A Bitter-Sweet Affair

For the most part, I have a good relationship with my work in progress. My manuscript and I co-exist happily enough, both needing the other in order to get closer to a finished novel. But like any relationship, we have our ups and downs. But doesn't every writer hate their manuscript at some stage? Surely even the most successful author must doubt their next piece of work occasionally. Forget the old cliche of a roller coaster. My emotions are more like scaling and free-falling the Pennines!

One minute I love my work in progress. I think to myself, 'This is brilliant! It's so much better than that last reading book I bought but was too boring to finish.' I'm thrilled with the plot and my fingers are tapping on the keyboard like a demented woodpecker. Fast forward an hour, and I'm doubting my worthiness as a writer and wondering if I'll ever be published. Despite the free-fall, I know I love writing and have a great affinity with my characters. They're like real friends to me. I know what they're thinking, what they worry about and what they dream about. In fact, I miss the characters in Lies and Linguine and wonder how their lives have panned out since I left them. But no matter how much I love to write, some days it's difficult to stay motivated.

Manuscripts have to be almost perfect these days. Agents and publishers have such hectic and cost-sensitive work days, that they're looking for manuscripts which have been polished and sparkle, requiring very little additional tweaking. Nowadays a writer can't be satisfied with sending out three chapters and a synopsis having only edited them a couple of times. A book must be professionally prepared before submission. I suppose that's where some of the doubt creeps in. No matter how many times I return to a chapter, I can always swap a word, or tweak a sentence. It's knowing when you've done your best and it's time to step away.

Just like the lottery, you have to be in it to win it! If you don't finish your novel and edit it to within an inch of its life, you won't stand a chance at finding a publisher. But the crazy thing is, even if I won the lottery, all I really want to do is write. So surely I should be satisfied with the knowledge that I'm already doing what I love?

I think it's time to kiss and make up. My new characters in Sugar and Spite are waiting for me. We need to work together to get my second book finished. If you'll excuse me....I have a date with my keyboard!

Take A Step Back

Sometimes you can be too close to a problem; so much so, that you can't make sense of what's before you. Stand too close to the television and all you see is a myriad of non-sensical dots. Take a few step back and you have a clearer focus on the image.

I felt like this recently whilst trying to get to grips with a plot in my second novel, Sugar And Spite. My protagonist was grieving over the sudden death of her husband, and I needed something to trigger the beginning of a slow recovery. (After all, in future chapters she had to find a way to make a living, cope with mysterious anonymous messages which were being sent to her, un-earth secrets, travel to France, discover that her husband wasn't the man she thought he was and of course, a new man would enter her life). I needed my heroine to be strong again and ready to take on an adventure or two.


The trigger to her recovery had to be believable and preferably have a link to her late-husband, so I continued to write, leaving a gap to fill in when I'd eventually had a light-bulb moment; and hoping that my brain hadn't had a permanent power cut. But of course, with my nose pressed up against the problem, I was too close to see straight.

Some weeks later, having a cup of tea in my writing room (and maybe a cheeky biscuit or two), I wondered what would emotionally give me strength and comfort at a time when I might need it. Of course family and friends' support goes without saying, but I needed something which would add a new dimension to my novel.

The light-bulb moment happened - in the form of a squeak!

No, not a mouse, a dog! Turning round, my two faithful spaniels were curled up on the settee. They always keep me company whilst I'm writing and I'm sure they'd much rather sleep on my writing room sofa than in the kitchen overnight!

First I must explain the squeak. Harlyn (the red dog in the photograph) was dreaming - probably of rabbits or squirrels. Her paws were twitching as she ran through treacle in her dream, never quite catching the elusive creature in question. She tends to emit little squeaks as she twitches in her sleep! No doubt in her dreams it's a decisive, no-nonsense bark.

Harlyn and Brook are always full of loyal devotion despite how I'm feeling. If I'm feeling a bit low, a cold wet nose will nuzzle closely or I'll be brought a well-chewed dog toy as a gift. There's nothing better than hugging a soft warm body with fur which smells like sawdust, fresh air and a faint musty smell like opening your grandmother's jewellery box! If I'm frustrated, they'll lift my mood with a dying-fly impersonation, and if I'm laughing, they'll hunker down with bottoms in the air ready to play.

Quite simply - I love them!

A dog is just what my heroine Erin, needed. A little creature to look after and get her out the house. I linked her late-husband into the story by writing that he'd chosen Jet - a totally black Springer puppy - before he'd died. Jet was to have been a surprise for Erin. Of course it had taken weeks before the puppy had been weaned and delivered to the doorstep, which explained the timing.

I'd found my link in the form of a little black ball of fluff!

Sugar and Spite

Opening paragraph from my second novel, Sugar and Spite.

Frantic knocking disturbed Erin Forrester as she placed a bottle of Brouilly to warm next to the kitchen radiator. With heels click-clacking upon the fudge-coloured Minton tiles, she hurried down the hallway. Pulling open the front door of Magnolia House, Erin was greeted by an icy February blast which whipped around her ankles. Having listened to a few breathless words from the person standing in the doorway, the air was knocked from her lungs as a primordial howl filled the purple gloom outside.
It would only be later that she'd learn, it'd been her own voice which had wailed into the night.