Rainy Days

The sound of rain falling can evoke an amazing sense of calmness.  I’ve found that incredibly helpful this week.  It is important as a writer to stop and take in your surroundings.  The way the light falls at certain times of the day, the smells that emerge when you venture outside first thing in the morning.  I am currently reading The Lantern by Deborah Lawrenson.  When she writes she engages not only with your imagination but your senses too.  This is only the second novel of hers that I have read but I love the way she writes.  It’s not just telling a story or even setting a scene, it’s putting you right there amongst the pages of the novel. 

Another fabulous example is the novel Chocolat by Joanne Harris.  Her writing feeds your imagination, so that in your mind you can smell and taste the delights that her protagonist Vianne creates throughout the story.  This I believe gives the story depth and works with your mind to engage your senses.  Show, don’t tell is what I have heard so many times but I think it is so much more than that.  A good story should make you feel, taste, smell and see.  Our imagination is such a powerful thing and a writer should make full use of that. 

So as I sit and listen to the rain falling outside I’m aware that the way I describe it is greatly instrumental in helping me to set a scene.  For me it is calming as I sit in the comfort of my own home.  The sound is soft against the window, I know that the garden is receiving some much needed nourishment and I imagine the cool water bringing life and vitality to the plants.  This rain is very much about life and sustenance. 

How easily it can be changed to something filled with menace and fear.  Add a howling wind and immediately the atmosphere changes.  The house would react with spine tingling creaks and groans as the wind rushes through the little cracks and spaces that it finds, making doors bang and curtains flutter.  I think that quite often when I’m writing I can too easily become caught up in where I want the story to go, that I miss the detail.  The detail however is vital and is what gives the story life.  So as you can see, although we complain about them, rainy days can be very helpful indeed.       

Testing the water...

Back in February I took the plunge and entered my first competition.  It was with the Writers and Artist’s Yearbook and the theme was ‘identity’.  I found having a deadline and some direction a real help.  I wrote a story.  It had a beginning, middle and an end.  I was even quite pleased with the result.  I didn’t make the final twelve and of course I was disappointed (there is always the hope of a first try triumph).  The worst part for me was not knowing how well my story actually did. Of course they couldn’t possibly offer comments on every entry but it is hard when you have no idea how good or bad your offering was.

So I have read through my story again.  I think it is good practice to read through your work again and doing so after a certain amount of time can help you look at it from a fresh perspective.  Looking at it now I can see there is definitely room for improvement and I think it’s worth it.  I like this story and I’m not ready to give up on it yet.  I’m going to take the plunge and put it out there to you so that you can judge for yourself.  Any feedback would be gratefully received.  I have my own ideas of what improvements can be made and so it will be interesting to see it from another point of view.  I hope you enjoy my story.

Lost and Found

She sat in the corner of the café sipping her coffee.  It had been two days since she’d left home; there had been no note.  It was a cold day, so she had grabbed her coat.  She’d been thinking clearly enough to do that at least.  Her purse had been in the pocket, she couldn’t remember when she’d put it there or even when she’d last used it.  There was money inside and she was grateful for that; it had bought her the coffee.  The warmth helped take away some of the chill that had set in after her night sleeping rough.

Hunched in the corner, she watched the other customers.  The café was full with the early morning rush.  A few people lingered over their drinks, taking time to sit at one of the small wooden tables; newspaper in hand.  Most were queuing at the counter, waiting impatiently for their turn before they rushed off to the day ahead.  Too busy to notice what was happening around them, their minds already someplace else.

No one paid much attention to her.  Just one glance and they looked quickly away.  Her appearance spoke volumes, so they knew who she was.  There were many like her sleeping rough in the city; any sense of who they were had gone, their identities lost until they became just another one of many.  Each had their own story which had brought them to this.  It was scary to make contact, they were afraid to look in to her eyes, afraid to see that she was a person just like them and that one day, if they were really unlucky, it could be them.  Life is funny that way; you never really know what’s coming.

She wasn’t afraid to look at them though.  She was curious about who they were, where they were going.  She watched them rush out of the café into the cold grey day, coffee in hand, hunched against the drizzle.  A young man leaning against the counter caught her attention.  He was well dressed and she guessed he was on his way to work.  He looked tired and glum.

‘It’s a bloody nightmare mate.’  He said to the man standing next to him.

‘This is the third time they’ve changed the exchange date. I’m getting sick of it.  I’d put the house back on the market but Debs is worried they’ll pull out.’  He rubbed the bridge of his nose and sighed.
‘We really need this sale. I just wished we’d get a bloody break.’  Suddenly he caught her eye.  He took in the dishevelled, unwashed appearance.  Her hair messily pulled back into a ponytail, her skin was red and dry from exposure to the cold.  He turned quickly to face the counter.  She could sense his unease and she wondered for a moment what had made him so uncomfortable.  A few minutes later he was walking towards the door holding his coffee.  He didn’t look back.

The queue began to thin slightly and she caught sight of the small television set behind the counter.  The volume was turned down but she recognised the local newsreader on the screen.  She’d seen her on her own television at home.  Suddenly she was sitting on a sofa watching the news, the baby warm and soft in her arms.  She’d been rocking her gently to sleep; her tiny hands opening and closing around the soft blanket she was wrapped in.  Was this who she was?  Was this where she belonged? 

A moment later and the image was gone.  She fidgeted on her seat and sighed as she put her coffee cup down.  She didn’t know who she was anymore.  Something terrible had happened, she knew that; something that had made her run away.  Suddenly a picture of a young woman appeared on the television.  She felt like this was someone she knew.  There was something familiar about the way her blond hair fell framing her face and those green eyes that seemed to look right into you.  The woman was smiling, she looked happy.  Who was she?  The words ‘Missing’ flashed up on the screen beneath the picture.

Confusion coursed through her and she wished she could hear what the newsreader was saying.  As she looked at the picture she suddenly spotted a rose bush to the side of the woman.  It was bursting with beautiful yellow roses and suddenly she remembered it, could see it in her mind’s eye; smell the scent of the flowers, feel the softness of the petals.  It was her garden.

Looking again at the photograph she could see her eyes, her mouth.  She knew it was her, if you looked past her unwashed hair; the gaunt, haunted face, you could see.  The smile was now gone.  She felt so far removed from the person in the photograph; it was as if she had suddenly switched places with a stranger.

A memory began to stir within the back of her mind.  It had been a warm summer’s day, not too long ago.  They were picnicking in the garden; drinking lemonade and eating salad, her toes tearing at bits of grass as they hung over the edge of the blanket.  Her name was Jessica, she remembered that now.  She had still been sore from the labour, her movements slow and careful.  How proud she had felt of the experience she had just been through.  Every bit of pain had been worth it.  She didn’t know then that the greater pain was yet to come.  At that time she could only see joy in her life.

As she let the memories wash over her, she became aware of things that were out of shot on the photograph.  A Moses basket sat in the shade to her right, and of course a baby; her baby girl, Rose.  Rose had woken hungry for food just minutes after the picture had been taken.  But who was taking the picture?  James!  Of course, James, her husband.  How could he have slipped her memory?  They had been married for six years; together many more and this had been their dream for so long; to have a baby, a family.  She suddenly felt very alone and wished that he was sitting here with her.  Why was she here alone?  Why wasn’t she at home with James and Rose?

Her image had disappeared from the television screen but Jessica didn’t notice.  Her mind was elsewhere trying to work out how she came to be in this coffee shop so far from home.  She recalls wishing for sleep, she was desperate for it.  She had been so tired and overwhelmed that she could barely think straight.  Every action became a programmed response to what Rose needed.  She had begun to work on autopilot, reacting without thinking.  Rose would wake several times a night and feed regularly throughout the day.  Oh how Jessica loved her baby girl, but if only she could get just one good night’s sleep.  Then one morning she awoke to find that she had slept for seven hours solid.

Groggy from sleep she lay there savouring the daylight that greeted her.  The room was silent except for the sound of bird song filtering through the open window.  Then a panic crept over her.  Why hadn’t Rose cried for food?  James must have woken and taken her from the room, anxious to leave her sleeping undisturbed.  She turned towards his side of the bed and saw him lying there, sleeping soundly.  She was out of bed in an instant, a terrible dread filling her.

Rose was lying in her cot on the other side of the room.  She lay peacefully on her back, her little arms poking out of the blankets.  Jessica bent down to look closely for any tiny movement as she breathed in and out.  She held her breath as she looked, desperate to see proof that her little girl was OK, that everything was still OK.  She lifted the child into her arms and a strangled cry rose from her throat, and she knew.  She knew at that instant that she was gone.  Somehow her baby girl had slipped away during the night.

Jessica didn’t know how long it had been, she couldn’t remember what had happened since.  Suddenly her thoughts were interrupted by a touch on her arm.  She looked up and a woman was standing beside her, concern etched on her warm, motherly face.  In one hand she held a bundle of leaflets.

‘Are you OK my dear?’ she gently asks.  Jessica realises that she has been crying.  She nods wiping some of the tears away and then shakes her head as the despair fills her.  The woman squeezes her arm and sits down on the chair opposite.  She rests her hand on top of Jessica’s.

‘You know sometimes things can seem pretty bad but there is always someone you can talk to’ she tells Jessica. ‘Sometimes that can help.’  Jessica looks at the woman.  She is a similar age to her mother and has a kind face.  It is comforting and suddenly she finds that she does want to be helped.

‘I don’t know how to get home again.’ she says a sob escaping.   She desperately wants to be home again.  Can she bare it though, knowing that her little Rose is gone and all that is left are the reminders of what she has lost? But she needs to be with James.  How could she have left him?  Fear rushes through her as she realises she doesn’t even know how he is.  How is he coping?  Is he OK?  The woman smiled at her kindly.  Jessica looked down at the leaflets she had been holding.  They bore the name of a local homeless shelter.
‘You’ll get there honey, if that’s where you want to be, then we’ll help you.’  For the first time Jessica began to feel the beginning of hope burn inside her.
‘Oh I do.’ She said. ‘I really do.’

Shelley Fallows

2012 

Busy Bees

This week has been busy.  I’ve found it hard to find the time and the right frame of mind to sit down and write.  All too often the two don’t come together and I am either sitting down to write without anything to say or my mind is buzzing with thoughts but I don’t have the means or time to commit them to paper.  Of course I should be constantly prepared with notepad and pen or scribbling on random bits of paper.

The problem is I often get lost in thought and I’m scared that if I stop for a moment, even just long enough to grab a pen and paper that the spell will be broken.  Sometimes it will happen even when I am poised and ready with my pen.  During the process of transferring my thoughts onto paper, they seem to lose their flow.  The thread is broken and I find that the words are lost on the journey from my mind to the paper.  I have always been easily distracted and this seems to be something that will never change.

Something that can change is my reaction to this fact.  Quite often I would use it as an excuse to give up.  I condemn myself and think that because of this I’m not cut out to be a writer.  How many writers feel this way? Many I’m sure.  Quite often I read about writers who will try and avoid writing at any cost.  They simply can’t sit down and focus until the dishes are cleared, the washing done and the outstanding emails responded too; anything to avoid actually sitting and writing.  So I am going to set myself a small challenge.  Over the next week I will allow myself fifteen minutes a day to just sit and write.  I won’t feel guilty about what I should be doing instead and I won't plan what I’m going to write.  I will just do it and see what happens.

Sometimes I think our expectations are too high.  We expect every sentence to arrive beautifully written without effort onto our paper.  We sit and read wonderful literature and marvel at the beauty of it, the way the words just flow and take us to another place; wishing that we could create something as exquisite.  The reality I’m sure is that those words have been written and re-written many times before we see the finished product.  If we really believe in something then surely the hard work and effort is worth it and with practise it will surely get easier in time. 

Now, today's fifteen minutes are up.

The Dream

One of my dreams, like so many others, is to have my writing published.

How long has this desire been burning away inside?  Quite a while actually, it’s just taken me a long time to admit it.

I always remember enjoying reading; I grew up on books like The Naughtiest Girl in the School and The Faraway Tree by Enid Blyton.  I was lost in the wonderful worlds she created where adventure could come from the unlikeliest sources.  Since then my tastes have developed and changed as I grew older.  As a teenager I loved Jilly Cooper, Jackie Collins and Danielle Steel.  I also have very fond memories of reading A Woman of Substance by Barbara Taylor Bradford and the whole Emma Hart Series.  I then discovered the likes of Stephen King and Dean Koontz and was terrified and thrilled at the same time.  Books were a way to disappear into another world and become someone else for a short while. 

Today my reading choices are more varied and I love nothing more than discovering a new author. My enjoyment is just as intense and I still become absorbed by the story.  It is thrilling and something that I treasure (a life without books would be akin to a life without colour and sound to me).  As you get older I think it is easy to feel guilty spending time reading, there are so many other things that need to be done.  Yet as an aspiring writer I can now read to my heart’s content and know that it is part of the process to becoming a better writer.  

So what has made me acknowledge this desire to write and my dream of one day being published?  For so long I didn’t think that I had it in me.  For one thing, I didn’t believe that I had the imagination and there has always been room for improvement as far as my grammar is concerned.  A few years ago I embarked on a degree with the OU.  This has also been a dream and so I gave it a go.  I can’t tell you how much I enjoyed the essay writing and I was surprised to discover that I was actually OK at it.  One of my modules included a section on creative writing and that, for me, was the light bulb moment.  Suddenly I found that I did have an imagination! Ever since, my head has been full of ideas.

Can I write though?  That is the question.  To be honest I’m still not sure.  Why do I have this desire to be published?  Why is it so important to me?  I think that it may give me the confidence I need to believe in myself.  Only time will tell.

So that’s what this blog is about.  It’s the story of my road to publication (I hope).