Archive for the ‘anxiety’ Category

Sad Search

Thursday, November 18th, 2010

I have been reading such a lot for the past three or four months or years. Half of me has been wanting to research properly, like Ph.D. students do. So I have been taking references and doing research as to the reliability of sources. I am a member of a copyright library and am a librarian so I know about reliable documents. I want to be sane and sober and reliable.  My motivations are as pure as I can make them.

I don’t think it is possible for a human being to be disinterested but I am determined to try. Which defeats my purpose.

And on and on.

I want to put my hands on what is true.

And the other half of me has been observing confusion, and conflicting sources, and bias. In myself and my research. And that’s okay. Because I am more interested in people’s opinions than I am about the facts. I understand that that the facts are not accessible. And feelings are more true than facts.

And what are facts anyway?

I am deleting such a lot I want to write here and in my book and I am not sure I know the reason why.

I feel sad. There are hundreds of sentences and no-one would ever believe me. I am a fictionist. I lie a little lie a lot. I am more interested in fiction. I’ve made a bed to lie in. Lie in.

I have redrafted the previous sentences many times in order to make them seem less dramatic and narcissistic and silly. But it is the nearest to what I want to say.

I have even toyed with the idea of scheduling this post way into the future. Some of you will think I am speaking about Cold Light. You haven’t met that one yet, but it’s nearly done with for me and I am well into the next. Which is the one I am thinking about.

That’s all. Wish me luck. I have such things to say I don’t mind too much about sounding like a prick. People who mean things sound silly.

I am off into the novel.

Method

Sunday, October 31st, 2010

People who are interested in knowing a bit about the thinking that goes into planning a novel might want to read the post I wrote during the summer here, as well as the comments. This post is a kind of reply or sequel to that post.

Thinking more about NaNoWriMo. The very reasonable comment from Paul that slapping down a load of words is more stunt than craft. Me being determined to be more thoughtful. To make decisions, to be less trial and error about it all. To make lists and chapter plans. And then finding I am paralysed and might need the stunt of an arbitrary word count to get the engine turning over.

I do have a plan. And I am anticipating the problems. Here they are:

Writing more autobiographically than I have done before – none of the characters are me or anyone I know, but two or three of the scenes come from my life, and I’m writing about a topic very close to my own upbringing. There are worries associated with this. And it triggers interesting thoughts. How even-handed do I have to be? What are my motivations? People who want to find things out about any topic won’t turn to a novel for it, so factual accuracy is less of a priority than authenticity. Authentic is really, really difficult. Especially as most of the time I’m unsure of my own opinions about anything. Hence, I think, the narrative vehicle of lots of narrators.

Five first person narrators. Possibly six. Each of them very different. Wanting to capture their voices. Wondering if I am up to the job. Wondering if this kind of ventriloquism is a cheap trick (Martin Amis mentioned something like this in his Paris Review Interview and reading it stung me a little). It feels (impersonation, inventing narrators, first persons) like it’s something worthwhile to do for me because it involves me forcing myself to grow empathy and understanding for points of view I don’t agree with. Very difficult.

That is where I am up to so far. I am looking forward to giving myself the room to bang out a short first draft and see what it looks like at the end of November. Posting might be erratic during the next four weeks.

Good

Tuesday, October 19th, 2010

Final, jiggling with the completed manuscript of Cold Light before it goes to the typesetters. I pity the person who needs to make this scribbled, Tipp-exed, dog-eared lump of well loved paper into a book.

Things I have learned during these edits:

You can’t have someone watching the adverts while The Antique Roadshow is on, because AR was a BBC programme and there weren’t any adverts.

The prescription charge in 1997 did not apply to contraceptives prescribed by a doctor, did apply to the morning after pill unless you got it from a doctor in an A and E department or you were under the age when prescription charges would usually apply.

My handwriting is attrocious, and I drip tea on everything.

Lemsips really do take care of anxiety.

Better

Monday, October 18th, 2010

Well, if you’ve time to moan about it, you can’t be that busy, right?

After four months of getting to grips with a new baby and working on edits, copy edits, cuts etc to Cold Light – all of which has taken place in the tiny, quiet (although fairly clean…) world of my own house, it has been lovely and strange and scary to get out into the world again. I feel like I’ve emerged from a really long sleep in a hot, dark room. Like I did when I got woken up at 11.30pm as a child and brought into the room where the New Year’s Eve party was happening. Rubbing my eyes and working up to joining in. I’ve had the shortest maternity leave known to woman-kind (nine days, I think, and for six of those I was in hospital) but never mind. I can sit about when I’m old.

So yes, I’ve been busy. There’s the regular teaching at UCLAN – the Introduction to Creative Writing module, which is a series of two hour workshops meant to, as it says on the tin, introduce the students to various forms and techniques in writing so they’re prepared to hand in a portfolio shortly before Christmas. It is an introductory level course (as you may have gathered) and there’s the difficulty – how can you do ‘character’ or ‘setting’ in two hours with twenty students? As always with short courses, I can only show the students some of the possibilities, let them practice and give them a place to get mine and each other’s feedback – most of their learning, I hope, is going to take place between workshops.

Then there’s the occasional workshops I do for other organisations – no marking, no pressure on me to make sure the students pass – the workshop isn’t a component of a course. The participants on these courses are often older, more widely read, less confident about reading to each other. The difficulty is establishing trust and a rapport with participants who don’t know me, don’t know each other and who usually have totally different experience levels and ambitions for their work. There’s no continuing relationship, so warming up to each other and getting to know each other gradually. You’re in at the deep end.

At the end of last month I did a three hour session on Creating Character for the Lancashire Writing Hub – I was supposed to teach this before the summer, but had to unexpectedly cancel all my work – it was great to pick up where I’d left off, see some familiar faces and deal with the ever-fascinating task of inventing imaginary people with increasingly tricky games and writing prompts. We got a few brilliant pieces of writing by the end of the night – the beginnings to some interesting stories about undertakers as accomplices to murder, commuting agoraphobics, and a monologue about cleaning a toilet before a hot date. Good stuff!

After that, two workshops for Salford Libraries about writing personal histories for the Pages Ago competition -  library workshops are always so friendly and I love helping people turn real experiences, memories and settings into fiction. I get nervous when I teach, but never in libraries. I still feel at home in them.

Soon, a day long workshop for Litfest about blogging – I’m especially looking forward to this one as I’ve not done any work with bloggers since the Out on A Limb project. I think there may be one or two places left, if you’re commutable to Lancaster, free on the 6th of November and interested in learning about blogging from a writer’s perspective.

And finally, resuming my (small) mentoring practice, working with two mentees at various points along the journey of their first novel.Feeling privileged to be standing by and cheering on from the sidelines as writers wrestle with the difficult problems about tense, structure and point of view – weighing up the options, experimenting, dealing with the anxiety and the writer’s block. Talking about character and watching these imaginary people develop and make journeys of their own. It’s tiring and I should probably charge more than I do but I love it. Mr gets annoyed on my behalf when people ask me to do  / write  / teach things and add that they won’t be offering a fee, because I do if for the love of it, right – ‘only people who hate their jobs can get paid?’ (he says). I know what he means, but mentoring is something I could almost do for free, I like it so much.

Who’s Rocky’s manager? Mickey? I feel like him, hanging about very close to, but outside the ring with my sponge and bucket. *hit the one in the middle!*

I need to watch Rocky more. I’ve got the boxed set. Fine set of films. There’s very little you need to know about life that is not contained in Rocky 1 or Rocky 4. I’ve always seen myself as more of an Adrian than a Mickey, but everyone can change (boom!)

Funny, because some days all this peripheral work about writing, other people’s writing, feels too much – and drains me, and makes me wonder why I bother, and other days it can feel exciting and stimulating and as if I’m involved in a community of people doing just the same sort of things as I do. Just like some days my novel can feel like a wonderful, special, clever thing, and other days the dullest most inane set of words anyone has ever inflicted on the world.

The work doesn’t change that much. Sleep, and unceremoniously deleting a few emails, and getting to the end of a t0-do list and playing with clay can make all the difference.

Bad

Tuesday, September 28th, 2010

When I am thinking about Being A Writer, often while reading Paris Review interviews, or blogs, or biogs, or whatever, I have a view of it as such a leisurely thing. Coffee and loads of fags. Breaks, and night time working which means lie-ins. Long chats with others who are Being Writers all about Writerly Things. In this place the days pass slowly and the afternoons are long and sunny but not too hot. We’re all wearing quite nice trousers and having good hair days. It is cushty, and not really a Proper Job.

It is not like this: alarm at 6.20 so there are 40 minutes of editing something you are sick of the sight of before school run. A second shift and a third shift. And when that’s over, lying in bed worrying that it isn’t enough, someone’s going to read it and spot something and say something bad, so it is out of bed, and creeping to the computer in case you wake someone up who will want feeding.

I get sad about it. Being A Writer involves feeling bad too much of the time. Insufficient, in-confident, embarrassed. No-one asked me to do it, so I should stop, and shut up. I have these urges to delete now and again, and that always happens when the going is tough. It is kind of shameful to write about it like this here, but I am committed to writing about what writing is like on this blog, and what it is like sometimes is Toil, Drudge and No Fun at All.

I want cocktails and holidays! I want to go to Blackpool and play Bingo! I want to get pissed. Quite a lot, actually. I want to do something other than shuffle words about, read them, and teach other people how to shuffle them, and then come home to smug emails wanting to discuss how word-shuffling can’t really be taught anyway, so that’s six hours out of my week wasted then, is it? Oh and by the way there’s a typo on page 239 of your first novel and I’m looking forward to seeing your next, and here’s a book you Should Have Read and I’m offended you haven’t linked to me and Please Help Me With My (insert literary project of your choice here).

Bingo! Cocktails! Steak! Gin!

So, alarm at 6.40 as well as working from 8pm until midnight. And feeding. I am a vending machine for milk and novels.

(woe! sayeth The Author)

I like Cat’s Eye because Elaine Risley, the artist narrator, has her children young and has to stay up all night to paint, and the sleep deprivation makes her feel sick and her husband tells her to not to stay up late, and she says, ‘well, when else would I do it?’ I can’t tell you (okay, I can) how much it fucks me off when people call writing about domesticity small and dull and female and uninteresting. I wonder how many artists and writers and inventors and computer programmers and doctors have been lost to laundry and hoovering.

Luckily, my Mr is much better than even the most fictional Mr, and brings tea, and leaves the car for me even when it is his turn to have it.

Girls. Fun.

Tuesday, September 7th, 2010

A tiny bit of writing done today – notes on the second and third chapters of book three. The first chapter is provisionally called ‘fairy cake’. The third will be called ‘bovril’s walk’. Not sure about the second one yet.

I doubt the chapters will end up with titles, but it helps me keep track. I’m really looking forward to writing ‘screwdriver’ and ‘bites down on a towel’.

The note-taking was done in my car on the back of a class 2 NI contributions bill while McTiny was sleeping. We were outside West View Leisure centre waiting for a class to start. There was a programme about The Kennel Club on Radio 4, which inspired me.

The class itself was something to write home about. I could store it in the place where I repress the rest of my trauma, but that drawer is getting full. So for your reading pleasure: the class. A kind of yoga / circuits / physio / new circle of hell type of class where you can take your progeny and be taught moves to ease your outraged abdomen back together.

I talked myself into going. Like this:

Come on Jenn, you need to get out of the house. It’ll make you feel better. Don’t be a tit, you might make friends.

I should have listened to the other Jenn, the Jenn who was quite happy being a tit and urging me to stay at home in my brown cardigan and scribble on the back of envelopes, leaning on McTiny’s back while he slept on my knee.

Picture me, if you will, running about in a circle with my arms outstretched, making little circles with my hands. Sleep deprived, shy and angry. Not owning the correct trainers either, I discovered. They played music.

Girls Just Wanna Have Fun (that’s all they really want).

What girls want:

not to have fun of any kind, better trainers – without having to enter a shoe-shop,
two hours more sleep, Bombay Sapphire, cake, not to walk in the sun.

I was on the brink of pretending I was nipping away for a wee and not coming back, (when you gonna live your life right?) but they had a Health Visitor on the door with a sheaf of leaflets about breast feeding and drinking and I didn’t dare.

Problematic

Sunday, August 22nd, 2010

I’ve been working, as I might have mentioned once or twice (cough), on a final list of tweaks and edits to Cold Light – the last hurrah before it is off to Sceptre for them to work their magic and turn my story into a book.

The work hasn’t been extensive but it has been slow and painstaking – mainly because I want to check time-lines and continuities, (I have a chart and everything) and because it has helped me to look at the novel in an entirely different way which has involved lots more tweaking. And the fellow writers amongst you will know, once a novel is nearly finished altering one sentence in an early chapter has knock on effects and often means you need to rewrite a paragraph in a late chapter. Which is as it should be – it shows the whole thing is knitted together, is all of a piece.

I’ve already blogged a little bit about the way the first glimmers of the story for Cold Light came to me. It was similar for A Kind of Intimacy – where I had the idea of neighbours and envy and tea parties right from the very start. I like this part of writing – the inventing part seems easier. I always have lots of tall tales up my sleeve. I can create a mess of a first draft in a couple of months.

Editing is very different though. By editing I mean anything from a second draft to a seventh, and the final tweaking which I am doing now. A Kind of Intimacy was seven drafts – Cold Light has been about the same although because I don’t tend to start at Chapter One and end at the Epilogue the lines between what counts as one draft and the next are always very blurred. Editing means turning the shapeless mass of the first draft into something that runs from page one to page – let me check… 337 at last count – with some kind of drive forwards and coherence.

What has helped me this time is to think of the novel as an attempt to solve problems that were thrown up by my original idea. In my mind, it works a bit like this:

What happens if you’re always the one left out and all the interesting things are taking place when you’re at home or distracted by other, more mundane events? What happens if you desperately want to be included, but almost never are?

This translates into a problem – of telling a story where the narrator didn’t witness any of the dramatic, plotty-type things that happened. Hmmm.

What happens if the effect of one winter in your teens totally derails the course of your life? And what if that life is stunted – if you grow into an adult who still acts like a fourteen year old? What if I want to write a story about people who get stuck, who don’t change?

One of the members of my fiction group translated this into a problem perfectly – the characterisation is static, the action in this part of the book is static (to be specific, adult Lola spends a LOT of her time alone in her flat watching television) and this works against narrative, which has forward motion, is about change and development.

Hmm.

So my editing this time around has been structured by me knowing I wanted to tell a gripping story about a crime with a few spanners thrown in the works (the narrator leads a life that would be boring to read too much about and is remembering a time and a series of events that she doesn’t funny understand and didn’t fully experience).

It isn’t up to me to judge how well Cold Light has solved those problems, but it has turned into the sort of book I’d like to read. I’m looking forward to seeing what people think. (Actually, that is an out and out lie. I’ve been composing scathing reviews for myself in my head for weeks).

I know this is itself a very partial, over simplified, craft-oriented way of thinking about writing and editing and checking if a novel ‘works’ or not. It is not dissimilar to the idea of ‘plot’ being nothing more than characters overcoming obstacles to get at something they want or get away from something they don’t want. ‘Story’ as problem solving for characters and structuring a ‘plot’ as problem solving for writers. Which works as a way of thinking about stories a lot of the time, but not always. And I don’t know if it would work like this for poets. It seems to be more of a way to think about how to do a plot than how to do language.

I’m looking forward to the next novel too (no working title yet. Just Number Three). I am wondering how my very specific requirements about structure: five first person narrators all narrating, partially and unreliably, the events of one twelve hour stretch of time are going to throw up problems for me, and what tricks I need to learn to solve those problems and tell the story. I’m excited to find out. I like the realist novel. I don’t think it is dead.

Cupboards. Skeletons. Etc.

Thursday, August 12th, 2010

I read this post by Diane Becker a few days ago, and it struck a chord with me – having recently had a fairly horrible stay in hospital myself. (There aren’t any nice stays in hospital, are there? Or should I save up for BUPA?) I don’t go into things like that in my blog, or too much in real life either, and I never thought about how that linked to my writing method until I started reflecting on Diane’s post and the way she chooses not to talk about things and how she feels that affects her writing.

I hope my writing isn’t formulaic, but there’s a knack to working out a good first person narrative – deciding what the person thinks they are telling you, and what they are actually telling you. What they don’t want to say, and what seeps in around the edges anyway. What they don’t want to talk about might be near death experiences or trauma. It is just as likely (in my stories, anyway) to be secret humiliations, sins of omission and social failures. How does it seep around the edges? How do you show what they don’t want to tell?

There are a couple of things in my life that I’ve very deliberately decided I will neither think nor talk nor write about. It is like editing a novel (everything feels like editing a novel right now, though) and cutting out the bits you don’t like and rearranging the rest to cover the gaps. It’s very important and makes the rest of the whole wobbling edifice possible. Not amnesia. Editing.

Perhaps you will find some of this deleted material seeping in around the edges – in jokes, dreams and stories I make up – but not, I think, if I am vigilant. Not if I am really good at what I try to do. But if I can spot the way the truth seeps in around the edges and replicate it for my pretend narrators, I should be able to get a handle on it in real life, shouldn’t I?

It is lazy thinking (it is, isn’t it?) to go through a writer’s output and circle the recurring images and themes and label them as autobiographical – as the juicy trauma they’ve edited out of their real lives and allowed to seep into their fictional ones. I don’t doubt lots of writers make conscious and unconscious use of their secrets and unspoken events like this. But it isn’t quite what I am talking about.

I reject the Romantic and romantic notion that a writer is more hurt, more embarrassed and more traumatised than the rest of the population and good writing comes from their working-out of that trauma. Life is often humiliating and frightening and crap for everyone and people who shuffle words are not special or more sinned-against. Trauma is boring and ordinary.

But trauma, or the things we don’t want to talk about, is important to writing. It doesn’t matter what the content of the trauma is. One person’s car-smash is another person’s disastrously violent c-section (plucking an example off the top of my head…) is another person’s wrong-shoes-for-the-party is another persons saw-my-parents-shagging. We have all got the things that we edit out of the stories we tell about ourselves.

It is important to writing because understanding the way this works is understanding one of the basic things about writing and noticing the way it is done in real life is practice for being a writer. In other words, writers are not more hurt, they are just more cold blooded about noticing the way they deal with the hurt – the editing is never complete because writers look at how they self-edit and replicate that when they’re dealing with sentences and paragraphs.

Having a sad secret isn’t unique. Picking the scab of your sad secret in front of the mirror (on a blog, in a poem, during a novel) is possibly a little bit more unusual / narcissistic / healthy / unhealthy / interesting / pathetic / useful because nothing makes you notice the difference between what we tell and what we show more. I’ve been invited back to the hospital for a chat with a professional that will, apparently, prevent me getting post-traumatic-stress-disorder. No thanks, says I, I’d rather suppress it, watch myself doing it and then blog about the process. Could come in handy for the next book (this is why writers don’t have friends – I’ve never heard of anything so vain in my life).

Body language experts call the signs – the ticks and twitches – the body makes when we are lying / omitting parts of the truth ‘tells’. They aren’t tells. They are (some of the) shows. Creative writers are instructed to avoid one and encourage the other – better teachers advise writers to be aware of which one they are doing, and control it. My narrators are all ‘tell’ and the interesting bit – the ‘show’ is the bit that is between the lines, the silent bit, the unwritten part.

How else did you think I learned how to do it?

The blog post was a response to Too Much Information which you can find, along with many other illuminating ruminations, at Not Designed to Juggle. The photograph, which is not as good as Diane’s, was taken by the Mr – who was slightly baffled by my weak laughter and insistence he take this snap for me because I wanted it for my blog.

Less Things

Monday, August 2nd, 2010

No Ikea last night, but a back-yard full of sea-gulls. The kind with the red tip to their beak. We’ve only a little back yard and in my dream it was so crowded with the white birds that you couldn’t see through them to the flags – it reminded me, either during the dream or afterwards, of pictures of ‘barn’ hens – where the barn is so thick with feathered bodies you can’t see the floor. And they were all facing the same way, heads and beaks pointed in the same direction.

I haven’t been thinking about birds. Have been sleeping with head-phones on. I can’t have silence to sleep and can’t have music. The world service used to do it, but news about oil slicks and wars was making me worse. So a BBC adaptation of Lord of the Rings to listen to during and in-between wakings up. There are no seagulls in that, are there?

A growing fear of sea-gulls, although generally I think birds are fairly scary, and then two trips to the charity shop today.

General worries and fears include: the recycling, cat hair balls under the kitchen table, friends moving away, too many words, too few words, throwing things out, keeping them, sleeping, not sleeping, relative sizes of jeans in different shops, identity theft, ebay, the prospect of buying shoes to go with a new dress that hasn’t arrived yet, not being able to drive, roundabouts, corkscrews, wine.

I Make Stuff Up

Tuesday, July 27th, 2010

I’ve had a week of furious typing, post-its, scribbling in pencil and… filling in forms. With the arrival of a new person into the world comes a whole host of forms needed to prove the poor blighter’s existence to the government / NHS / my landlord. He doesn’t even have a real pair of shoes yet (we have been remiss in this, but I’ve a novel to finish and in this house if you don’t walk, you don’t get shoes) and yet we’ve had to jump through all kinds of hoops to get him a birth certificate, registered with a doctor, alert the fine people at HMRC to his existence and justify my own continuing existence to a health visitor. All activities that are accompanied by forms, questions and questionnaires.

I’m a grumpy get at the best of times (you hadn’t noticed?) but PLEASE, when I’m working to a deadline, on much less sleep than I’d like and have a bit of a 1000 piece Disney jigsaw puzzle stuck to my hair with vomited breast-milk (he’s been easy on the crap, this past few days) DON’T look at me like I’m a deluded, sorry fantasist in need of intervention when you ask me what I do for a living for your bloody FORM and I answer honestly. Think of how many books there are in the world. Someone’s got to write them, haven’t they?

My favourite quiz of the week is the one they use to check if you’re depressed or not. Tick boxes. Do you feel like harming yourself and / or others a) never b) sometimes c) on a near constant basis. I answer C, and clarify that this isn’t a post-partum thing, but is how I always feel, especially when asked invasive questions by someone I’ve never met before who invited themselves around to my house and sneered at me when I told them what I do for a living, (really? That’s nice. And what did you do for a job?.) then followed it up by asking me what my husband thought of it… (very little, I should imagine).

I’m not going to tell these people I’m a writer any more. I’m going to say I’m a detective, a spy, a magician. I’m a consultant escapologist. I’m a private eye. I’m Columbo’s wife. I’m Mrs Hudson, Sherlock Holmes’ landlady. I’m Harriet the Spy. I’m a cross between Nancy Drew and Nana Mouskouri. I make stuff up. I type very fast in two hour bursts, sometimes at night, sometimes holding the baby, sometimes while eating breakfast.

Here’s an ambivalent review of A Kind of Intimacy from L-Magazine, ‘New York City’s Local Event and Arts And Culture Guide.’


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