Tag: writing process

Categories
Non-fiction Observations Writing

My Publishing Journey: The Proof

It has been a week and a half since I received the exciting email containing the professionally edited proof of my debut novel.

At a first glance, all I felt was excitement. Giddy excitement to see my baby, still on a Word Document, but looking as it will look on the pages of an actual book. The layout just looked fabulous and having my name as the author and on copyright was pretty cool.

My words flowing, words I had written, characters I’d come up with in a world entirely created by moi – it still seems surreal. Scrolling briefly before reading any, I was happy to see that it hadn’t been completely covered in editor comments and changes, and felt quite proud that an amount of my time studying English had been worthwhile.

My publishers explained to me in detail how they have edited my manuscript and advised precisely how I go about agreeing with their changes or, indeed, disagreeing.

I realise I am no professional. I am fully aware that I am brand new to this game. However, I felt it would be useful to share with you all my tips so far on THE PROOF and what I have found helpful when reading through my entire manuscript once again.

  • READ ALOUD: it makes for clearer reading and easier to spot little mistakes
  • TAKE YOUR TIME: while time is of the essence, this book is going out into the world, do not rush, be careful to get it right
  • PLAN, BUT NOT TOO MUCH: I have planned to read a chapter a day. If I achieve more, then I am very happy but if that is all I manage then equally, I have done well. I work full time and sometimes after a busy shift my eyes need to be away from screens.
  • KEEP A CLEAR HEAD: there is no point attempting to effectively read through and edit when your brain is frazzled. I find it takes a few moments to get into the right head space in which to work properly. This weekend I am off to the beach. I have a great friend who makes this happen but also, the beach is where my mind instantly clears and I know I will get a lot of quality work done while there.
  • BE PROUD: don’t underestimate your achievement and be proud to look at your book in a professionally edited form. As much as you feel you’re boring those around you, it is VERY VERY exciting!
Categories
fiction Stories Writing

Delay (part 2)

“Hey darling!” I said as I greeted Sam, masking all my thoughts and feelings.

“Hello, love,” he replied with his sexy voice that I always wished I didn’t adore.

An awkward pause occurred when I racked my brain for an excuse as to why Sam absolutely could not enter my home on this occasion. My home that he was always most welcomed into and usually would walk in without the politeness of a knock first. Sam. My best friend. Nothing was happening inside my head, so I had to back down.

 “Can I come in?” Sam said, confused as to why he was still outside waiting in the cool October air, luckily it wasn’t raining.

“Hi er. Sorry. Sorry.” I couldn’t think quickly enough with a plausible excuse. “I – er – now really isn’t a good time. Sorry mate.” The look on his face broke off a piece of my heart but I held up the strength for long enough to shut the door behind him before letting out some more unexpected tears.

Pausing a moment, I instantly felt guilty for lying to my friend. I immediately started to tackle chores in a frantic manner so that technically my small fib became more truthful. Now wasn’t a good time, I was busy.

I poured a large glass of Sauvignon Blanc noticing that it was only ten past twelve, so I felt very naughty and set it aside while I began pottering about my kitchen. I realised quite quickly that as I looked like a woman with it all together, I certainly was not. In fact, I was acting crazy in the way that each dish was being washed within an inch of its life and mugs were almost breaking as I placed them forcefully into the dishwasher.

The dog came up close to me sensing my instability and I decided to stop a moment and take another large glug of my wine.

I love how dogs know instantly when you’re feeling down or anxious. When things get too much, I can always rely on her to be by my side. Mum taught me that. Mum taught me how to love animals so much. Mum taught me a lot actually.

She taught me how to walk, talk, eat, be polite. She was with me when I first rode a bike, first got on a horse, first drove a car. She was there at my school exam results day, my leavers do, my graduation. She held me through my first break ups, my friendship battles, when things got too much in general.

It didn’t take long before the tissue I was holding was sodden with the tears that I was unaware of. I was finding this harder than I expected, harder than I cared to admit. Swiftly I binned that tissue and wiped the remaining tears from my face with the back of my hand, slapping it gently as if to tell myself to get it together.

A happy song broke up the various chat shows on the radio, so I turned it up and shimmied around the kitchen while polishing some wine glasses in case another visitor came along and judged me. I was loving the feeling that I was experiencing and knew quite firmly that for four and a half minutes at least I could enjoy myself, my life. I was so happy that I even got the antibacterial spray out and began wiping the surfaces, the hob and even parts of the cooker that hadn’t been touched in months, my stubbornness refusing to except the idea of getting a cleaner into my thoughts. When I moved my phone, which was charging on the kitchen side to wipe around it, I noticed a missed call – Sandy.

Categories
Adulthood fiction Stories Writing

Delay (part 1)

“Don’t you think, you know, you should maybe consider taking some time off.”

“Mmm,” Melanie grunted disapprovingly.

“I don’t think you realise how much you take on all of the time and this is just huge for you to cope with. Mel, you look tired. Seriously. We are all so concerned for you.”

“I don’t know.”

“Just ask at work, they are going to understand completely. They will. And you will feel so much better for it.”

“I just hate letting people down.”

“For God’s sake you aren’t letting anyone down!”

“I just think I’ll worry that I am though.”

“Mel.”

I knew as Cassie was speaking with that same affirmative tone that I’d heard so many times before she meant what she said. It was like being spoken to by a teacher at school, a decision-making boss, or, worse, my mother. As irritating as it made me, I also realised that such seriousness in Cassie’s voice meant that the care was so genuine and that my situation was probably more serious than I treated it.

I knew I buried most issues under the carpet. I knew it was a trait that I would always possess. Yet I struggled to see quite how this proved to be such an issue to so many people around me. An interest almost. I failed to see that my getting annoyed at their care was wrong and how I was extremely lucky to have so many people looking out for me, irritating me daily when all I wanted to be was alone.  

“Here you go, another cup of the good stuff will sort you out.” Cassie passed me a perfect cup of tea, just how I liked it.

Cassie always knew to leave me when I fell into one of my unique zone out moments, but she always knew how to welcome me back into the world with such warmth.

“Thanks.”

“Here, I’ll stay for another one of these then grab a bottle on my way back, shall I?”

“Sure.”

After consuming our warm brews, Cassie left for the long list of chores that her Sunday had in store for her, but she was sure to be back by six o’clock, prompt as ever. Her hugs were so tight and true that it left me wiping the tears that I didn’t know existed away from my face. I had finally broken a little and began to feel ashamed for it when the doorbell rang, again.

“One moment!” I shouted, straightening myself up and powdering my nose as fast as I could so the guest wouldn’t notice my sadness.

I hoped it would be the postman but then remembered it was a Sunday. Then I prayed for a delivery man, the milkman working extra, a supermarket van driver for an order that I had sent for while drunk and had then forgotten about. I hoped it would be anybody except for who I knew that it would be. Somebody else offering their deep concern for my wellbeing and somebody else wishing to sit for hours telling me that I needed to take some time out, to rest, to look after myself for once in my life.

Categories
Non-fiction Recommendations Review Writing

Writing Magazine: a review

For over a year now I have been a proud subscriber of Writing Magazine.

Each month another issue arrives through my letter box and I indulge in its variety of useful and interesting content. Every issue is packed full and thicker than your average magazine so I admit that sometimes a pile builds up beside my bed of those that are still to be properly read.

I initially skim through, perhaps picking out articles that particularly stand out and read them there and then. I then put it away for a day or two until I find time where I will read through properly and enjoy every minute of doing so.

From competition entries to writing news, author stories and everything else in between, Writing Magazine offers a superb selection of opinions, information and ideas to develop your writing technique.

Since subscribing I have undertaken a writing course, appeared on the letters to editors page, entered numerous competitions, taken on board book recommendations, discovered new writing exercises to spark up ideas and learnt so much about this weird and wonderful industry.

Encouraging, inspiring, informative, interesting, entertaining, witty, realistic and fabulous. That is how I would describe this brilliant and useful magazine. Long will I subscribe and if you’re interesting in writing and reading then you should consider subscribing too!

Categories
Adulthood fiction Observations Stories Writing

The Friend

“So, that’s all we have time for on the programme this week.”

There’s a soothing aspect to having the radio on as a constant background noise. It is something that I feel strongly about and as a result, my house is never quiet. Whether I’m leaving it on so that Poppy, my Spaniel, doesn’t feel lonely while I’m out in the day, or to keep my mind focused on the words being said so that it doesn’t wander into those dangerous dark places, I always have sound.

Poppy’s favourite station is Radio 2, though she does like Heart FM on Sunday’s – musicals and love songs aren’t her thing. I particularly enjoy Radio 4 for it’s discussions and the peaceful tranquility that comes with it. I feel I learn something merely by having it playing out even if I’m not listening and, most of all, I feel like I have company when I am alone.

I find Sunday’s the hardest days to cope after everything. Sunday morning television is hideous and currently I haven’t a good book to indulge in. I love to lose myself in fictional worlds but it has to be the correct, gripping read and my taste is becoming pickier as my age increases.

Poppy lay on my lap sound asleep but in a state whereby if I move she will know instantly and pine for me to return. I can sense it and, apparently, so can she. Stroking her soft fur brings me calmness but otherwise I am fidgety and restless. What to do.

I press my phone and there is nothing. No messages, no likes or comments on social media, not even a breaking news broadcast. Nothing is going on.

Outside is cold but sunny and bright which brings envy towards my friends with kids and perfect families, probably playing outdoors or off out for lunch at a country pub that they saw recommended in the paper. I rarely envy children having made a conscious decision not to have them, but times like this I do.

Breathing in slowly and out deeply relaxes me further but only for a second when a car pulls up onto next doors driveway causing Poppy to bark loudly in attempt to warn possible intruders off. She fails to realise that they live there and it is perfectly within their rights to park up.

I tune back into the radio that has been playing throughout my morning and chuckle slightly at the comedians. Even though I don’t find them very funny at all, I feel I should at least try to laugh on occasion today.

The day suddenly feels huge with an expanse of time to fill in which I have no plans and nobody to plan with. I pick up the paper and attempt the crossword to add productivity to my day. At least I will have achieved something that way.

The first clue. Seven down. I can’t do it.

The door rings. Jenna.

“Oh hey darling, I was just checking in. See if you’re alright. Martin has gone out with the kids. I wanted some time to myself.”

Imagine that, I think, wanting some time to yourself.

“Lovely to see you.” I say, genuinely so grateful for her presence.

“Here, look. I brought a bottle. It’s up to you but I really fancy one.”

“It is the weekend after all,” I agree, pretending I’ve got it all together with my normal, upbeat response.

I take the perfectly chilled bottle from her, my thumb prints marking the icy casing and put it on the kitchen side while retrieving two glasses from the cupboard.

“I’d usually not consider drinking before 1pm,” I say with a smirk.

“This isn’t a usual day,” replies Jenna, reassuringly but making me question her mental state as well.

I pour equally generous measures into the glasses and smile at the sound. I smile at the sudden buzzing feeling inside me. A feeling I’d forgotten about.

“Cheers to friends,” we both say simultaneously.

The first sip and I am reminded how lucky I am.

Categories
fiction Stories Writing

The Divide

Jamie stood shivering as he awaited her arrival.

“The train from Manchester Piccadilly is delayed. It is expected to arrive in twenty three minutes on platform 7B. We are very sorry for any inconvenience caused.”

His nerves seemed to wobble more at this announcement which was given in such a mundane and unapologetic manner. The usual excitement was also present but currently nerves took over.

He tried to notice things to sway his focus from the bitterly cold air but his teeth continued to chatter. A couple to his left greeted one another with a simple peck on the cheek and an unenthusiastic hello which indicated to him that they had been married far too long.

Some children were running to get a train, fretting in their own chaos. They had probably never been left to their own devices until now, he thought. Bless them.

Two guards were stood chatting to the side, not doing much signalling. One had a litter picker in his right hand but he was more using it for the gestures that accompanied his story rather than picking up rubbish.

As he glanced around he saw many happy couples together, perhaps travelling to relatives, travelling home, heading into work or possibly out for the day, but they would all have their own story. None would be as private as his. He was sure of it.

Fifteen minutes had passed when he saw the lights of the approaching carriages, hoping that it would be the one and looking to his fingertips to see if they had begun to turn blue.

The train edged towards the platform until it came to a halt and he tried very hard not to cheer. Finally.

Among a mass of people exiting the doors, it was hard to spot her. Most looked disheveled from obviously a stressful journey south. Some looked furious and he wondered why they had stuck at it and not given up.

Butterflies began to outdo the nerves as he waited while racking his brains for a decent bar to start their time together. He always lover their time together though it wasn’t very often these days.

A couple barged him out of the way rushing to catch their connection that they would have had masses of time to catch if it wasn’t for the delay.

“Sorry mate,” the man said in a friendly manner, while the wife dragged him in the right direction huffing as they went by.

He looked to his side and caught eyes with an elderly man, obviously waiting for somebody as well and waiting more patiently than most people on the platform. He smiled at him and the man smiled warmly back.

As his eyes returned to the focus of the door he saw her. There she was in her neat blonde glory, stood with her bag in one hand and her opened purse in the other, the photograph of her children almost falling out with a photo of her husband tucked behind it.

Categories
Adulthood Non-fiction Observations Writing

Social Media – a false existence.

On a personal level I find social media both brilliant and destructive.

It enables me to keep in contact with more friends than I would ever be able to without it and from all corners of the globe. It gives me an insight into the exciting travel adventures of others, let’s me read about inspiring people doing wonderful things and provides me with ideas about how to better my life.

However, it also gets me down on mundane days when I’m going about my quiet little life and others are dining with celebrities, climbing mountains and looking drop dead gorgeous.

I think we all know not to compare ourselves with others and that what people post on their social accounts is a warped view of reality. I like to think of myself as very real on my personal Facebook and Instagram accounts, not worrying too much about what I look like to the rest of the world, yet I can understand how people easily get swept under the false carpet.

Since I have become a part of the literary social world using my accounts as tools for writing inspiration, motivation and also (I hate to admit) publicity, I have had a very different experience of the virtual social world.

I started my writing Facebook page first on which I plugged my blog. This is still very much the case and an extremely useful tool in doing so. It is also linked to my fairly new Instagram.

This was started after a conversation with my sister who is a photographer about how to build a social following in attempt to promote my work in the future. All very innocent and necessary.

I had every intention from the beginning to keep the account as real as possible and simply portray a writer’s life. This went firmly out of the window almost immediately as I posed in Aldeburgh in front of my sister and her camera.

Elegantly reading my book on a wall, looking into the distance (as you do). Sitting on the beach wearing the hoodie from work and beside my dog pausing so well it’s as if I have told him to sit for the photo (which I absolutely had).

I was planning weeks of photos in advance. Putting them in order of which day I would post them and occasionally even writing out the caption that would go with them.

In fact it is very rare that I post a photo of what I am doing at the very moment I am doing it, no edits, reflecting my true writer’s life, warts and all.

I have heard well known celebrities talk about this on podcasts whereby they have such a strong presence on social media that there have been days when they post a feel good post while crying themselves silly on the sofa. There seems to be such pressure and no break that I can see how it could get intense.

I have backtracked slightly now (maybe because I am starting to get somewhere with my writing so no longer need to fake it), but still find it difficult to be entirely true yet remain professional.

Recently I have found putting a weekly theme to my feed gains authenticity because the photos are genuine recommendations of things I have genuinely done in the past and are clearly from the past. I am not claiming them to be me, now.

That all said though, for all the bad parts of social media, there are so many good things that it brings so of course I will still use it and hopefully become truer to myself every day.

It is an interesting topic of discussion in the modern world and why my main focus of book number 2 is both the damning and honest aspects to the vibrant social world!

Categories
Adulthood fiction Stories Writing

Follow Me

“Don’t look back, stop being stupid,” Alana whispered to herself as if that would make the moment more reassuring. Except she was terrified. Utterly terrified.

Her steps were speeding up as were those of the tall, slim figure behind. She broke into an almost run and so did the silhouette following her.

“He’s not following me, it is just a coincidence,” she repeated aloud.

She knew that he was. She knew that this was not a moment of chance. Her gut was telling her so and since leaving her friend’s house, she had been watching the streets very closely.

He must have known she left at the same time each night. He must have researched her, worked out how regimental she was to routine. He must have waited for the clocks to go back before beginning his mission, whatever that was. To scare her? He was doing a good job of that. What did he want? How did she know that he was male?

She didn’t.

She edged her neck around realising that it would have looked less obvious if her movement had been faster, but she was too afraid for subtlety. The figure was still following her and speeding up accordingly to match her pace.

Her heart was racing and her legs felt numb. The cold air was biting the ends of her fingers and toes, but the rest of her body was overheating in fear. She wished she had taken her friend up on that drink she offered her. Maybe it would have relaxed her a bit, calmed her nerves.

Each time she reached a streetlight, which wasn’t often, she felt a bit safer. The figure vanished momentarily every time. She didn’t know where. Then, in the darkness, it reappeared as if it wasn’t actually there.

She knew that the alleyway would mark a long period of low glowing light so she hoped that the figure would change direction. Just before leaving the darkness it was so close to her that she could almost hear the breath. She picked up pace. She reached the light.

Scared to turn back she looked forward and ran. She ran until she reached the group of houses before hers. Feeling surrounded by safety, she built up some courage to turn. There it was. At the top of the road, standing. Still. Staring down at her, panting hard.

What was his intention. What did he want from her? If he really wanted to catch her then surely, he could have, she isn’t the fastest runner.

She turned her gaze forward again and stopped a moment to catch her breath. She didn’t want her mother to ask questions.

Feeling ready to resume her journey home she caught sight of the door to her house.

‘Hello, Katie. It’s been too long.’

The figure that had been so frightening behind her was terrifyingly in front.

She froze unable to consider what to do next.

Categories
Non-fiction Special moments Writing

My Publishing Journey: the first stages

There I was signed up, no going back and eager for all that the future held. I was thrilled at how my future was developing.

I sent off my manuscript ready for it to undergo the first stages of publishing. I had read a lot about it before but it was very exciting to see it done for myself and for my debut novel.

I have to say so far the communication between myself and my publishers has been sound. I couldn’t fault it. They are very quick to respond and thorough in their responses.

Firstly, I had to fill in a questionnaire which included lots of details about my novel as well as a cover design idea. I can’t draw nor am I very artistic in that sense at all so I had an image inside my mind and desperately tried to explain it as well as I could in words.

Two weeks later I was emailed what they had come up with and it is perfect.

Now awaiting the first proofs the pending excitement continues.

Good things to come… stay tuned xoxo

Categories
Non-fiction Writing

20 writing goals for 2020

  1. Enter 10 writing competitions
  2. Finish book 2
  3. Publish my debut novel
  4. Work hard
  5. Encourage others
  6. Finish my Writers Bureau Writing Course
  7. Attempt writing for radio
  8. Write more in different settings
  9. Write some happier fiction
  10. Keep it up with my blog (at least 2 posts a week)
  11. Earn some money from my writing(!)
  12. Attend literary events
  13. Embrace conversations when people are upbeat about my writing
  14. Read more brilliant work of others
  15. Read more around topics like social media, blogging and self-promo
  16. Take myself off to places to gain inspo and ideas
  17. Start another novel???????????????
  18. Read my writing magazine WHEN it shows up
  19. Stay positive and enthusiastic
  20. Keep going