Genesis of a story

I read of the Short Story Competition for Bloody Scotland's International Crime Writing Festival three days or so ago.  Theme 'Escape'.  Three thousand words.

Knew, if I was going (which I am) I really would have to enter.

'Escape'  ... hmmm ... nothing sprung immediately to mind, except perhaps to remember that my next novel, third of a trilogy, has to tell Luke Darbyshere's story.  But I'd already told myself I fancied trying something in first person. Owed it to myself to write something brand new.

I can, usually, do drabbles.  Practise weekly hundred-word shorts which almost inevitably become serials, but I have always found longer stories daunting.   And almost never write without a prompt or three.  'Escape' didn't quite do it, on its own.

I began one too-close-to-the-private bone which would turn into a rant if I wasn't careful. Abandoned that.  Yesterday picked up Naomi Epel's 'Observation Deck' which was a Christmas present from one of my sons.  Selected, not entirely randomly (i.e. discarding what I didn't fancy) three what I thought were prompt cards, before realising that they referred to chapters in the accompanying book.

These were 'change your point of view', which I'd already done, ‘find the music’ which I haven't yet done but will find useful when I need it (it's worked before) and finally, 'observe a ritual' which, although I know it'll be something the MC does, I don't have a clue about at the moment.  I also decided to set the scene amidst something I do know something about, so as to better ground the 'voice'.

And this morning got up at 5 a.m. and wrote the first 255 words.

To be sat upon and let to ferment.

Festival of Writing - September

Booked my place at the Writer's Workshop Festival of Writing in York in September - my second time so I'll have a better grasp on what is going on;  will meet folks I already know and some of those who were on the Self Edit course with me.

Plus six Workshops, one mini-course (with Nicola Morgan, on The Perfect Submission) and two 1:1 sessions with book agents.

And the following week I'll be at Bloody Scotland.

Omniscience or head-hopping?

I've suddenly got self-conscious - and consequently come to a stuttering halt - about some of the passages in one of my current wips as a result of hearing about the iniquities of head-hopping.  I thought this passage, dealing with the conversation, actions and thoughts of three adults and three children  worked fine until then, but does it transgress all grammar rules and thereby confuse the reader?

     In the sunny kitchen they [Sean and his son Michael] found Sally making breakfast for both girls, her own daughter in one of the baby chairs, and Rosy held on her hip, not exactly crying but clearly about to make more of a fuss;  an intent halted as soon as she saw Sean [her father], whereupon she jeopardised her security by attempting to launch herself in his direction.  Smiling at both her and Sally, Sean lifted his daughter to safety.  ‘Another hungry child – do they never stop?  Thanks Sally.’   His nod acknowledged that she had been busy, having also cleared the kitchen of the previous night’s detritus.

Occasionally, when Sean stood more than usually close, Sally found herself experiencing a tingle of appreciative awareness.  This morning, his sun-bleached hair tangled and flopping across his forehead and the blue-eyed ease of his smile confirming what the soap-powder freshness of his T shirt failed to mask, i.e. the lust-sweat odour of sex, her  response was considerably stronger.  
     When Michael said, ‘Auntie Sally, my Mummy’s all wore out and she has to stay in bed,’ she couldn’t help but direct a complicit glance at Sean, any more than she could help wondering what it would be like to have this man between her thighs, so different in many ways to his brother, but undoubtedly as able.  Which, in itself, was the teasing, occasionally tormenting, thing.   
     Not that she had any complaints about Christy [Sean's brother]. A little more briskly than intended, with a little less breath than expected, she told Sean, ‘Christy’s gone for some rolls, he shouldn’t be long – he thought he’d nip out while the boys were asleep to make it quicker.  There’s bananas if Michael’s really hungry.’
     ‘I don’t think he’ll starve … but this little girl might think she’s going to if we don’t feed her – is that okay with you Michael, we have to see to the girls first.  Would you like a banana?   You can sit outside and watch for Uncle Christy coming back, but don’t run off.’   
     Five minutes later Sean was more amused than he let on to hear Michael, too impatient to let Christy get within earshot before shouting ‘Uncle Christy, Daddy’s feeding Rosy an’ I’ve got a banana an’ Mummy’s all wore out in bed with no ‘jarmies on!’
    Christy grinned at him, ‘Have I missed all that while I’ve been gone to fetch the rolls – tomorrow it better be someone else’s turn!’   Handing Michael the bag he said, ‘Go and give that to Aunty Sally, and ask her has she got the coffee on?’  He followed the three year-old into the kitchen, and was immediately met with Sean’s now-hard blue stare, above the top of the chair in which Rosy sat, having cereal spooned into her.  It didn’t require his twenty-plus years’ experience to decode the several layers of Sean’s message, especially since Michael’s words had to some extent forewarned him.  Sally’s back being turned, he was able to ruefully acknowledge receipt while not entirely admitting guilt. Just as well Sean had found out, though, before it went any further, he’d known it was a stupid thing to have started.

Horrified Press - and me!

My regular participation in The Prediction Fiction has led to me being invited to submit work to two anthologies, whereby I rub shoulders with folk who write a range of  work far outwith my normal range.  It was a surprise to find myself a Femmes Fatale in February, and now I learn I'm a writer of horror - one of many who successfully submitted to 'At the Stroke of Thirteen'.  Expected to be available on Google Play maybe as soon as 19th April.

My story is 'Discordant' - a tale of murder and revenge in Neolithic Orkney.

April 19th – At the Stroke of Thirteen (horror anthology)

At the stroke of thirteen, terror reigns… Thirteen O’ Clock is a sinister hour, strange and horrific, just like the incredible stories in this anthology. These authors have track records for producing spine chilling tales for dark nights and haunted places, yet in this volume they have outdone themselves. Here revealed are the unspeakable visions that few would dare to put down on paper. Here is a three-ring circus of fear presided over by that ringmaster of horror – Mr. Nick Cuti. Step right up! The show is about to begin and an unpleasant time is guaranteed for all.

- and no, you're not ready to leave.

‘Watch.’  She undid the buckle, slid the well-worn brown leather strap from his wrist.

‘Wallet,’ pulling it from the inside pocket of his jacket, stroking its rough and scabby leather hide, commenting, ‘More barnacle than crocodile,' before opening it, teasingly pretending to count the notes within.  ‘Guess you can afford me tonight,’ as she proceeded to then remove his jacket, unbutton his shirt.

A second buckle, this a recently-bought belt, leather less pliant.  He murmured a token protest which, smiling quietly, she reached, with lips and fingers, to silence.

‘Spectacles, so you can’t see what I’m doing.’
Then her hands were swift , swift and warm, lifting cotton, sliding denim, bending to remove the heap of clothes around his feet.   She stood again, this time accepting the heft and heat of him.

‘Testicles.  And a veritable upstanding Anglo Saxon Chronicle’

[Written for House of Writers Word Prompt 40]

Doldrums dissipated

A glimmer of an idea last night as to how Chelsy got hold of the photo which suggests All Is Not As It Seems had, by 4 a.m., firmed up enough to propel me out of bed by five and even as I wrote I realised better ways to deal with it. One conversation fully written, another (which adds more conflict for Baz & Madigan) still to do, but It Will Work.

Phew!!  Until the next time.

Doldrums

Having re-read for the umpteenth time and then put aside Longest Shadows Reach, my most recent work in progress, I returned to its predecessor Step So Grave, with the intention of applying what I learnt on the Self Edit course.

All fine and dandy for a few days.  One conversation that I felt lacked veracity was dealt with by seeing the need to bring in more jeopardy, thinking about what might have sparked animosity and writing its back story (which will be used in a forth-coming challenge).  Conversation re-written, all ramifications attended to.  Good.

There were other areas that needed more tension - those I'd found myself skipping over when it came to re-re-reading.  They weren't exactly boring but didn't necessarily earn their keep.  I thought a bit more conflict between Baz and Madigan would help. Thought I'd excise one of the not-boring-but bits and use the plot line from that to set  up a potential betrayal.

I wrote a conversation which gave good reasons for suspicion.

And then I came to a stop.   Because logistically it didn't work.  So I moved it.  And tried to shoe-horn it in elsewhere.   But found myself sitting at my laptop moving words about without them having already sounded in my head.  And digging myself deeper in the mire. So I stopped.

It will pass I tell myself.  It has done before.  Write a story instead - plenty prompts to write to.
But so far they've all been non-starters too.

Updated serials

'A Change of Focus' and 'Threshold' - serials progressing week by week, prompt by prompt via Prediction Fiction, and available to be read in their entirety on the above pages - have been updated; John Pettinger's adventures now having reached episode eighty-two.