Tag Archives: writing

Some thoughts on structure

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As the building blocks of my next project begin to take shape, I’ve been pondering on how I’m going to put them all together to form a coherent whole. If I’m going to stick to the plan of commencing a first draft in January, then I’ll need to have chapter outlines worked out in the next few weeks. Well I know I don’t have to, but that approach has worked for me so far so I’m kinda keen to keep it going.

How the novel’s going to be structured isn’t a decision I need to square away completely now, of course. I can still play with the structure right into the editing phase. But in my mind what I write – and particularly what I reveal – will be influenced a lot by the order in which the story is told.

If you’ve been following my thoughts on the story so far, you’ll know it takes place in two distinct time periods: the teenage summers of the 1970s, and the grown-up days of thirty-odd years down the line. There might be some moments in between that need exploring, but I’ll deal with that when I come to it. It definitely doesn’t feel like the story is going to be a linear progression between the past and the present. Things will swing back and forth, and not necessarily in any particular order.

It all oscillates around one particular event. I’m not going to tell you what that is, and I’m pretty sure I don’t want to reveal it in its entirety until the end of the novel. There will be hints and clues along the way, but I think the truth needs to stay hidden for as long as possible.

I know I could just work on alternating chapters, jumping back and forth between past and present, but I feel like I want something that flows a bit more organically than that. I was watching a film last night – Begin Again – and I really like the way it tells its story. Flashbacks are triggered by concrete things which shift the narrative to a different time and place from where it works its way up to a key event that is retold several times from slightly different perspectives. I liked the way that approach built up the story, like layers of paint on a canvas. I might try to do something similar, though it would take some quite complex mapping to get right.

Just writing all this down is helping. I’m starting to see how the pieces might fit, and that in turn is actually adding to my ideas about the plot and characters. I can see a very large piece of paper with numerous post-it notes in my near future… And yes I know I could do it on Scrivener, but it’s just not quite the same.

 

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Mums' Days

Gratitude

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Another character development exercise, this time exploring the relationship my female protagonist had with her mother during her teenage years. She is fifteen when this scene takes place, sometime in the autumn after another long, heady summer staying with her grandparents by the sea. 

***

“I just don’t know how I’m supposed to be thankful for this!”

As soon as the words left my mouth I was ashamed, but at the same time a thrill bubbled up deep inside of me. I couldn’t help myself.

“I mean, it’s no kind of life is it? You and Dad – you barely see each other. And you couldn’t give a stuff about me.”

I willed her to speak but she just stood there, quiet now. She’d goaded me to this, nagging and nagging. And now she wouldn’t even answer me. My heart raced in my chest as my mind churned through all of the most hurtful things it could think of that might provoke a response. Something stopped me though – I still wasn’t brave enough to say them out loud.

When she did finally speak her tone was low and measured.

“Your father and I have done everything for you. Everything.”

I’d heard this so many times.

“But did I ask you to? Did I?”

“We only want the best for you, Catherine. We’ve tried and tried to do what’s best for you.”

There was a new note in her voice, and with something close to disgust I realised she was almost pleading with me.

“Well maybe you should just try harder. Maybe you could even try listening to me. I don’t want this, any of it. The world is changing, mum. It’s going to leave you behind. And you might be happy with that but I’m not – I’ll never be.”

I wanted to shake her, to force her to understand what I was trying to say. And then, just for a second, I wanted her to hold me, to hear her say that everything was going to be ok.

The next time she spoke though it was with the special air of venom she reserved for my aunt.

“You sound just like her, do you know that? I knew it was a mistake letting you and Joseph spend so much time together. They’ll poison your mind, the lot of them.”

“It’s got nothing to do with him!”

The heat rose in my cheeks as I thought of Joe. Sweet, angry, confused Joe. It was true he’d opened my eyes to what was out there, but I refused to believe for a second that was a bad thing.

“You’ve got no idea what she’s like, not really. She’ll have completely brainwashed him. No son of hers could grow up to just be happy. There always has to be drama, she never could just be grateful for what she’s got.”

She stood up and smoothed down her apron, forcing me to take a step backwards as she moved into my space.

“In fact you’re more like her than I’d ever realised.”

She swept out of the room then, her head held high, leaving me trembling with rage even as the tears began to prick behind my eyes.

I never had understood why she hated her sister so much, but in that moment something clicked. Mum was afraid of her. Everything she’d done, all of the decisions she’d made: they were the polar opposite of my parents’ safe, boring existence, the very things that could bring it crashing down.

And now my mother was afraid of me, and I had absolutely no idea how that was supposed to make me feel.

***

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

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Nikki Young Writes

A little bit of time travel

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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…

 

Muddled Manuscript

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…

mumturnedmom

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…

 

 

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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. 

 

 

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Nikki Young Writes

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.

 

Muddled Manuscript

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.

mumturnedmom

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.

 

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Word of the week: trains

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Over the past couple of weeks, Arthur has developed a real passion for his train set. He was given it for Christmas last year, and whilst he’s shown a passing interest before it’s only recently that he’s really given it his full attention. He’s figured out how to put the pieces of track together, and whilst he loves it when someone sits down and plays with him he’s equally happy to be given the time to play with his train tracks by himself.

And this week that’s been particularly handy.

After our whirlwind trip to London I’ve had so much to catch up on. Not least the novel, which is edging ever closer to completion though I’m not quite there yet.

Because this has also been one of those weeks when my time and focus has been stretched in all sorts of directions I hadn’t exactly been anticipating. Meet ups with friends that I didn’t want to refuse, for Arthur’s sake or mine, despite knowing it would knock my schedule out of whack. Taking over a local twitter account (@TorbayPeople) because no-one else stepped up to the mark. A piece I wrote a while ago being published in The Guardian, the excitement of which threw me a bit yesterday!

And then of course there’s Halloween, which seems to have appeared out of nowhere this year! So throw in some pumpkin carving, some baking, some costume making.

It’s all been good fun, but I have been squeezing every last drop out of every second to fit it in.

And for much of that time, when I’ve been writing or blogging or tweeting or making something or another, Arthur has sat contentedly and played with his trains. Now that it’s finally the weekend, I’m looking forward to sitting down and playing with him too.

 

The Reading Residence