REVELATIONS AND REVELRY

La Playa

There’s nothing that focusses the mind on writing a blog like the need to unpack, and wash the contents of, three suitcases from our ten days in Spain. I mean, honestly, HOW did we generate so many dirty clothes? I only remember wearing my bikinis and a beach dress. I think it was bad packing on my part for coming home. It’s all right packing to go away because you have new things and lots of time and you’re excited and you want to make sure that you have everything, so belongings go in neat little piles and everything’s ordered nicely.

the girls suitcase before we flew out

We had one suitcase for us and one for the girls and nothing crossed over between the two. The third was for, well, all the stuff that we didn’t need, frankly. Packing to come home on the other hand, I find a depressing waste of time. I basically feel like the holiday’s over the minute I drag the suitcase out of the wardrobe. It just sits there, accusingly, a black lump in the corner, waiting to be filled and reminding me of planes (I HATE flying). Consequently, I don’t care about packing then; clothes get flung in at random, ours – the girls – other people’s – whatever’s to hand. The ten pairs of shoes I didn’t need, the five pairs of shorts I didn’t wear, the £50 bikini I wore once (I LIVED in the £10 one from TK Maxx) . The dirty beach towels in among the clean t-shirts, the sandy skirts in with pristine tops – they all get muddled and by the time we got home, more or less everything needed washing. Which is wonderful in this wet British weather, so suitable for drying washing lines full of clothes. The girls’ suitcase I haven’t dared go near yet because I know it’s worse. Children’s clothes always are. So in there will be the 90% of clean clothes that they didn’t wear with the 10% that they utterly trashed. Orange juice mixed with Coke blended with ketchup, sand, chocolate sauce – you know, all those nice substances that transfer so easily from one item of clothing to another.  I’ll deal with it all later.

We had a great holiday. I love Spain and I enjoyed the chance to speak Spanish again properly, I’ve missed that. We spent most of our time on the beach or by the pool. The beach was where I fell foul to the temptation of having a henna tattoo done. Well, we all did. But now theirs have all faded and mine is as dark as ever – I’m beginning to wonder if I’ll have a Spanish bull on my ankle forever…..

un toro de Espana

We did a couple of little trips, I say a couple because after the first I told my husband I wasn’t getting in the car with him again. Obviously in Spain they drive on the right, now my husband had a problem with placing the car correctly on the road, he was constantly too far over to the right by about a foot. Which wasn’t a problem unless we were doing 120kmph on the motorway – or we were winding our way through the Spanish mountains to visit the little town of Ronda. The roads on these mountains barely qualify for the description. They were narrow, rutted and with a crash barrier between us, and a sheer drop of hundreds of feet into unforgiving  terrain, of the size that our gerbils could hop over if they spied their food bowl on the other side. A foot to the right on these roads was going to matter very much. I tried telling him, of course I did. I tried telling, yelling, cajoling, but he’s one of those people that just doesn’t listen, so eventually I accepted that I was going to die. This was it. Goodbye, cruel world, I am going over the edge of this mountain because my husband has a problem with spacial awareness.  Obviously, that didn’t happen. He did eventually come off the road because he was too far over but luckily we’d left the mountain by then so it didn’t matter too much. But it made for a tense day, matrimonially speaking. Ronda was glorious though, and worth the drive. I’ve been before and I just adore the bullring, it’s the oldest bullring in Spain; steeped in history. And the view from near the Punte Nuevo was stunning.

bullring at Ronda

There were a couple of downsides to the holiday though, the first of which was flying. I hate flying. I hate it so much that I hadn’t flown for eleven years because, to me, the holiday wasn’t worth it. But the time had come to do it again, so I did it. With diazepam and wine. And having cleaned my teeth thoroughly in case I needed to be identified from them. I was OK-ish going out there, but on the return journey I cried from the boarding gate to mid-way through the flight; not my most edifying moment by any stretch of the imagination. But I DID IT. And that’s what counts.  I only have two phobias, one of which is flying and the other of which is vomiting. Of course on Day 2 of our holiday I took  five year old Alice to the bathroom, turned my back and a millisecond later heard her vomit all over the floor. Twice. Of course I fled the scene and fetched her father, as Molly commented “Oh Mummy, you’ve had to face your two biggest fears in just a couple of days.” Correct. What a great start to a holiday!

the vomiting child

The other downside comes with a warning. Ladies and gentleman, do not – ever – go near a company called Diamond Resorts. They are atrocious. We were accosted one night on our way to dinner by a British lady who said that if we were over 28, married or living together and had time to spare the next morning looking round a hotel we could get a 50% discount on the tickets to the water park that we planned to visit. We looked at each and shrugged, why not? We didn’t have to sign anything or buy anything or give any details. It seemed worth a try. So we duly turned up the next morning, the lady from the night before took us into the hotel, said “Just stay as long as you like” and someone came to chat to us briefly and explained that we would be given a guided tour. Lasting, at the most, 90 minutes. We glanced at each other in alarm. 90 minutes? Wasting 90 minutes of sunshine? The first tendrils of unease began to uncurl themselves in my stomach. Then Donald turned up to guide us. Donald from Diamond Resorts. Diamond Donald. He looked a nice man. He was Scottish, had his sales patter all ready and everything seemed straightforward once again. Until we got to the bar where he insisted we sit for 45 minutes, drinking water that we didn’t want, whilst he transparently acquired the information that he did want. Eventually we left and were taken on a short tour of a very small hotel, which we were assured was just one of about 20 million worldwide. In the same league as the Marriott Hotels, would you believe. To be fair, everything we saw looked fine. Nice, even. But Diamond Donald kept going on about how nice their apartments were, how clean, how inviting, how comfortable – and yet we were not invited to see inside one of those. Which I didn’t care about because by now we’d been there 60 minutes and wanted to leave. So my husband began on the closing stages of the conversation by asking:

“OK, so how much? That’s the information we need.”

The response surprised us: “Ah. I can’t tell you that.”

“What?”

“Well if you’ll just come to our boardroom, we can sit there and discuss how the company works. It’ll only take an hour.”

“No, I don’t think so, thank you. If you could just give us your price list.”

“I’m not allowed. We need to explain how we work. If you’ll just come this way.”

At this point, my husband’s patience began to expire and Diamond Donald hurried to get his manager to see if he would allow us to be told the price of the accommodation. The man who appeared, his name is Pete by the way, was not only rude and unhelpful, but also quite threatening and without an iota of knowledge of good customer service. We were not to be told of prices (and they’d spent a great deal of time discussing the prices of every other hotel in the area, “£1000 a week you’ll pay, for a room,” we were told cheerfully) unless we sat through God knows what for a further hour with two bored, hot children. Eventually, the conversation got uncomfortable when Pete began a sentence with “If you were an intelligent person….” and we walked out. Not as fast as Pete however, who tripped past us smartly to find a rep and as we left the complex he was busy whispering something to him and looking menacingly at us; presumably informing him that we were not to be allowed our ticket discount. Not a problem – we wanted nothing further to do with the place. I have never felt so uncomfortable or bullied in a hotel in my life. Hence my warning – Diamond Resorts are anything but. Perhaps others have positive experiences, but ours was dreadful.

And now, on to the actual point of this blog! See, I’ve just rambled on for 1,514 words. I originally started this to write about the wonderful books I read while on holiday and I got sidetracked by the holiday itself. The first two books I read were ‘The Beach Hut’ and ‘The Long Weekend’ by Veronica Henry. I wandered around Waterstones before I left and these two books were genuinely the only two to captivate me in the entire shop. I don’t know why, they weren’t on display, they were just on a shelf, but the minute I’d picked one up, read the synopsis and a page or two, I knew I had to have both. I can’t remember the last time that happened. And what a cracking find they were. Both are about the lives of four or five different couples in the same place; a group of beach huts in the first and an hotel in the second. They are delightful; engaging, very emotive, beautifully written and absolutely enchanting. I loved the characters so much I didn’t want the books to end. Especially ‘The Long Weekend’; I preferred that one by an infinitesimal amount. They’re both great books, I thoroughly recommend them, either for the beach or just at home. And Veronica assures me that more are on their way, which I’m thrilled about. She’s hopped straight into my top 5 favourite authors – which is an achievement because there’s tough competition,  Henry 🙂 The next book I read was a very different one. It’s quite a dark, searching, mysterious, tense story by Louise Douglas, called ‘The Secrets Between Us’. I bought it at the airport, I was lured by a sticker which read “If you love Kate Morton, you’ll love this!” And I did love it. It had me spellbound until the last page and the characters and their emotions stayed with me until long after I’d finished the book. It was captivating and deeply moving. And the last new book I read was Sophie Kinsella’s latest, ‘I’ve Got Your Number’. When I read the synopsis I thought it sounded a weak premise for a book but she’s always written strongly before so I thought I’d try it. And I’m glad I did. It was engaging, entertaining and made me laugh out loud; another great, easy holiday read.

Right, I’ve now written about 1,000 words more than I intended so I shall stop here. I need to go and clean the house – and myself – because my in-laws are coming tonight for a belated birthday celebration, it was my Father-in-law’s birthday on Wednesday, so I need to change the tablecloth at the very least. And after that, I’ve agreed to go and stay with my mother for the weekend so that means yet more…..yes, you’ve guessed it….PACKING! Goodness knows what I’ll pack, of course. At this rate ice-cream stained clothes, a dirty beach towel, sandy shorts and a bikini that’s the closest thing I have to clean underwear.

in full Fiesta mode!

Hasta luego!

xxx

I don’t particularly like Monday mornings. It’s my own fault; I don’t do any housework (or bare minimum anyway) over the weekend so by Monday morning my house is a mess and I have hundreds of jobs to do. And of course it’s made so much worse by the sunshine because who wants to be tidying and vacuuming and ironing when it’s so hot and beautiful outside? Certainly not me. Plus the food shopping needs to be done and all the weekend clothes washed, and there’s such an air of needing to be productive on Monday mornings. You don’t feel that you can slope off with a good book.

Although, on the positive side, this Monday morning is better than last week’s, so that’s something. For those of you not following my pathetic progress on twitter, my husband went abroad for a week and my life fell apart. One daughter ended up in hospital with suspected appendicitis, I broke the freezer, ran out of food, failed to wash enough socks for my younger daughter and generally spent the whole week feeling stressed and like I was chasing my own tail. In addition to which I was battling on with my horrible new gym routine. People keep asking me why I’m doing it and I don’t have an answer. I was bored with just running 5k every time I went to the gym and if I’m bored then I won’t do it, so I decided to enlist the help of a personal trainer. I told him that I wanted to lose a little bit of weight and be very fit, but I was only prepared to spend half an hour per day doing it. I told him not to give me a lengthy, fiddly routine involving lots of weights and hopping on and off several pieces of equipment because I simply won’t do it. And to be fair, he didn’t. What he did do was devise an appalling, a hellish, forty minute workout using interval training. This pushes your body to the maximum for sixty second periods and then allows for a rest period and it’s the best way to improve cardiovascular fitness. The first time I did it I was simply in shock. The second time I very nearly cried, the third time I was nearly sick, and it’s only now, three weeks later, that I actually feel that I can cope with it. Or bits of it. I enjoy the results though so I shall keep on doing it. Although  the trainer mentioned increasing the routine after four weeks so I’ll have to avoid him like the plague; I can’t do more, I can’t.

And as well as health and fitness, another advantage of all that exercise is to provide me with great long stretches of time in which to consider my current manuscript, as the title of this post suggests. Because I need to, it’s tricky. I have characters, I have a plot, I have houses, names, careers, motivations – you name it, I have it. I am the most prepared person in the world to write a book. And yet – I can’t get at the story. I’ve tried three different things now, and I’m onto my fourth, but I have yet to settle into one of them.  Over the weekend, I realised that I think I will have to change the whole way that I was writing the manuscript before. One of the characters needs a far larger role than I had previously given her. I think that I may even end up writing with two alternate viewpoints, which is something I dislike, but the other option is to incorporate her into the main body of the story and I just don’t think that will work. It’s at times like this that I wish I could plan properly, it would be so much easier, I long for files and ringbinders and neat black lines.  But I realised on Saturday that I really, truly, can’t. I sat down to write a scene that I’d had an idea about with no notes, nor any real idea of where I was going to take it, and it worked. It worked beautifully well. Just holding the very essence of the story in my mind, I wrote over a thousand words in an hour and I was left with a sense that I could have written the whole book in a day; nice when it happens. And furthermore, later on I felt that spike of pleasure that you sometimes get when you’re looking forward to reading your current book (for me it’s The Shell Seekers by Rosamunde Pilcher) but  then I realised that it wasn’t my reading book that I was anticipating so eagerly, it was climbing back into the one that I’m writing – which has to be a good sign? That said, I haven’t had time since to go back and assess it properly so I have no idea whether I can continue with it or whether I’ll have to go back to how I was writing before. The manuscript itself is in a mess, with different bits dotted around that I’ve cut but want to keep and they’re all in the same document. There’s even two entirely different versions of the book; I must have written over fifty thousand words in total on it so far and I have yet to get at the story in a way that works. It’s there, I just can’t see it properly yet. Happily, I remember reading a blog post by another author on writing her second novel and that went through about twenty different versions before she finally landed on the right one. It’s not even a case of editing, it’s finding the right way to write the book.  And I will, somehow….

These long summer days are perfect for reading! I haven’t read so much for months; I suppose it’s something to do with spending lots of time lazing in the sun and generally feeling more relaxed and lethargic. I’ve re-read lots of Rosamunde Pilcher, Penny Vincenzi and Elizabeth Jane Howard,  but the trouble is that I’m finding there’s nothing on the market these days in a similar style. A very kind author  called Jane Sanderson sent me a copy of her novel, Netherwood, which was wonderful, I thoroughly recommend it – it was such a gentle, engaging read. The link is at the bottom of this post. I’ve also ordered The Cornish House by Liz Fenwick (again, link below), which was published last week and sounds lovely. But apart from that I’m finding that I am mostly re-reading. I love browsing in bookshops though, there’s such an aura of potential about the experience – you might find the perfect novel that will entrap you, excite you, amuse you. I don’t own a Kindle and nor do I plan to. My husband and I did discuss it briefly for going abroad in the summer, but I’m afraid that I just couldn’t get past the screen.  I am definitely a real book aficionado.

And now it’s too beautiful to sit indoors any longer so I’m going to find something constructive I can do outside. And I have to take my daughter a pencil case. She’s sitting her school exams this week and she informed me at eight o’ clock this morning that she needed a clear pencil case. I wasn’t quite sure where she expected me to produce one of those from so I gave her a sandwich bag – and then as the car disappeared down the road, I remembered that I keep my staples in, yes,  you’ve guessed it, a clear pencil case…… I hope that is not an indication of the rest of my week or it might be me ending up in hospital this time. Voluntarily.

xxx

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Netherwood-Jane-Sanderson/dp/0751547638/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1338197879&sr=8-1

https://lizfenwick.blogspot.co.uk/

I am beginning to be frustrated by how I write. I know I’ve mentioned this before but I really wish that I was one of those people who plan meticulously and then write their scenes. I yearn for a neat plan of each chapter before I start writing. Not only because it would make things easier, but because in my experience it also makes them better. I can devote my entire mind to creating what is already sketched out for me, rather than the odd hybrid of planning and writing, and then re-writing. I’ve tried many, many times to be this way. With each new manuscript (or each new excuse that I can reasonably conjure up) I go out and buy new notebooks, new pens, coloured pens, sticky labels, plastic wallets, box files – you name it, I own it. And each time it is with the promise to myself that this WILL make me a more organised, structured and prolific writer. I will sit down daily with a clear plan for my working hours. I will know what I have to do and why and by when. And it will get done. I will be more disciplined. I will write for a solid hour and then make a cup of tea. I will not check my emails. I will not suddenly remember that the washing is on the line when it starts pouring with rain and leap up to get it in. I will be focussed.

And now shall I tell you what actually happens?

I wake up and (post-school run) I have no idea what I should do first. I make a cup of tea and I sit down at my desk. Then I remember that I also like to drink water while I’m writing so I get up again and fetch a glass of water. Then, should I edit what I have already written? Because, goodness me, it needs it. Or should I harness the early morning creativity and plough on with Chapter Four? But then an insidious voice pipes up – but how can you write when you haven’t planned? Oh yes….perhaps I’d better have a little think first about exactly what I am going to write. Hmm, where to start….with my main character, obviously. Let’s think long and hard about her and the points I want to make….but first I’d better check facebook. And twitter. Because it would be rude if someone has messaged me and I don’t reply. And then I’m sure that there were emails I needed to answer and a wedding invitation to RSVP to. And I can’t possibly concentrate until all of those little things have been attended to, so I’d better do that first. And then I open up the manuscript. And re-read bits to get me back into the way of thinking like my main character. Then I remember that I have done some planning so perhaps I’d better look at that. But the problem here is that at best, my planning consists of plain A4 sheets of paper with scrawled notes all over them, in no particular order and in no particular pen. I have a ruler on my desk for neatly underlining topic categories – it has never been used. I make rough notes as and when they occur to me which is either as I’m writing feverishly (makes sense because that’s when I buried deepest in the story) or when I’m in the middle of cooking the girls’ tea (makes sense because that’s when I’m most bored). That leaves me in the position of trying to marshall these random jottings into some semblance of order so that I can work from them – and this has never happened. So I end up ignoring the planning and jumping straight back into writing the story which sometimes works and sometimes doesn’t.

I need to recognise that I don’t work tidily. I work instinctively. I can only write when I have fully submerged myself in the story and I am watching what happens. If I try and construct a conversation between A and B to make the point XYZ, I always fail. It will only work if the characters are making the points themselves. I can only plan in my mind, and only then by letting my subconscious do it for me. I cannot decide for myself what is good and what is bad and what is superfluous. At a latent level I think about my latest plot all the time, trying to guide the threads of the story because I am not quite there yet, I can’t quite see how to tie it all up and I am 12,536 words in. I suspect that with this manuscript I will have to edit heavily, that’s the only way it will work. I’m going to have to throw it all down onto (metaphorical) paper and then go through and decide what’s what, which isn’t something I’ve ever done before. I usually write pretty closely to what I eventually end up with.

And I think the thing I find most difficult about working this way is that I have to hold everything in my mind, rather than on paper. If I write it all down then it’s only moments before something else has occurred to me and I would have to change everything I’d written to incorporate it. But it isn’t as it sounds; what I am holding in my mind is just the essence of the story. For my main character I have an image of blond, curly hair and just that is enough for me remember exactly what she’s like and how she thinks and what she would say. I have different colours that I have linked mentally to different elements of the story and that tells me how to write it. I know this all sounds fantastically bizarre but the point I’m making is that I don’t have neat lists in my head, I am relying on my subconscious to present me with a picture of the story I need to tell, in whatever way it wants to do it. I’ve often thought about spider diagrams, and great big A1 white boards that I could easily alter, but the reality is that I only need the barest, minimum of facts written down to work from. The rest usually just flows. Usually. But of course with this method, on the days when my brain isn’t working quite at full capacity I am completely stuck and go round in circles and spend a lot of time staring at the screen with no idea how to proceed. It’s like looking at one of those Magic Eye pictures where you need to disengage your brain to see the real image; that’s what writing is like for me. And if I try too hard, I can’t do it.

I’m quite fascinated by, and in awe of, writers who are able to write diligently every day, no matter what. A few names from twitter spring to mind. If I do that then after a week or two my brain is exhausted and I need a good few days off before I can continue. I used to think that I was just indulging myself by doing this, but then I realised that I actually wasn’t. I genuinely need that break and write far better, and more prolifically, after it. For example, I didn’t write a thing for the entirety of the Easter holidays (four weeks). I kept thinking I should, even though it was near impossible to find the time, and very soon feelings of guilt crept in about not writing. Anything. But when the girls returned to school and I returned to the manuscript, I discovered that the break had given me the distance and clarity that I needed to see where I was going wrong. And now I have almost completely re-written the 10,000 words that I had. My sister had read the first chapters and returned a “Hmm, yes, quite good,” verdict, but “…you need a hook for the main character. I don’t know what she’s like.” And of course she was right. Once I’d immersed myself in the story I saw exactly what I was doing wrong and the main character now has far more shape and substance. She is an artist, for example, as I learned yesterday. That’s not a terribly convenient thing because I have little experience of, or interest in, painting, but it can’t be helped.

And as far as old writing goes, I’m afraid that I still don’t have any news about Daisychain. Things are happening with the manuscript, but I’m not really at liberty to discuss them. Which is very difficult for someone like me who is the most rubbish secret-keeper in the world. I have a natural compulsion to tell everyone, everything. I re-read bits of Daisychain recently to see if I still had the same confidence in it, and the answer was yes. Swiftly followed by a horrible lurch of self-doubt, something along the lines of “I will never be able to write anything to this standard ever again”. So I stopped reading it.

I’ve also been reading for pleasure a lot recently. Much more than normal. I’m not quite sure why, but I’ve gone back to reading old favourites; lots of Charlotte Bingham and Rosamunde Pilcher and Penny Vincenzi. And that was what prompted my question on twitter the other day – which authors are writing in the style of these authors these days? There doesn’t seem to be anyone. The heyday of the Aga Saga is over (apparently), but in my view there is little on the market at the moment that does the same job. Although I may possibly speak too soon because a lovely author called Jane Sanderson saw my twitter plea and very kindly sent me a copy of her book, called ‘Netherwood’ which was published by Sphere on 29^th September last year. I haven’t started reading it yet but as the cover quote by Milly Johnson is “A romping tale of history, ambition, greed and survival”, I am very intrigued to begin it.

And now, much as I’ve enjoyed writing this because it gives me slightly more clarity of thought, I really must go and do some proper writing. And proper defrosting food for dinner tonight. And seeing as I’ve signed up for the Great South Run this year, I’d also better do some proper running. It would be perfect of course if I could do all of these things in my subconscious as well, but sadly, I don’t see that happening.

xxx

Me, on the West Wittering beach during the Easter holidays.