Archive for the ‘location’ Category

Lift Off

Tuesday, August 4th, 2009

Yesterday was my first day on the new job. Despite common assumptions (names withheld to protect the innocent) that I’d be spending it loafing, I was in a variety of meetings all day concerned with some freelance projects I’ll be working on.

The work trousers, you’ll be glad to know, stayed in the wardrobe (by wardrobe, I mean dangling over the side of the washing basket).

I did, however, also manage a couple of hours writing – which is going to be my primary task over the next few months. A ‘time to write’ grant from the Arts Council has made it possible for me to be picky about the other kinds of things I do, and has also, since I’ll be being mentored through the next few months, impressed on me the need to get some kind of plan together for how I’m going to tackle this last bit of my book.

I am such a messy writer. I go back and forth through the manuscript, taking seven or eight or nine drafts to turn something that is nothing more than a hand-written note form plot-outline-with-dialogue in seven A4 notebooks, into a document that is fit for someone else to read. I don’t work in a linear fashion, and there are still a few gaps in the book where I’ve been merrily typing around issues I promised myself I’d ‘sort out later’. Later is now, which is the long way of saying that I realised I needed to do some more research.

(This is a hint for lazy writers: don’t, whatever you do, start writing about a character that is very knowledgeable (near obsessed, in fact) with something that you know nothing about. If you are going to do that, don’t structure your book in a way that means you’ll need to have the facts about these things explicit. Even if they are really, really interesting and fit fantastically well with your theme.)

I know some writers go and see people and conduct interviews. Others read books or take pictures. I’ve read a lot of books: my favourite was There Are Giants in the Sea: Monsters and Mysteries of the Depths Explored, by Michael Bright.

Sometime in the next couple of weeks I’m planning a day trip to Morecambe Bay to research setting, and another to Lancaster to visit this museum. I’m not sure yet what it is exactly I need to find out, so I think it will be a day of wandering with a camera and a cagoule, picking bits up here and there like a magpie.

Unless anyone has a better suggestion?

Cambridge Japes

Sunday, June 14th, 2009















I had a lovely time. Thank you Rosey, Natalie, Alaysha (I hope that is right) Pam and Clare. It was emotional to be back.

This place is the first place that I felt at home and the first place where I felt reading and writing for a living was an acceptable ambition. It takes confidence to say you want to be a writer (even if you never say it out loud, it is still scary) and Newnham is where I started feeling confident. I love this place. And I loved doing my reading and answering questions and listening to all sorts of other people who are going to be all kinds of different writers.

Ace! Top Banana!

And, while I’m here, or rather, while I was rooting about on the internet, what a shame it was to discover that Newnham is hiking up the rent that students pay to live there 8.5 % ( a year. For five years.) as well as charging top-up-fees. I’d never be able to go there now. Not in a million years. I only just coped with the post-degree debt as it was.

It makes me sad.

I know good things aren’t always (and maybe shouldn’t always) be free, and I know that Newnham gives very generous bursaries and financial assistance to students who need it.

But all the same, it is probably a good idea not to make it so that only rich students are allowed to go to a place that has such a profound, long lasting effect on the women who study there.

Seems a bit old fashioned to me.

The talk I gave was for the arts soc. That’s where Virgina Woolf first mentioned that a woman needed a room of her own in order to write. A room of her own and five hundred pounds a year. Which, by today’s standards, is quite a lot more than the average wage, tons more (according to S of A figs) than the average writer earns from her writing, and maybe not enough to have a room of your own at Newnham.

Just saying.

De Preston

Friday, March 6th, 2009

Recently, I have been spending a lot of the hours that I should be asleep doing this.

And tonight, I was doing this.

Lots of ‘Ace’ and ‘Good’ and maybe even ‘Top Banana’ things are going to be happening in De Preston soon.

Watch this space.

If you don’t live in De Preston you should still watch this space. Other interesting things will be happening.

And:

available in all good bookshops now. And an Amazon review!

I don’t know that person.

I SWEAR.

Dear Mum

Monday, February 23rd, 2009

I am sorry I have not had time to ring you up. I am sorry I PASTED you at our recent bowling. I am sorry that after I PASTED you, my four year old daughter proceeded to PASTE you again.

I am sorry mum.

I am sorry you only find out what I am doing by reading my blog.

But look. I was in the Guardian!

*normal service will resume tomorrow*

Get out of the house and go to No Point tonight. I’ll be there. Grey shoes and a green dress. The beard hasn’t fully covered my shame, so I may also be sporting a paper bag.

Disappointment

Monday, December 29th, 2008


I looked at this picture today. It is not mine, but from here. This is The Mount, in Fleetwood, Lancashire. A little bit more googling and browsing and I turned up this – The Mount’s official blog.

The Mount is the name of the hill – a pretend, artificially designed hill – and the thing on top of it is called the pavilion. You climb (not a hard job, unless you’re pushing a toddler in a pram, as I was) right to the top and, apart from the view, which is of a grey sea and a lighthouse and some memorials to lost fishermen and a lost fishing industry, getting up there is a disappointment. Right at the top, and the pavilion – not as nice in real life as it is in the photograph – is shut up and shutters down. It doesn’t have opening hours – it’s been like that for years and no-one I’ve been able to ask (including the very nice librarians at Fleetwood Library) knows what it is like inside. Although they did tell me all about Decimus (tenth child – his mother probably had better stories) Burton.

I suppose I was hoping for a tea-shop or at the very least a skanky public inconvenience. Nope. I took a note of the graffiti and moved on.

I was out in Fleetwood because I was wondering how to do research for a story I was planning to write. Going there and looking at things seemed to be a good start, although because I didn’t know exactly what I was doing – either with the research, or the writing, or even the pram, the trip seemed like a disappointment.

I’m just going through the copy edits on A Kind of Intimacy and have been reminded that the hill and the pavilion thing became a setting for a nasty scene towards the end of the book – my Annie climbs up there and – out of breath but hopeful – meets a bad man in a denim jacket who didn’t bring flowers but a bad joke I stole from my brother.

Writing Places

Sunday, October 28th, 2007

I don’t usually have the luxury of choosing where I write. Since I did away with the laptop and got a PC, it needs to be at my desk, bum in big black chair, hands on keyboard. Also, I’m usually writing when the little one is in bed, and short of paying a childminder, finding a husband or risking the involvement of social services (I find none of these options desirable) I need to be in my house, and reasonably sober.

Not so this week, which was the wonderful week off – now sadly drawing to its inevitable close. (O lente, lente, currite noctis equi! The stars move still, time runs, the clock will strike… etc etc)

During this week I decided to ring the changes and treat myself to a writerly walk in the park, a writerly amble past Primark, and a writerly half hour in Starbucks. All accompanied by my little black moleskine and John Fante (the review is here). Putting the ethical considerations relating to Starbucks aside – of which there are many – it was half term and the place was packed to the rafters with Emos. I quickly moved on, a little bit down the hill, to the cafe in the train-station – where good writing happened.

Every time I am not at work and it is open and I can be bothered and the little one is not with me I am going to go to the cafe and do writing. It worked like magic. It was almost empty and the people who were in there were too over burdened, bored, or disappointed to find themselves stranded in (de)Preston, waiting for their connection (I refuse to believe Preston is any one’s intended destination – ever) to make much noise. Also, I really, really, really like train stations. And airports. And bus-stations. It’s something to do with being in between places – with not having to decide – postponing choosing to be in one place rather than another. Waiting. Licensed laziness. Waiting rooms aren’t hell, they’re heaven, or something like it.

Sometimes when I’m in one of my emotionally delicate places (she means ‘in a sulk’) bed is where I want to be – for just the same reason. In bed, or in the train-station cafe, I haven’t started my day or my journey – I haven’t made a choice and all the possibilities lie out before me like unopened birthday presents. It isn’t as scary as a blank page, because waiting is fine, it is expected. Because of the cafe, it is encouraged.

And it is much cheaper than Starbucks.


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