Topping up the Well of Writing Ideas

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chit-chat, ideas, writing, writing ideas, zoom

One of the hardest things to cope with, for a writer (or at least for me), in these complicated times, is the lack of opportunity for face-to-face chit-chat with other writers. I had no idea how much I relied on it.

In the early days of lockdown, I had enough ideas in hand to carry on writing regardless. But as time went on, despite keeping in touch online with my writer friends, the well of ideas began to run dry. What’s missing is that idle chit-chat. How many times have I turned to someone in one of my writers’ groups and said, ‘You’ve just given me an idea!’ Chance remarks have set off many a chain of thought, and kept the well of ideas full.

Email exchanges just don’t cut the mustard in this respect, precisely because they are more considered, less spontaneous, than face-to-face chatter. Zoom meetings are a step in the right direction – but they still lack that happy spontaneity, and the thoughtful gaps that occur when you meet in person feel awkward on Zoom. What I’m really missing (and I’m sure I’m not the only one) is proper face-to-face, in-the-same-room discussion and the opportunity to get to know new people. And although our libraries have now reopened, the possibility of community groups meeting in them as before still seems pretty distant. All very depressing.

So imagine my delight when I found a very local event advertised for this weekend – a workshop. Not a writing group, but real people with a point of interest (something new to me – what bliss) in common. It’s not only an opportunity to spend a couple of hours with new people, it’s also a chance to see how this kind of event can be organised in the current climate. I bought a ticket on the spot.

I’m seriously hoping the well of ideas, running so perilously close to empty, will get a thorough topping up. Who knows, it might even brim over.

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Green Shoots

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illustration, Stourhead Gardens, Trees, writing

It must win a prize for the most-asked question on social media just now: what have you missed most during lockdown? Me? Well, it goes without saying that I’ve missed my family, but beyond that what I missed was trees.

There are trees here on the coast where I live, and I was delighted to see some of them on my daily walks, but the sea-winds tend to keep them short and stunted. What I longed for were forest trees, great big sky-scraping trees with broad canopies and lots and lots of green. When lockdown restrictions eased and I was able to take country walks and start visiting the big local gardens again, it was the trees that stopped me in my tracks. I just couldn’t get enough of them.

So when I found myself at Stourhead Gardens – a tree-lovers paradise if ever there was one – I was a very happy bunny indeed. I was there to meet my daughter for the first time in months, so it was already a joyful occasion. As I stood with my mouth open gazing up into the branches of a huge tree, she read my thoughts.

‘What’s your favourite kind of tree, Mum?’

‘Beech,’ I said.

‘Me, too. Reminds me of White Downs.’

This was a place on the Surrey Downs we visited often in her childhood, and we spent many happy hours looking for orchids in the shades of the giant beeches there. I’m glad she remembers it fondly. But then she took me by surprise. ‘Why don’t you do a book on trees, Mum?’

Well, given what I said on this blog last week about shiny new projects being the best way to ensure you never finish the current work-in-progress, I should have said ‘nice idea’ and left it that. Should have – but instead I said, ‘Go on…’ and we talked about it.

By the end of a day spent looking at the magnificent trees of Stourhead, the idea had, um, taken root. The magic of trees. Tree magic. Something like that. Illustrated by the author. I can do that. What fun the research would be; the perfect excuse to lurk about holding intense conversations with giant plants. I’d love it.

It’s the kind of idea that needs to marinate for a while. But isn’t it good, after lockdown when all bets were off and all future plans on indefinite hold, to have a few green shoots sprouting again? Thank you, dear daughter, for that.

Well Begun is Half Done

Tags

completing a project, fiction, novels, opportunities, writing

Look up this saying on the internet and it will solemnly tell you the meaning: good and thorough preparation in the early stages will make a project easier to finish. There’s truth in that, no doubt – but to me (and I suspect, many others), that saying has a different meaning: a project begun in great enthusiasm is left half-completed, and possibly never finished at all. I’m sure most people recognise that feeling of running out of energy and enthusiasm – becoming thoroughly tired of the project, and ultimately abandoning it unfinished.

I’m equally sure that writers are even more prone to this than the average person. How many abandoned novels are lurking in computer files, or as print-outs in dusty folders? Come on, now, admit it! Yes, you. Why did your story, embarked upon with such relish, never make it to completion? Did you do acres of research, enjoying every minute, and then find it was too difficult to turn it into a story? Did you find yourself constantly starting again with different viewpoints, different voices? Did you have an ending but couldn’t find your way back to the beginning? Were you overwhelmed with the amount of work required to put the whole thing together? Did you look at it one day and think this is rubbish and put it aside? Or did you have a new idea that was far more exciting and couldn’t wait to get started on it?

That last one is particularly difficult to resist, and I’m as susceptible as anyone else. But my own unfinished novel was abandoned nearly three years ago in rather different circumstances. The book was a sequel to an already-published novel, and I had done about a third of the work on it. Then my publisher announced changes to their business which ultimately led to our parting company. I put the book down, and, it seemed at the time, it was pointless to do anything more to it.

So, the book has languished in a dusty corner, until the other day when I opened up the file and read the opening chapter (it’s surprising how much you can forget your own work). Crikey, I thought, did I write this? It’s actually quite good. Lovely story-telling! Full of excitement and mystery. Perhaps I should knuckle down and finish it after all. This was followed by the obvious thought that any writer will recognise – can I actually write anything that good again? Can I find the words? Have I lost the plot? I’ll only know if I try.

Maybe, then finishing this abandoned novel will be my next project, for the coming autumn and winter. Since lockdown gave me so much more writing time than I expected, and left me well ahead with current projects, there is no reason why not. It won’t be easy to get it all into my head again – but I intend to try, and perhaps Long Reach and Merrythought will finally be completed. Well begun may become all done at last.

Spell Stories: St Agnes’ Eve

Tags

fairytale, Flash Fiction, magic

The final story in my series inspired by a book of Romany spells.

There was a timid knock at the door. Now who could that be, wondered Agnes, wiping her hands on her apron. On the threshold stood a young girl, who curtseyed very low, very solemn, and placed a coin on the doorstep. With that she turned and skittered off.

‘Oi!’ called Agnes, puzzled. But the girl was gone. Very strange.

Half an hour later another young woman appeared and went through the same performance, saying nothing. By the end of the day, Agnes had quite a collection of coins in her apron pocket.

‘I don’t understand it,’ she said, when her mother arrived to assist with the supper. ‘Fourteen girls! What does it mean?’

‘Only fourteen,’ said her mother, raising an eyebrow. Agnes smelt a rat directly.

Her mother shrugged and said, patiently, as if talking to a half wit, ‘Don’t you know what day it is?’

‘Tuesday,’ said Agnes.

‘Not just Tuesday. It is the twentieth day of January. St Agnes’ Eve.’

‘Oh, that,’ said Agnes. ‘You mean the night young girls think they will dream of their future husband?’ All these young women on the doorstep? She smelt another rat. ‘What have you done, Mother?’

‘I, er, merely suggested to the young women of the parish that you, as the saint’s namesake, might be able to intercede with the blessed lady on their behalf, and ensure a nice clear view of their future spouses…’

‘You did what?’ It was dishonest. It was blasphemy. What would Father Edmund say? Robin could lose his job as gravedigger!

‘…for a small consideration,’ said her mother.

‘You took money from them?’ Agnes couldn’t believe her ears.

‘No, dear. You took the money. There it is, jingling in your apron pocket. Now be a good girl and have a word with the saint. People expect their money’s worth, you know.’

Agnes collected the coins and slammed them down on the kitchen table as if they might scald her. ‘You made the promises – you have a word with the saint!’ She said, disgusted.

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said her mother. ‘How can I? I am not her namesake. Everyone knows my name is Mildred.’

 

During the darkest days of lockdown, writing these stories helped me to keep a sense of routine and normality. Now that things are loosening up a little, I have moved on and will be talking about future writing hopes and projects, starting next week.

Spell Stories: Cold Comfort

Tags

fairytale, Flash Fiction, magic

Another in this series of stories inspired by a book of Romany spells.

Agnes looked at her husband with distaste, not for the first time. ‘Just look at him, Mother,’ she said. ‘He is all be-snotted. He can’t go out digging graves in a downpour, not like that.’

Robin, wrapped in a blanket before the fire, said nothing, merely selecting a fresh rag from the pile beside him and blowing his nose loudly.

Agnes turned away in disgust. ‘He’ll make himself worse if he goes out. But it’s been a week – they’ll choose a new gravedigger, and then where shall we be?’

‘You could pick up the shovel yourself…’ said her mother.

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Agnes, picking up the damp and discarded wipe and holding it at arm’s length, ‘whatever would people say? Don’t throw them on the floor, Robin, or I’ll box your ears.’

‘Then we must try something else,’ said her mother. ‘Don’t look at me like that. It’s a very simple spell for the good health of an individual. Nothing more.’

Agnes opened her mouth to object, but a violent and messy sneeze from her husband, completely missing the wipe, changed her mind.

Her mother backed away from the invalid and folded her arms. ‘You need to trim his hair and nails and throw the clippings into the stream. The running water will carry away the ill-health.’

‘Clip his nails?’ said Agnes in horror, ‘with all the muck under them from the grave-digging?’ She shuddered.

‘Please yourself. But it’s an efficacious spell,’ said her mother, and left them to it.

Half an hour later Agnes stood on the muddy edge of the swollen stream, with assorted trimmings from her husband tied up in a cloth. She shook it out over the water, but leaned a little too far and in she went. Splosh.

‘Robin’s gone to work. Fit as a flea.’ said her mother, bustling about the kitchen. ‘I told you it was a good spell.’

Agnes, wrapped in a blanket before the fire, said nothing, merely selecting a fresh rag from the pile beside her and blowing her nose loudly.

Look out for the final Spell Story next week.