Sunday, 18 November 2012
Skimming Stones
Surely only a handful of summers have passed
Since I jumped the white chalked squares
On the shiny black slugs of melting tarmac?
Long halcyon days filled with playgrounds and parks
In which hung a shimmering heat-haze
Which levitated above the hot speckled concrete.
Holidays of sipping iced-lemonade, with skin tinged pink
From the rays which danced in the palest of blues.
Surely only a small bouquet of nights have passed,
Each nocturnal hour filled with soft scents of blossom,
Since I read of the Famous Five by the landing's pale glow.
And now my reflection is patterned with lines of middle age.
How did I sink like a painted pebble into these murkey depths?
Did I skim that stone before it sank?
Polish it against my hip before hurling it
Seawards; to bounce and pirouette upon the surface?
And why does my mother's face look back from the mirror?
Is it a trick of the light? Her tired eyes, her lips,
Puckered with a life of coversation.
A private prank played on me by shadows, as
The poised pencil which draws the circle of life,
Rises, tick by slow tock, to meet its starting point.
By Angela Barton
Saturday, 3 November 2012
Making The Cut Less Painful
It's been a while since I've visited my blog because I've been editing my novel at every opportunity I can find. In August I sent my completed manuscript of 104,500 words to my agent and having read it, she suggested several helpful ideas; such as moving some chapters around, making it obvious that one of my characters was 'in' on the secret and also making another character more unstable without turning them into a psychotic caricature of a mad stalker! The trouble is, the characters make appearances throughout my novel so it's been a slow process to change dialogue and emotions without missing a crucial scene and confusing the reader.
I've also renamed my book, The Bandstand. The bandstand in question is in Clapham Common, London, and plays a part in several chapters of my book. I felt as if my original title - In Hindsight, gave too much away - protagonist looks back and wonders why she hadn't noticed....
So I thought that for this post I'd talk about editing. There's a huge amount of global competition when it comes to writing, so the sharper our manuscript is, the less likely we are to be over-looked. If we take time to learn how to edit effectively, the improvement can be profound. Every tweak and cut polishes our chapters. Even after we've read and re-read our work numerous times, the odd tpyo (see what I did there?) slips through, which is why copy editors are in employment! Sometimes we are just too close to our work and need an objective eye to cast a glance over it.
But what can we do for ourselves?
If you can bear it, put your manuscript out of sight in a safe place for several weeks or even months. When you come back to it, all sorts of mistakes will become apparent. Spelling, grammar, sentences that don't flow, speech marks in the wrong place, missing words, fluffy/wordy descriptions and paragraphs of information which waffle on and become tedious. The reader wants to be able to flow through your story seamlessly without becoming irritated by little flaws.
Personally I find the most effective way to edit is to print out a hard copy of my novel. I'll sit with a red pen and start to read. It's quite unbelievable how many red squiggles and lines will decorate my pages afterwards, even when I think I've done a good job editing on my computer. Also reading the printed pages out loud will make it obvious if I'm stumbling with the rhythm of my sentences.
Cut out repeated words, dull or superfluous detail, any overuse of adjectives and adverbs and all weak words like 'but' 'quite' and 'rather.' I use 'that' and 'just' too often and I
Look out for occasions when you've stated the blindingly obvious: 'He shouted loudly,' or 'she whispered quietly.' Don't rely on spell check. The misuse of it's and its or there and their won't be highlighted as a mistake. Some authors prefer to edit one aspect of their work at a time, for example, punctuation, spelling or deleting unnecessary information. Personally I opt for doing an overall edit as I'm reading.
Whichever way you decide, try to be ruthless.
Thursday, 13 September 2012
Dusk in Afghanistan
He looks for beauty in this brutal game
Amongst the bitter dust of Helmand,
And finds it in the sun’s splendour;
Its amber rays caressing the mountain range
As army boots leave prints in the earth,
As barren as unanswered wishes.
He finds no flower to press against his face and smell
Memories of his wife’s perfume.
Waning daylight cling to rocks,
Holding back the invading night
Where silent terror lurks unseen.
And evil crouches, exhaling poison as it waits
Minute
By
Slow
Minute.
Squabbling insects dance and torment,
Biting and sucking his pink-parched skin.
He thinks of England’s gentle rain
Dimpling puddles under pewter skies,
And sighs.
Dusk creeps onwards darkening his thoughts,
As the Reaper hides nearby,
Planning a repulsive requiem,
Whilst searching for the next soul
To steal from loved-ones across the sea,
So
Many
Miles
Away.
The soldier wipes his furrowed brow
Wrinkled like the wind-blown dunes.
Eyes raised, he looks into the navy sky;
A shared constellation with home.
Moving onwards
Past peripheral shadows of outcrops,
Like broken teeth in a rotting mouth.
Tears roll down the hardest face each silent night
In this foreign land, where each man dreams
Of going home.
By Angela Barton
Thursday, 30 August 2012
The Poet, John Clare
One of my favourite books is The Poet's Wife by local author, Judith Allnatt. Last year I attended a workshop which Judith held at my writing group and I was also one of a group which visited Helpston, John Clare's birth place. Judith accompanied us on our visit this summer as part of the annual Lowdham Book Fair. The Poet's Wife looks at life from John Clare's family's point of view. It's filled with beautiful descriptive narrative about the surrounding countryside and tells of the difficult struggles and love for her family, Clare's wife Patty had to cope with.
John Clare was born on 13th July 1793. He was the son of a farm labourer who became an English poet. As he worked on the land in his early years, he grew to love his surroundings and nature, celebrating this close bond with the countryside through his poetry.
Early Spring
The Spring is come, and Spring flowers coming too,
The crocus, patty kay, the rich hearts' ease;
The polyanthus peeps with blebs of dew,
And daisy flowers; the buds swell on the trees;
While oer the odd flowers swim grandfather bees
In the old homestead rests the cottage cow;
The dogs sit on their haunches near the pail,
The least one to the stranger growls 'bow wow,'
Then hurries to the door and cocks his tail,
To knaw the unfinished bone; the placid cow
Looks oer the gate; the thresher's lumping flail
Is all the noise the spring encounters now.
John Clare
My favourite book of poetry
As a child, John Clare worked as an agricultural labourer throughout the growing seasons. Despite limited schooling at Glinton School until he was twelve, he was an eager student and learned how to read and write. He became a pot washer at the local pub, The Bluebell. It was here that he fell in love with Mary Joyce, the daughter of a prosperous farmer. The farmer didn't believe that John was good enough for Mary and forbade him to meet her. Subsequently he became a gardener at Burleigh House, enlisted in the militia and worked as a lime burner in 1817.
Below is a photograph I took of the poet's thatched cottage. It was bought by the John Clare Education and Environment Trust in 2005. Inside is a small cafe which sells books and delicious home-made cakes. The rest of the house has been turned into a museum about Clare's life and works.
John Clare's cottage in Helpston
John Clare's poetry was inspired from his love of the English countryside. I think this is why I enjoy his work so much. If you've followed my blog, I occasionally include some poems I've written and more often than not, they include descriptions from nature.
To prevent his parents' eviction from their home, John offered his poems to a local bookseller who forwarded them on to John Keat's publishers, Taylor and Hessey. Taylor published Clare's first book of poetry entitled, Poems Descriptive of Rural Life and Scenery. in 1820. His book was hugely praised but his following books, 'Village Minstrel and Other Poems' and 'The Shepherd's Calender' didn't achieve the same success.
John Clare's cottage kitchen
In 1820, John married Martha (Patty). By 1823 he was nearly penniless as his subsequent books of poetry met with little success. His health began to suffer and he had bouts of severe depression. His last work, Rural Muse in 1832, achieved a little more success but not enough to support his wife and seven children. His behaviour became more erratic and in 1837, on the recommendation of his publishing friend, John Taylor, Clare went of his own volition to a private asylum in Epping Forest.
During his first few years here, John Clare's mental health deteriorated. He re-wrote famous poems and sonnets by Lord Byron and took credit for Shakeseare's plays, declaring, 'I'm John Clare now, but I was Byron and Shakespeare formally.'
He was a short man, standing no taller than five foot. I am five foot six inches and this life-sized statue tells its own story! His slight stature was likely due to malnutrition stemming from childhood which led to poor health in later life.
Life-size statue of John Clare
In 1841, John Clare absconded from the asylum in Essex and walked eighty miles home. His mind was unstable as he still believed he was married to both his unrequited love, Mary Joyce and his wife Patty. Mary Joyce had actually died years earlier in a house fire and had never been aware of Clare's feelings for her.
John Clare found his way home and lived with Patty for the next five months until his behaviour deteriorated sufficiently for her to call in the doctors. Clare was committed to Northampton General Lunatic Asylum (now St. Andrew's). He remained there for the rest of his life, until his death in 1864. His remains were returned to Helpston for burial in St Botolph's church yard. Judith Allnatt read some of his poetry in the cool echoing church whilst the sun shone brightly outside upon John Clare's tomb stone. It was a memorable and atmospheric half hour. Even to this day, school children from the village where he is buried, annually lay flowers at his graveside in remembrance.
John Clare's grave stone
Sunday, 5 August 2012
Sparrows and Parrots
My husband saw a parrot today.
So what, I hear you say. Perhaps you're thinking he visited an old aunt with a caged bird or wandered around a pet shop or a zoo. No. He was working in London and spotted it in a tree.
So what, I hear you mutter. The odd parrot escapes now and then. No big deal.
Well I have a little tale to tell, which may help you to understand why my husband was so anxious to see it and I was perturbed to hear that he had.
This experience left such an impression on me that I wrote a sub-plot for my first novel, Lies and Linguine, around the theme. My husband Paul, hadn't been feeling well for weeks and so decided to make an appointment with his doctor. Without any specific symptoms to speak of, the doctor told Paul that there were more sparrows in the sky than parrots. This flippant remark obviously meant that Paul probably wasn't suffering with anything exotic, and to get on with his life. Which he did!
About a fortnight after hearing his doctor make this remark, Paul shouted for me to hurry into the kitchen. He was pointing at something sitting on our garden fence.
An exotic parrot!
We live in Nottingham, not exactly a tropical rain forest! It'd obviously escaped from its cage, but nonetheless, it made the goose bumps tingle. For the next few weeks, Paul hadn't felt any better. It came to a head one cold, dark November morning, before anyone was awake. A strange, terrifying noise woke me from a deep sleep. It sounded like an animal in pain. NEXT TO ME!
I switched on the bed-side lamp to see my husband, unconscious on the bed. He was having a grand mal seizure. His face was grey, his lips were blue and a trickle of blood dribbled from his mouth from where he'd bitten his tongue. The children came running in to the bedroom because of the loud noise their daddy was making. After calming three terrified crying children and calling for an ambulance, things happened quickly. Paul was assessed and allowed home, with an appointment to go to radiology for a brain scan.
Arriving in radiology at hospital, we were once again shocked into silence, on seeing a brightly coloured poster behind the receptionist's desk. A heading proudly boasted, 'Parrots of the World.' Suddenly there seemed to be a lot more parrots than sparrows in our lives.
Paul was diagnosed with a brain tumour, which was miraculously operated on successfully. Paul's recovery and absence from his company, led to the folding of his own design agency. It also instigated a house move, as Paul wasn't allowed to drive. But, ten years on, Paul is well and we look back on that episode in our lives, as a lesson learnt.
Life is short. Make the most of it. Don't get hung up on trivial arguments or irritations.
You don't know what's round the corner.
Except he's just seen another damned parrot!
Sunday, 1 July 2012
777
Thank you so much Megan Taylor for choosing me to carry on the 777 challenge. For those of you who don't know about it, writers are invited to share seven sentences from page seven of their work in progress. They then choose seven other writers to do the same.
My second novel, In Hindsight, is almost complete bar a little editing. The seven sentences come from an opening scene where my characters,Rowan and her husband Tom, are viewing a three storey Georgian house in Clapham. They decide to buy the house at auction and name it Magnolia House as it has a magnolia tree heavy with bulbous blossoms decorating the tiny front garden. As I couldn't choose seven sentences but had to take them from page 7, they're not the most exciting of lines, but describe what my characters find as they view a house they're hoping to buy.
Rowan finds herself widowed early on in the story and decides to divide the house into three separate storeys. She takes in two lodgers for company and to help with her finances. In Hindsight is a story about how she claws back from the depths of grief with the help of new friends. But nothing is ever plain-sailing is it? My novel is full of deceit, mystery, friendship, jealousy, an obsessive compulsion, romance and hope.
Tom and Rowan followed the agent into the kitchen where they discovered several cupboard doors hanging from their hinges, exposed pipe-work and an oven which had created its own biosphere of living organisms. Strange amorphous splodges were sprouting fungus and threading their way around each of the gas rings.
They traipsed around tumbledown rooms where ceilings were decorated with damp patches, floorboards were broken and strips of ripped wallpaper hung like clusters of catkins. Although some rooms were in better condition than others, all had retained their ornate cornices, ceiling roses and wide floor boards which shone with an aged patina. On the top floor, the view of roof tops and neighbouring small manicured gardens was amazing. They lingered for five minutes, moving from one sash window to the next, gasping with surprise and pointing out distant landmarks.
‘Look over there. Can you see the church spire?’
Rowan followed Tom’s finger with her eyes. The church’s conical tower tapered towards the bare cyan sky.
Here are the seven writers I've chosen to join in the fun of 777. I look forward to reading all your excerpts!
Natalie James (@Nat_TOALB) http://theonealwaysleftbehind.wordpress.com/
Kathryn Brown (@crystaljigsaw) http://www.crystaljigsaw.blogspot.co.uk/
Wendy Sparrow (@WendySparrow) http://ladybugsroar.blogspot.co.uk/
Jessica (@serenitywriter) http://serenitywriter.wordpress.com/
Friederike Schmoe (123writer) http://schreibenundschreiben.blogspot.co.uk/
Gina (@ginad129) http://ginadenny.blogspot.co.uk/
L. M. Stull (@lmstull) http://lmstull.com/
Sunday, 3 June 2012
My Red Editing Pen
Last week I came home from five gloriously sunny days in the French countryside. I had some lovely trips out but I also found time to edit my second novel, In Hindsight. I love the red-pen stage. It means I finished my book, I've printed a hard copy and I'm ready to read the whole piece through.
It's always surprising how the black and white pages become decorated with red squiggles or lines when I think I've paid attention throughout its creation! I find it's such a beneficial discipline to leave my work for as long as I can suffer its absence. Re-reading my story after a few weeks or months, highlights areas for improvement. It enables me to spot silly mistakes, for instance, I had a magnolia tree blooming in September! Now I always check the time of year with what's happening in nature.
I check that each chapter is relevant to the flow of the story and make sure it moves the narrative along. This is also where the odd spelling mistake jumps out at me, poor grammar is spotted and over-looked cliches are crossed out. I find that editing a hard copy is far easier than gazing at a computer screen for hours at a time. I can see where my text slows down, either from too many similes or superfluous adjectives. By now my red editing pen has left trails of ink as if a drunken snail has crawled across the page!
Now I'm home my next step is to work through the hard copy and transfer the corrections onto my laptop. I plan to do this over the jubilee weekend. Then I'll print another hard copy, but this time I'll put it into a file and read it in the form of a book. Loose sheets are great for the first edit, but I like to have my pages bound for my second edit. I feel I'm getting closer to sending it off to my agent! At this stage I'm ensuring that I've varied my sentence lengths, avoided repetitive words, minimized adverbs and improved my choice of words. I develop my characters and check continuity. I make sure I've used equal amounts of narrative, introspection and dialogue. I ensure points of view are used correctly and I've used the correct names! Occasionally I read a piece of dialogue and have the wrong person speaking!
Towards the end of this month I'll do my third and final edit. Some people do more than three and some less. I feel that after three edits, my agent will give me some feedback for my fourth edit. I can't imagine any agent has read a manuscript and said, 'Don't change a thing!'
So much has happened and changed in my life whilst writing this novel. I can honestly say that it has helped me through very difficult times. My characters became 'friends' who made me laugh and cry. My protagonist became a widow, and having lost my dad earlier this year, I changed the way she grieved. See an earlier post. I realised that grief wasn't all about wailing and hair-pulling. My characters kept me company and kept my mind focused.
Hopefully one day it will be published, and you can all read about their trials, relationships, hopes, tribulations and dreams.
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