Category Archives: Sophie is writing

A little bit of time travel

As I’m muddling though with the research stage of novel number three, and characters and plot begin to swim into focus, it’s becoming increasingly clear that the scenes set forty-odd years ago are going to be both the easiest and the hardest to get right.

Easy because the young lovers I am portraying are so vivid in my mind. Every time I stop and think about them more aspects of their personalities and relationship become clear, and I have some very detailed character profiles shaping up.

But hard because the world they live in isn’t this one – and isn’t one I’ve ever experienced first hand. I know there’s nothing unique in that: plenty of novelists set their stories in times and places much more distant than 1970s Brixham. And I know I’m not writing a factual piece – I don’t need to get every little detail spot on. But I still want it to be authentic, to have the air of travelling back in time.

One discovery I’ve made this week is going to help with that. As part of a general organising spree I found a box full of letters from my past – not quite as far back as the period in which the novel is set, I think the earliest ones date from the late 80s. But still reading them through served as a valuable reminder not only of what it really feels like to be a teenager, but also the very different way in which people communicated in a world before the internet. I’m looking forward to creating snippets of my characters’ correspondence, to seeing how their relationship develops when they’re apart as well as when they’re together.

I’m also looking forward to finding a bit more out about my town. I’ve been extending my internet research this week, searching for pictures and stories from the Brixham of 1973 to 1982 (or thereabouts). Actually much of what I’ve found so far suggests that an awful lot has actually stayed the same, though I’m sure were I to ask someone who has lived through the changes they would be able to give me a far more accurate impression of the time I’m travelling to.

So that’s my next step, really: to find some people who knew Brixham in the 70s and pick their brains. If you’re reading this and you think you might be able to help then please get in touch! You can comment below, or email me on sophieblovett@gmail.com. I can’t wait to find out what I might discover…

The lost art of letter writing

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I had several very late nights last week. Not just because I was on a mission to get myself organised before the craziness of Christmas sets in, but because of what I found in the process.

I have always been a bit (a lot) of a hoarder. This is generally something I chastise myself for – resulting as it does in me being surrounded by piles and piles of stuff that I have no idea what to do with. But this week, as I sat on the floor surrounded by these pieces of paper dating back twenty five years and more, I was very glad that I find it so hard to throw anything away.

There were letters from friends I have not seen for many years, and from those who I still count amongst my very best. From boys I was once in love with, or who were once in love with me. From my brothers, who it is hard to believe were ever so little, and from older family members who it is hard to believe are not around any more.

They were written on pages torn from files, on embossed notecards, on the backs of envelopes, on handmade paper, and collectively they transported me back to a very different time. A time before email. A time before text messages. A time before Facebook. Or WhatsApp. Or Twitter.

There are so many ways I keep in touch with people now – and probably if there weren’t I would find it hard to keep in touch with as many people as I do. But there is something incredibly touching about those fading and dog-eared pieces of paper, about the effort of writing out a message by hand, of finding a stamp and an envelope and a postbox.

Very few of the letters contained anything of much import. And yet in their banalities and ramblings they said more than a carefully considered few lines on a special occasion ever could. And often, hidden in the clutter of the everyday, there were flashes of the souls of those who wrote, of what I meant to them – and them to me.

I often look back on my later childhood and teenage years with feelings of sadness and regret. I struggled with depression and anxiety – the degree to which came across starkly in the tortured diaries I also discovered. But my memories of that – blurred themselves by my reluctance to fully transport myself back to the waves of misery I felt at the time – have clearly clouded the reality of the very good times I had in between, and the very, very good friends I had around me. How they put up with me I’ll never know; I fear my demons made me incredibly selfish at times.

As well as this quiet self-reflection, this archive from my past got me thinking about something else too. Letters are going to be very important in my third novel. It was a letter from that world, a particularly significant one, which was initially going to form the basis of this post. But that was before I found my stash. And what those letters have reminded me is how different communication was in life before the internet.

I’m looking forward to reading and rereading the letters that were sent to me so many years ago as I continue to unpick the lives of my main characters. So much of their friendship – and their love story – will unfold as they put pen to paper. The waiting for their letters to be read and answered, the delicious anticipation when an envelope addressed with familiar handwriting falls through the door, the peeling open of that envelope and becoming immersed in that contents for a few precious moments: all that will need to find its way into my novel.

And I think also it needs to find its way back into my life. I have so many friends and family who are not as geographically close as I would like them to be, and whilst the internet has brought with it the wonderful ability to keep up with what they’re doing with their days it will never replace the simplicity or the complexity of a letter.

So whilst I’m not normally one for new year’s resolutions, I can feel one simmering here – one that will mean that pile of letters from my past may still have the chance to grow.

Thank you to Sara over at Mum Turned Mom for inspiring this post with her prompt: a letter…

Word of the Week: Organised

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I’ve been getting organised on so many levels this week, sorting out a whole bunch of things I’ve been meaning to do for ages – it’s been properly exhausting! I’d built up an epic to do list (mainly in my head) over the past few months of novel-writing, and with that in a bit of a natural lull and Christmas and Arthur’s birthday fast approaching it was time to tackle it.

It started last Saturday with an afternoon in Totnes for Christmas shopping and a long-overdue haircut. I don’t actually think I’d been to the hairdresser since Arthur was born – and my hair went from this:

To this:

Not bad huh? And infinitely more manageable…

The Christmas shopping was pretty successful, though generally rather than getting gifts I was looking for materials… I decided a while ago that I really wanted to try to make most of my presents this year, and though it seems like a bit of a crazy idea I haven’t been able to shake it. So we were trawling charity shops and craft shops and haberdashers for bits and pieces I thought I might be able to use. We did come across one thing we absolutely had to have – I’m making Arthur a doll for Christmas and we came across this gorgeous vintage pram in Oxfam:

You may remember that he rather likes prams, and I imagine this one will be used to push all sorts of things around!

By Monday I had a list of present ideas, a bunch of crafty bits and bobs, and various other things I still had to get online. With the help of Ebay and Etsy (and a little bit of Amazon) that proved to be fairly easy to solve, but there was a bigger issue looming, one which I just couldn’t ignore any longer: the mess.

When we moved into our house it needed top to toe renovation, and the work was finally finished (well, almost) about a week before Arthur was born. We did a reasonable job of getting ourselves sorted, but there were still bags and boxes I hadn’t really touched since the move and Arthur’s arrival obviously added a whole other layer of stuff. Two rooms were really suffering: our bedroom, which the three of us have basically shared since Arthur was born and which was full of piles of his clothes despite him having a perfectly good room of his own, and my study – this is where all the untouched piles had ended up, because after all I only need my desk and computer to write, right?

But suddenly I had a whole host of fairly ambitious craft projects to tackle. I needed somewhere to put my materials where they weren’t going to get sucked into the mess, and I am going to have to set my sewing machine up somewhere.

So I’ve blitzed this room. I’ve thrown out and filed and rehomed and I now actually feel like there’s room to breathe in here. In the process I’ve come across all sorts of interesting things. A whole stack of notebooks for example, from diaries full of teenage angst to teaching planning to gloriously empty pages waiting to be filled. I’d thought I’d lost them all somewhere along the way, so I was very pleased to see them.

There were other things too, piles of papers that I’m very glad I hadn’t just thrown away as hiding in between what looked like rubbish were letters and cards from old friends that I’d forgotten even existed (the letters, not the friends). All safely stashed away now, but not before I reread them all. There have been some very late nights this week…

And of course then there was Arthur’s room. This wasn’t so essential on a practical level, but there were too many things niggling away at me that really needed tackling at some point that I figured I’d just get it done whilst I was feeling efficient.

So I’ve been through all the piles of clothes that I haven’t streamlined since before Easter, putting away two big bags that don’t fit him any more and tidying the rest into his room. I moved some of his toys up that had spilled into the lounge too – in particular his Ikea circus tent which is now a gorgeous little reading nook with cushions and bears and lots of stories. As I was doing all this, the unfinished family trees on the walls were taunting me, so I finally got round to finding some photos to put in them.

Arthur loves them, especially at night when he says goodnight to everyone as part of his bedtime routine. He’s definitely very ready to be spending a bit more time in his room. I’m sure he’ll still come in with us for part of the night, and his play will of course continue to spill out to wherever I am, but there’s something very lovely about him having his own special place too.

And in the midst of all of this I somehow managed to snatch some time to start organising my ideas for my next novel too. It involved coffee, and a beautiful notebook. Bliss.

So all in all an extremely productive and organised week! Now I’d best get on with making those presents…

This much I know

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Today I did something I’ve dreamt of often but never actually managed to achieve before: I sat in a coffee shop and worked on my novel.

We were on our way back from Arthur’s drama class, and after dipping into a couple of charity shops in the ongoing hunt for bits and pieces for Christmas crafting I thought we were just going to head home. But then Arthur fell asleep. And all the thoughts about character and plot that have been swirling around over the past couple of weeks rose up in my mind, determined to be heard. And I thought really, given that we were just outside one of my favourite spots for coffee in Brixham which is due to close forever in its current incarnation at the end of this week, it’d be rude not to stop and listen.

Over the course of two steaming hot lattes I scribbled furiously in my notebook whilst Arthur dozed in the sling, blissfully unaware. And after a couple of weeks where I’ve done lots of reading and thinking but not very much writing I was thrilled to discover that there’s actually rather a lot I know about my novel.

I don’t want to give too much away yet, but the two main characters are definitely beginning to take shape. And the peripheral ones are padding out too. And the locations are becoming clearer. And the plot is beginning to make sense. There’s still a way to go, but I definitely know more than I thought.

What I’m not sure about yet is how it’s all going to be structured. I guess in a way that’s a decision that can wait, but there are some choices I will need to make before I start writing. Like whose voice we’re going to hear. I know the narrative needs to be split between the present and the past, but I’m not sure whether we want to see things from just one character’s perspective or whether another point of view will help to tell the story. I also know that time will not be linear in this novel. But the arc the narrative will follow is not yet clear.

I’m going to continue to read and think – and write too – as I continue to work all this out. The little bits of character exploration I’ve done so far – like this scene from the past and this letter from closer to the present – have been enormously helpful. I possibly need to start mapping things out a bit too, to begin to get a stronger sense of the bigger picture.

Because however much I know so far, there are certainly still an awful lot of pages in that notebook waiting to be filled…

Thirty

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I’ve just made myself feel really sad writing this. The girl in the fort is all grown up, reflecting on what that means in a letter to the man she loves.

***

Dear L,

I look at myself now and wonder what you would think of me. It’s my birthday again. I’m thirty years old.

Back then, when we were young, this really was old. You promised me that if I turned thirty and I was still alone then you’d come to my rescue. And now it’s happened, and I am. But you’re not here.

All the people around me say that I shouldn’t feel old. That thirty is so young, that I still have so much of my life ahead of me. They don’t understand that I stopped living a long time ago.

Not that I don’t have a life. There’s a lot I’ve done that I’m proud of. I have a job – a career even. And a house. And a cat. Don’t laugh – I think you’d like her. She probably wouldn’t like you much, but then she doesn’t really like anyone except me.

So in many ways I’m ticking all the boxes, doing all the things that we used to say people do when they get old. I thought I’d be happier, though. I thought I’d have it all figured out by now.

My friends are all getting married of course. Having kids.

Our son would be fourteen this year. The same age as I was when we first kissed, do you remember?

I hope you’re both happy, wherever you are.

Love J,

Forever and always.

***

Thank you to Sara at Mum Turned Mom for inspiring this post with her prompt: age. And to my characters for continuing to speak to me.

Listening to the world

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I’ve written before about how taking a leaf out of Arthur’s book really helps me as a writer – seeing things around me through fresh eyes, finding new perspectives and stories in the everyday. This is especially true about the stage I’m at with my third novel at the moment. It’s just beginning, there are ideas and possibilities floating around all over the place, and it’s my job to be open to them, to gather them together so I can begin to weave them into a plot.

A huge swathe of inspiration is already inside my head. My main characters set up camp in there a while ago and, it seems, have been getting to know themselves and each other whilst I’ve been busy doing other things. The girl – I don’t know her name yet – spoke to me the other night. It was about two in the morning, and she said:

I knew it was wrong, even then. Of course when I say ‘wrong’ I mean ‘considered inappropriate’. But it all is when you’re a teenager, isn’t it? Everything you breathe or think or do. So that really didn’t help me calibrate my moral compass.

I’ve finally downloaded Evernote on to my phone so her words are safely stashed away on there. Along with a photo of a bench, and a growing collection of images which capture Brixham forty years ago.

The girl popped into my head again as I was thinking about Sara’s prompt of Smoke. She led me to a longer piece of writing then, one which taught me a surprising amount about her (and him).

I think this might be a key part of my method this time round: just writing the scenes that come into my head, before I even work the ideas into a coherent plan. These scenes might make it into the finished story, or they might not – but I love the idea of listening a little bit more closely to what my characters have to offer before trying to pigeonhole them.

The other place I’m looking for inspiration is in the past. Much of the story unfolds in the late 1970s/early 1980s. I was born in 1978, but it’s not a period I know an awful lot about and I’m finding it fascinating discovering more. My primary reference point at the moment is Crisis? What Crisis?: Britain in the 1970s by Alwyn W. Turner, and even in the opening chapters I’ve already found some historical gems which sit perfectly alongside the story that’s beginning to emerge.

And then there’s my town. It’s actually really lovely to be mulling over a tale which belongs here after the first two novels which are very firmly rooted in London. It means that every stroll or errand or minute spent gazing out of the window becomes an integral part of my research. I’m planning to formalise that soon, reaching out to local people who might be able to add to what I know of Brixham – particularly its past.

But for now I’m very happy listening to the world, both inside and outside my head, and I can’t wait to see where else it takes me.

Smoke

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Now that novel number two is temporarily out of my hands once again, my thoughts have been drifting to the next one. Seeds were planted months ago by an inscription on a memorial bench overlooking the sea in Brixham, and in the recesses of my mind a plot has been beginning to form. This week, the voice of my main character has become hard to ignore. And that’s where this scene has come from: a moment in her life that may or may not prove to be significant.

***

I was fourteen when we first kissed.

We’d gone up to the fort. For a walk, he said, which kept Nan happy. And we did sort of walk, hands in pockets as our feet scuffed the grass. He kept going too close to the edge, sending shingle ricocheting down the cliff as I pleaded with him to move back just a bit.

He laughed at me of course. He never took me seriously, not for a second. It drove me mad! I took everything seriously back then, though I tried my best to pretend I didn’t when I was with him.

It was still warm even though it was after six. A haze hovered on the horizon, blurring the line that separated the air from the sea. The ground beneath our feet was dusty, thick orange dust which coated my toes. Nan kept trying to get me to wear plimsolls but I was happy in my flip flops. I’d have worn nothing at all if I’d thought I could get away with it.

As we walked back towards the car park he broke away, running up the hill and disappearing over the ridge. I ran after him despite my better judgement, ignoring the flailing of my legs. They felt like they’d doubled in length that year. I knew I ought to be pleased, but I didn’t like it. I wanted my old body back, the one I knew.

I stopped when I reached the top, opening the gate and looking out over the field. He was nowhere to be seen. Such a child, hiding from me like that.

Then I heard a whistle. It could’ve belonged to one of the many people that walked their dogs up on the headland but they’d all gone home for their tea leaving us alone in our playground. Besides, I knew it was him.

He was in the ruin, nestled into the corner with his feet flat on the dry mud and his brown knees pointing to the sky. He was rolling a tube of paper between his fingers and grinned at me as I stumbled in.

“You found me then.”

“I’m not a dog, you know.”

I’d spoken to him about the whistling before. It was degrading, I knew that. And it was because I liked it that he had to stop.

“D’you fancy a smoke?”

He put the joint between his lips and pulled a box of matches out of the pocket of his shirt. He squinted as he leaned towards the flame, his nose wrinkling with concentration. I’d never noticed he had so many freckles before. They spilled onto his cheeks, competing for attention against his deepening tan.

“No, thanks. I don’t.”

“Suit yourself.”

He inhaled deeply and rested his head back against the stone before blowing the smoke up towards the gap where the roof used to be. His lips were full and red, and as I watched him I found myself licking mine before looking down and shuffling awkwardly from one foot to another.

“Come here.”

He cocked his head to one side and patted the ground next to him with his free hand whilst he inhaled from the joint again. I did as I was told.

Out of the sun the air had a faint chill to it, and I was glad of his body next to mine. I leant back against the wall and drew my knees up towards my chest, my bare leg brushing against his. He didn’t move away.

“You know that stuff’s really bad for you,” I couldn’t help myself. I had no idea what I was talking about, not really. I’d never had as much as a toke on a cigarette, let alone anything stronger. I just didn’t have those sorts of friends.

“Yeah, it’s good though.”

With his next exhale, he sent little fluffy rings drifting up to meet the clouds. I refused to look impressed.

“You sure I can’t tempt you?”

His eyes were only a few inches away from mine, that spark I’d been trying to ignore all summer cancelling out my good intentions.

“I don’t know. I…”

“Stay there. Open your mouth, just a little.”

I wasn’t sure what he was going to do as he shifted round in front of me, lifting the joint to his mouth again then steadying himself on the wall behind me as he leaned in and pushed his lips against mine.

My lungs constricted as I breathed in sharply and he fell back laughing while coughs shook my core. I couldn’t speak, but I was sure my anger showed in my face. His giggles did begin to subside eventually, and oxygen returned to my blood. With it came a new feeling, a not entirely unpleasant one. My head was lighter, and I began to smile.

Like a mercurial mirror he became serious then, a look I didn’t recognise softening his features. He leant in again and kissed me full on the mouth. I kissed him back.

And then he pulled away and leapt to his feet. I wanted him to do it again but I didn’t know how to ask. So instead I followed him down the hill and we said nothing until we were back at the house where tea was already on the table, getting cold.

He didn’t kiss me for a long time after that. Looking back I almost wish he never had.

***

Thank you to Sara at Mum Turned Mom for inspiring this post with her prompt: smoke.

And relax

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This time last week I was giving myself a serious talking to. The end of the second draft was tantalisingly close, but I just couldn’t see how I was going to get it done.

There’s something funny that happens when I’m close to finishing something big. I find it hard to get a handle on exactly what I’ve done and what needs doing, and in this shimmering, shifting version of reality I oscillate wildly between feeling like I have in my hands a work of genius and being sure that I’ve actually just spent the last year of my life working on a pile of absolute tosh.

Actually this week I’ve realised that just means I’m approaching the point when I need to hand it over to someone else. There’s only so long you can spend moving words around in a four hundred page document before you start to doubt your judgement, and begin to be in danger of causing more harm than good.

So yesterday afternoon, having sat on my finished manuscript for the weekend and then made a final sweep through to tweak things that may or may not have needed tweaking, I finally sent it out into the world.

Well, when I say into the world, I mean to my agent. And when I say finished, I mean finished for now. I’m under no illusion that there will be more redrafting to come, but I’m pretty pleased with the shape of things at the moment.

I hope the changes I’ve made are an improvement. But even if things end up reverting to the way they were or changing again in a different direction the whole process has been extremely valuable.

And for now I need to not think too much about it. That feels weird, in a way, having made the novel my priority for the past two months. There are of course plenty of other projects waiting in the wings, so whilst on one level I can breathe a sigh of relief relaxing is not really an option.

I have a million blog posts in my head, and I need to work out what to do with those. We’re also entering the preparing-for-Christmas-and-Arthur’s-birthday phase, which last year completely took over for a few weeks at least. Then there are all the books I want to read. And of course there’s the next novel, the seeds of which are desperate for a little nourishment. I’m super keen to start formulating the ideas for that too – I’ll be leaving a bit of my brain free for further revisions as and when I get my next wave of feedback, but the rest of it needs to be kept busy lest the doubt sets in.

So not really too much relaxing, but a job done – and done well, I think. We shall see.

Nearly there…

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After a not entirely planned almost two week break from editing the novel, things seem to be well and truly back on track.

When I started this part of the process, I set myself the arbitrary deadline of the end of October. I needed something to work towards, and two months seemed a reasonable amount of time. There were moments when it seemed like there was no way I’d make it, when the self-doubt demons stuck their oars in and totally messed with my chi, but then my pace picked up and anything seemed possible once again.

I was actually well ahead of the game when I had to down tools two weeks ago – two chapters away from applying all my scribbled changes to the digital draft, with a pretty clear idea of a final wave of additions I wanted to make before the manuscript would be ready for the next phase.

Then on the train home from London on Sunday night the doubt set in again. I was thinking about what to write for this post actually, and realised I had nothing more to add after my nebulous attempts at justifying my week away. I toyed with the idea of giving myself an extension on my deadline, then spending time writing a post explaining why I just didn’t have time to get the novel finished this week. But the irony of that wasn’t lost on me and in the end I decided just to knuckle down and get on with it.

I finished going over those last two chapters yesterday. They’re pretty damned creepy you know, even if I do say so myself. And today I’ve been creeping myself out some more by working on the flashes of insight into my antagonist’s twisted mind.

That’s flowing pretty easily, worryingly enough. I just hope he doesn’t sneak into my dreams like he did last time I tried it. That’s a case of life imitating art I could well do without.

Anyway, I digress. If everything keeps going to plan I think I should have a passable second draft ready by close of play on Friday. And on that note, I’d better get back to it!

A sense of place

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My editing process is undergoing something of an enforced hiatus at the moment. After a very difficult week last week Arthur and I are now in London, drawn by two family birthdays and some important new babies to meet!

I packed very optimistically, bringing everything I needed to pick up where I’d left off last Tuesday. But away from the structures and the solitude of our life in Brixham it seems unlikely that I’m actually going to get much done.

But that might not be altogether a bad thing…

I’m ahead of where I thought I’d be by now, my planned one chapter a day having galloped into two then three and sometimes even four as the story drew me back in. In fact I’ve only got two chapters to rework before I’m at the end of the novel – at which point I’m planning on one last sweep through (for now) to pick up anything I’ve missed and add in some bursts of narrative from a different perspective.

And in the meantime, whilst I’m traversing London to catch up with different friends and give Arthur a flavour of the capital, I’m going to open myself up to London’s spirit. I’m going to let its essence infuse my bones once again, remind myself of the multitude of tiny ways it differs from Devon. Because Grace’s story unfolds on these streets, streets which once were so achingly familiar to me but which seem so far away when I’m sitting at my desk staring at the sea.

I may not be able to do much work whilst I’m here, but when I’m finally able to sit back down at that desk next Monday morning I will hopefully be carrying with me those all-important details that will enhance my novel’s sense of place. And the fact that I get to immerse myself once more in London life whilst I’m gathering them is all part of the fun.

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Sophie is…

on a journey of (re)discovery in a brave new world.