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/

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.

Damned Deviations

A fork in the lane ahead
Heralds a choice.
Damned deviations
Which confuse and blur,
Obscuring clarity
Like breath on cold glass.
We must walk in our own shoes
Despite sagas secreted
Beneath their tread.
Despite voices urging
This way and that
As we fumble and flounder,
And cling to our routine
Like a startled grey squirrel
Clings to cracked bark.
Loose rocks in our path
Can surely become
Stable stepping stones,
Firm and resolute.
A time for change
And brave deep breaths.
Strangers lurk ahead;
Dark figures in
Unknown places.
Or maybe
They’re unfamiliar friends?
Comforting comrades
With names as yet unheard.
Be bold, hope for success,
Venture forwards,
Embrace new paths
And greet new faces.
For no-one knows
How long the meandering path
Will stretch.

Angela Barton

Lucky #7

What a great idea! A big thank you to lovely Kay, @1_Lovelife, for including me in on Lucky #7. Seven writers are invited to copy and paste 7 sentences, starting from line 7, on page 77 of their WIP. The novel I'm working on at the moment has a working title of In Hindsight.


Just to give you a glimpse into the storyline, Rowan was widowed a year ago and has decided to turn her three storey Georgian house in London, into three seperate apartments. This not only gives her something to focus on, but is a way of earning an income and making new friends. As with any story, things don't go smoothly. She causes an accident, someone's sending her unpleasant cryptic notes, her best friend is suffering form an obsessive compulsive disorder and she finds out shocking news about her late-husband. Did she ever really know him? Rowan also feels ashamed and guilty because she's falling in love with James, one of her tenants, after only a year as a widow.


The sun appeared from behind a cornucopia of clouds as Rowan and James crunched along one of the gravel paths which ran through Clapham Common. The warm rays lit up the expanse of grass decorated with shifting shadows, allowing her to believe that summer wasn't far away.


Normally Rowan found that quiet contemplation during long walks, calmed her thoughts. The birdsong, the distant squeals from delighted children and soothing hum of the traffic, all gave her other things to focus on. But uncharacteristically, she was feeling ill at ease and shy walking alongside James.

'Are you feeling...’ James stumbled over his words. ‘stronger…since…?’


‘It’s not been easy as you can imagine, but I’ve got Libby. She’s Tom’s sister and I don’t know what we’d have done without each other for support. You haven’t met her yet but she’s lovely.’

Rowan turned to face James. His brown eyes were the colour of strong coffee and his lashes were thick and long for a man. But it was the softness in their depth and the way fine lines radiated from their corners when he smiled, which she noticed most.


I know it's only a small excerpt but I hope you enjoyed it. Now I have to choose seven more writers to play along if they wish. No pressure at all! It wasn't difficult to choose my seven because each one of them have either been supportive of me as a writer, following my blog or keeping in touch on twitter. Thank you all and I look forward to reading all your excerpts.

Rosemary Gemmell

Avril Joy

Megan Taylor

Keith Havers

Mariam Kobras

Chris Nickson

The Rusty Pen

Flowering Redcurrant

Underneath the silver birch
They’d hang pink with pleasure,
Blushing blossoms
Full and frothing.
Beneath the birch’s lolling leaves
I’d read, or sing or dream.
And look through dappled light
To pale bare skies
Where contrails paint across the blue.
Small fingers fashioning necklaces
From a constellation
Of crimson-tinged daisies,
Dotted on the lawn.
The smell of earth, damp and raw,
Grass stained knees and the tantalising
Whispers of summer on the breeze.
I’d lie beneath those verdant boughs,
Embraced in their beauty.
And even today,
When years have passed,
I smell the flowering redcurrant
And remember.

Angela Barton

Learning Lessons The Hard Way

My second novel, In Hindsight, tells the story of a young woman called Rowan and her attempt at getting her life back on track after the unexpected death of her husband. Of course things don't go smoothly when she eventually re-surfaces to face the world again. She finds out that her husband wasn't the man she thought he was. But it's my take on grief in my novel which needs editing, now that I'm experiencing it in reality.

I had my heroine suffering with Hollywood angst but not possessing the ability to carry on with everyday tasks. I had her in floods of tears and being cared for by her best friend like a child. Since dad died in January, I've learned the lesson of writing about grief the hard way.

It's a deep clawing sadness. It's a feeling that everything in your life is different - but nothing in your life has changed. It's catching your breath when the image of their smile floods your thoughts. It's love, loss, anguish, silence and madness. It's alternating between silently begging and bargaining with God to be a better person if only He could make you wake up and find you'd had a nightmare; that dad was still here. It's staring into the middle distance but seeing nothing. It's about continuing with life but weaving your memory of them into every task. It's smiling - even laughing - but then feeling that sharp prick of guilt that you've done so. It's painful. It's about swollen eyes and bitten nails. It's about watching the red digits flashing 3am. It's longing, anger, futility and tears. It's about seeing their likeness in a stranger and for one desperate second wanting to call their name - until you remember. It's about gazing at their photograph and willing the touch of the paper to feel warm like their skin; for the image to breathe once more. It's about holding your family closer. It's about clutching their clothing as if it were them. It's about standing silently in their bedroom and feeling their spirit about you.

It's the hardest thing I've ever done.

Au revoir dad.

Some people make a difference to our lives. I don’t mean by performing heroic deeds or by inventing new things. I mean that some people make the world a better place, by just being themselves. My dad did that. My dad made a difference.

Quite simply, I adored him.

He was a loving husband, a wonderful father and an irreplaceable grandfather. My children called him papa. Since that dreadful Sunday morning nearly three weeks ago, a chapter has closed in my life. But loss is made endurable by love. He was a dignified giant of a man with a gentle soul. He led by powerful example. He was a man of integrity who guided and shared in the lives of his children and grandchildren with love and an abundance of patience. His smile was amazing. His jokes…less so!

He laughed often. He greeted the ladies in the family by telling them that they were beautiful. He encouraged and asked after every member of the family. Despite his painful knees, he’d pretend to trip up just to raise a laugh. If you stumbled, he’d ask if you’d had a good trip. Dad would gaze at the skies whenever a plane passed overhead and he’d tell you which aircraft it was. He’d clap loudly whenever Arsenal or England scored a goal and loved to watch sport on television. He greeted us with bear hugs. Dad loved to read and spent hours working on jigsaws, patiently re-creating a landscape or aeroplanes from tiny pieces of cardboard. He laughed at Tommy Cooper, Morecombe and Wise and Tom and Jerry. He was a connoisseur in the art of charcoaled bread, frequently burning toast in the mornings. He adored sun-bathing and didn’t want to part with a particularly well-worn and very small pair of blue shorts, which mum tried to secretly dispose of on several occasions.

Dad had beautiful hand writing and a talent for drawing. I loved the way his lips would twitch as he tried not to grin when he told a joke. He said au revoir, not goodbye. I’d frequently hear dad telling mum that she was beautiful. I’ll always remember dad walking on Harlyn Bay, wrapped up against the elements in his hat, scarf and gloves. How he’d grown fond of our two dogs and would throw a stick for them along the water’s edge of the beach.

I’ll be comforted in the future by the memories I shared with dad, because he was a joy to be around.

I received an unexpected response from a friend last week when I told her my father had died. She said that she envied me because I’d had a dad whom I loved and who loved me in return. She said she’d never had that relationship with her father. It made me appreciate what I had with dad, not what I’ve lost.

I’ll miss him every minute, of every day, for the rest of my life.

Au revoir dad.