, keep, delete, keep. Start over.

'Oh god, what is this? It's not making any sense!' Delete, delete, delete.

Then I thought perhaps I should come at it from another angle. Maybe it wasn't working because I was approaching it all wrong. It was about 11pm at this point and I normally go to sleep at 9.45pm. My eyes were already closing on their own accord. I switched off my laptop and went to bed.

I didn't stop thinking about my story though. As I settled under my duvet, I pictured what the first chapter should look like. Not in words though, but as if it actually happened and I was there. What would strike me first about the main character? At what point would the plot meet the characters? How much prescience should be there?

I fell asleep not really knowing the answers.

When I woke up, I knew what I had to do. I knew EXACTLY why the first chapter had been meeting me with such resistance. I hadn't started it at the right point, or with the right amount of focus on the main character. I had to rewind a little, entering slightly earlier in the narrative and watched the words flow like liquid fire.

My fingers danced over the keyboard with an effortless will, and I was so caught up in writing the first chapter that I forgot to congratulate myself. So I'll do it now. Congratulations, Terri! I'm now frolicking through chapter three, and hopefully the rest of the story will be just as straight forward to write. Although I sort of don't want it to be. How will I learn if I don't have to overcome any difficulties?

Three is NOT the magic number

In theory, I hate trilogies/series and everything they stand for. Why couldn't the author just make one super thick book so I could read the story in one go? It would be so much easier on me, and I could even build up my biceps from lifting the 20kg novel. Smiles all around, no?

No. I know why trilogies are necessary. Sometimes a story is just too big to fit into one book, and has to be split up. There's a bigger picture building up from the first story, leading on to more chaos and action and awe. But....

Sometimes it's nice just to have it all wrapped up in one go. I get to sit down, dedicate hours of my time to one book and then I'm left with feelings of satisfaction, knowing that everything has been concluded. Then I can move on into a completely different universe and start the process all over again.

With trilogies however, the first book is just a prelude to a grander design. And this frustrates me, because once I've finished it I'm left wanting more, which means getting out and buying the next one (err, by 'going out', I mean 'shopping online'). Then I have to wait even longer for it all to be concluded. Or - even worse - wait a year or more for the bluddy writer to actually finish WRITING the story.

A trilogy that embodies this perfectly is Patrick Rothfuss's KingKiller trilogy. It supposedly took the author 14 years to write the first draft, which understandably would lead to a lot of necessary editing. I came across his first book three years ago by chance: someone's profile on FictionPress had funny quotes from it, prompting me to have a look on Amazon and find out what it was about.

Stretching

Last week's post got lost in the space-time continuum. Honest. I don't even know where the days went. One minute it was Friday, and I was thinking to myself "Ah yes, I must update the blog and explain about my exams". The next thing I knew, I was waking up on Monday morning thinking "Shit. The blog."

And you know it's serious when I start swearing.

So I shall take this time to say a big fat

to my reader(s?). I had my final exam for the year on Tuesday, so now I'm back on the writing scene with a vicious vengeance, baby!

Theme: identity

In my previous post, I mentioned (okay, really banged on about) this supposedly amazing story I wrote for a competition two years ago. Here it is:

Life of a Wannabe Pirate

I've often wondered how others view me. I know how I view myself: brave, strong, loud and at times caring. It's always puzzled me that I have so few friends.

I know what Massimo would say: I'm fierce, arrogant, loud and at times a violent friend. At least we both agree I am loud. I learned at a young age to turn up the volume of my voice since no-one could hear it and haven't quite managed to turn it down since. Teachers used to complain they could hear me long before they ever saw me.

Some people think children take after their parents in terms of personality and I think there might be something in that. My mum is also a strong woman; she had to be in order to carry on with her life once my biological father left her pregnant with me. She's also good at planning: she married my stepdad Jeremy before I was born so we could have some stability, I think. Jeremy openly loved Mum ever since they were at school together and though Mum rejected him many times, Jeremy's persistence produced positive results for everyone.

I don't know anything about my biological father other than he didn't want me. It was through Jeremy that I learned to love everything about pirates, from the way they dressed to their pilfering lifestyle because Jeremy committed himself to reading me a story every bedtime. Thanks to him I know all the greats like Captain Hook, Long John Silver and Sinbad. I feel drawn to the world of sea, ships and swashbuckling. I can recall asking for a pistol and cutlass on my sixth birthday and being disappointed with the plastic models Jeremy produced.

I'm now old news

I am heartbroken. No, truly. I know I'm quite prone to be overly dramatic but this time it's serious. Allow me to explain from the beginning.

The only writing competition I ever came first in (yes, meaning that I WON!) was for the exam board AQA back in 2011. The theme was 'identity' so you either had to write about your identity or make one up to write about. I made one up.

The story of how I won is actually quite mysterious. So much was down to chance. I wrote the piece last minute and didn't give myself time to proof-read anything. Then on our last day of school, I forgot to hand it in to my English teacher and only remembered about an hour later, when I was shopping with my friend. I made her go all the way back with me in the hope our teacher was still there - she was.

Already my prospects didn't look good.

I had to find a computer and print off the pages to be posted to AQA and I worried the printer wouldn't work. It did, though. Relieved, I said goodbye to my teacher and went about my day. Then it was the two week Easter holiday.

Two days later, my teacher still hadn't posted my entry and she was leaving the country to enjoy her time off. While very lovable, she is also extremely forgetful. If I had known at the time that she hadn't posted it yet, I probably would have been in a permanent state of anxiety. My teacher later confessed that she posted my entry on her way to the airport!

Feeling tense?

Recently, I've been having a problem with sticking to one tense when I write. For example, I'll begin in first person, using the past tense and after a few pages - suddenly it's in the present continuous tense.

I know sometimes a change in tense can signal something, such as a change in pace of the story or something significant like that, but in my case it just seems random. I'm not doing it on purpose (at least, not consciously...). So what's up, brain?

Another problem I have is that sometimes, when I'm writing a scene or a chapter it will take me AGES to write it. I could have written five paragraphs after two months - if that. But really, if it takes me a while to write it, I know by now that it's a signal that it's not working. It's like insisting I stay in my seat, even though the plane is on fire and everyone else is leaving via the emergency exit.

I just refuse to accept that it's failing and keep trying to write. Until of course, I come to my senses and scrap it all, starting afresh and realising: hey, this is working out a lot better! I can write again, hallelujah!

Maybe one day I'll learn to catch the signs of a chapter not working sooner, and avoid feeling like I've wasted valuable time.