The Critic

I have written previously of the Hints and Tips for writers that I hate so much. A reoccurring theme is that a writer must read, all things, good and bad. I spent my life reading, and now I’m writing. During my holidays which are sadly over, I entered a prestigious writing competition, wrote a 160 word piece of flash fiction, a story about my house, a 500 word story for another competition and a story for an Irish radio show. I also did some reading.

I finished The Black Cloud by Fred Hoyle, described by Richard Dawkins as the greatest science fiction ever written. It was OK. It begins like a science detective novel in that all problems are resolved with science, then it goes a bit soft, but the ending is impressive, it ends the only way it could and it makes rather profound statements, for example that in order to understand what I am saying you must first learn my language. Obvious yet powerful, how for example can my students understand what I am saying if they have limited vocabulary?

 I then read Old Country by Leonard Donofrio, not a book I would have chosen, but it was written by a friend and I felt obliged. I know how difficult it is to get people to read your stuff. I have family members who don’t read my blog, who are quite frankly uninterested and it seemed only right to read the works of a friend. This task was laden with obligation, what was I to do if I hated it? How insulting would it be to repeat what is done at reading groups “I liked the bit when ..”?

I read Old Country with an attitude not applied when I read Death and the Dolce Vita, The English Patient and Orlando. Why? Because they were published, they had quotes on the cover that made them good to read: recommended. All three are partly read.

Maybe I read Leonard’s book because I had to. I said I would. I didn’t have to read those that remain unread. I read Old Country in a different way: critically. Why am I not critical of published books? I saw my own mistakes in Leonard’s work, mistakes I will fix eventually if I ever manage a novel that is complete.

Everything Leonard wrote I turned back on myself, I do that, I wouldn’t do that and so on. I don’t apply these same rules to published writers and yet it is clear that I should. Reading can be an active occupation if you read as though you are giving advice.

Who am I to tell Stephen Gundle to get on with it, or Michael Ondaatje that his story appears to be going nowhere or Virginia Wolf that the poetry is pretty but the story is too ambling?

I am a writer. I'm a reader too. I may not have the sort of backing some writers have and neither does Leonard, over three evenings he took me to Italy and nearly made me cry. Yes there were faults but, there are faults everywhere. 

Feeling Lost

There is a train station, only two streets over from us and you have to flag the train if you want it to stop. How quaint! Not nearly as quaint as Calstock which is fast becoming one of my favorite places and perhaps where I should like to live when I’m earning big money.

It is lush; heavy with foliage, rich with the river, ripe with character and steeped in history. It is the sort of place that seems as though every other house homes an eccentric ghost.

On previous visits, we have taken country paths, and gotten lost, we have gone blackberry picking and gotten lost, one occasion we had the dog with us and got lost. 

This time the boy and I decided to walk from Calstock up to Cotehele house. A glorious walk if ever there was one. I believe the boy was having jungle fantasies as he clambered among the giant foliage. I was hoping for inspiration for a story on the theme of Haptics and instead found that I was happily vacant, thinking of nothing, nothing but peace, the kind of peace you expect to find on holiday. Until we got lost.

It was towards the end of our full day and neither of us could recall how we came upon the house. We followed a steep hill, saw the sign and walked in. Which way was the steep hill? Panic set in. I could see the viaduct in the distance, but how to get there?

View down into Calstock, we needed to get to the Viaduct.

I ranted to the boy for a bit then asked people, which way to Calstock? Several pointed us in the wrong direction,  it could not be along the tarmac road because we didn’t come up that way we came up a hill. No one seemed to know about the hill. Eventually we followed the complex directions of a man who orchestrated the way with his walking stick. We remained unconvinced until we found three people also walking to Calstock, we were on the right road and suddenly everything felt safe, Ah yes we said look there is the bench I rested at, there is the place he found the big stick. We would have plenty of time to catch the train, we would even have time for the pub!

Today, I am again feeling lost. My holiday is rapidly running away from me and I have achieved so little. The bathroom is still not complete. The park project is only barley begun, the piece of flash fiction still on the lap top, the ironing pile imposing. Other than this blog entry and the dishes I have achieved nothing today. The world is heavy with directions. I must have a routine, I must write every day, I must do morning pages, meditate, share, publicise, enter competitions, short stories, novels, and now suddenly I have decided a graphic novel might be a good idea.

I suppose what I’m looking for is the break through, that acknowledgement that I am on the right path, that not only will I be able to get there, but there will be time to do the ironing too.

Choices

 Taken from The Stanley Parable http://www.galactic-cafe.com/

Along with growing my own tomato, slicing it, garnishing with sweet basil (grown on the windowsill) and adding it to a cheese sandwich, week three of my holiday has also seen me take several walks, partake in a little DIY and complete The Stanley Parable.

One of the questions I ask my game students is how they intend to persuade the player to take a predetermined path without specifically instructing them to do so? The Stanley Parable turns this concept on its head in a clever, entertaining and engaging manner.

At one stage the narrator was aghast to see that I had made a “meaningful choice” and that started me thinking. One afternoon this week I listened to a radio show regarding the migrant situation at Calais, a caller announced that “it was their choice.”

Where is the choice when ISIS is chasing you down? In terms of game balance this would be unacceptable, do you head, A: for certain death, or B a safer alternative? You wouldn’t put that in a game, there would be no balance; it would be too obvious.

Taken from The Stanley Parable http://www.galactic-cafe.com/

It was my choice to go to work, was it? Is it still a choice when the only alternative is starvation? Is a choice well taken when only half the information is available? Can you make a meaningful choice when you are only aware of one potential outcome and have not the background knowledge to accurately assess the alternative?

Indeed there is some level of excitement in the unknown; in a little risk taking and not everything can be known ahead. For example you may be in a comfortable lifestyle, perhaps with one child, you might consider yourself well informed on the country’s economic situation and when you discover that you’re pregnant, you might feel that yes this is a baby you want to keep.

How the hell were you supposed to know that there was going to be a massive global recession? Tell that to the people on Question Time.

Your entire life is the making of meaningful choices, but in a game you all start at the same place, with the same information. Some players might put more into it than you, they might read the wiki pages, might play longer, join forums, but all players begin at the same place, the same information is available even though some information needs to be hunted down and sought out.

Taken from Bioshock Infinite

Well I have been seeking out information and still remain directionless. It seems to me that I can, if I choose just get on with it and be a writer. All my research suggests that in order to do this I just have to write. All my reading implies that I don’t even have to be very good at it. I just have to do it, to be it, to believe it, to become it.

So I have a plan: To reinvent myself and make the transition from teacher to writer. I’m thinking this would be an interesting experiment. Could I change the way I think and the way I am perceived and so change the choices available to me? Wouldn’t that be a good idea for a project?

Watch this space.

The Stages of Story

3D model created by hubby as this weeks illustration:
https://andyartisand.carbonmade.com/

How do stories happen?

I do sometimes feel as if they fall straight out of my finger tips and one idea follows another like rain on summer holidays, there’s a little more to it than that though. Here are my observations on the stages of story.

The Hook

This is the seed of an idea. The seed may be generated through various creative techniques; such as automatic writing, or mind mapping. I find the seed turns up when I am in quiet mode; doing the dishes or riding the bus from work, a flutter of an idea drifts in, a kind of notion to be mulled.

Various notions I have had include, the markings on pavements delivering a secondary message altogether, the ability to listen to white goods and anything that looks like a face having consciousness.

The Inspiration

This is the best bit of all, this is when the notion has germinated (this might take years), and when it’s ready your subconscious reels it in and you become alive with a workable idea. This is fast writing and feels so rewarding. I do this on the lap top, on the sofa often with music.

The Voice

Here I look at the frenzy of words on the laptop and try to create a mood. I think about the voice of the writer, the rhythm of the words and how the reader will relate to the nature of the protagonists journey.

The Rules

This happens in silence at the PC. It involves asking lots of questions. Have I set the scene? Is there enough back-story? What are the protagonists motivations? Who is the antagonist? Where is the conflict? How does the protagonist overcome the conflict? Do we see the protagonist grow? Is it too predictable? Can I re-order the structure? The Rules are the hardest bit, I don’t think I have ever answered all the questions effectively.

The Edit

I love asides; minor details that add flavor; for example that Raqui Star offered Shadow Alignment only on Saturday afternoons. Unfortunately in the edit I have to take a lot of these out. I don’t mind ditching words in order to be succinct but I don’t always want the asides to go.

Punctuating and Proofing

I use the child for this. I ask him to count two for a comma, three for a full stop and four at the end of a paragraph. If he stumbles I know I need to rework something. Husband provides proof reading and has so far served me well.

There should be a word or two about acceptance; what makes a story a success. And you know all I can conclude is it’s simply a matter of taste; I guess it’s for the reader to decide. Maybe we could return to it sometime.

Finally if you are a writer and your stages of story differ to mine, do share and let us know what works for you.

Holidays

You overwork something for too long and like The Little Donkey that wouldn’t go, it’s going to start to break. So we have holidays, a time to rejuvenate. Summer holidays are the gold standard of all holidays; often planned in the winter months they become the light at the end of the tunnel; the reward for our hard work, the treat for our children, the time to be a family again.

Summer holidays come laden with myth like memories; the long summer of Seventy Six when according to my romantic memory we spent days and days at Nash Point. Childhood holidays when we were bombing along the streets on our bikes and bursting through the lazy haze that rose from concrete pavements. Teenage holidays when we dressed from head to toe in black and walked the melting urban landscape in unsuitable footwear to sit in a friend’s bedsit and listen to something depressing on the record player.

Summer holidays, when your dad undertook a massive DIY project and your mother washed and ironed and cleaned for days on end, so that when the holidays came there was no washing and ironing to do (Ok we will talk about that later.)

Of course there are also far away holidays, holidays abroad, walking holidays, camping holidays. They are the summer holidays and I am on mine. Right now; this is day one.  

What shall I do with it?

Nash Point, my favorite place in all the world

Cleaning

Yes, I have a cleaning thing. When I stop. When I pause. Everything looks grubby. Sometimes I feel like I can’t operate effectively until every glass is gleaming and every surface is reflective.

Resting

I am hopeless at this. I cannot rest. Last night, as a warm up I tried to watch T.V. and ended up sorting socks. To be honest there was nothing on.

Holidaying abroad

I am the working poor. Nothing more to be said here.

Day Trips

This is a good idea. I have been on a few with my boy and we have gotten lost in the countryside several times. I feel we bonded. He feels mummy has no sense of direction and actually called for help, you know like the scarecrow does when Dorothy falls asleep in the poppies.

Writing stuff

Yes. I want to write stuff. I have several pieces to work on. One is about a dreamer who’s dreams spill out, one is about a child killer, one is about the broken half of a mirror and one is about an incompetent fairy god mother. And there are so many more. Yet it feels indulgent to write when the bathroom needs doing.

The Bathroom

All we need to do here is sand down, gloss and lay the floor. We have had a concrete bathroom floor for over a year. I should be ashamed of myself.

Getting over work and getting drunk.

I have reached such levels of perfection, that it would be a waste of a holiday to work this any further, I should like to drink white wine and listen to Sixto Rodriguez. Again and again.

I could manifest. It’s what sports persons do, a creative visualization, of me winning. So the plan is, to do ironing in the morning, then clean the windows and wash the curtains and finally sit down with the book, with the words and write them just as they should be laid down, as they come out of my finger tips.

An Aspiring Writer

Hard work and aspiration: modern day meaningless tag lines. Aspiration can only get you so far. I am dripping with aspiration I have it in bucket loads. I aspire to be a good teacher, to learn new things, to read lots of books, to play video games, to write, to meet people, to win literary prizes and to wear a fabulous outfit at the award ceremony.

Don’t for one moment think I just sit about aspiring all day long, no I am ….pro active in my aspiration. “Pro-active” I despise that word, I remember the first time I heard it at meeting in Staffordshire County Council. I was outraged that "active", a verb, a doing word, required a prefix to differentiate it from doing things and like; you know, really doing things.

So in what way have I been activating my aspirations? Well I have made a commitment. Again everything is beginning to sound so new speak, perhaps I have watched, read and listened to far too much politics, but hear me out please.

I have made a writing commitment and this blog is part of it. Now I am an author I will share my take on life, my thoughts, experiences and hints and tips on a weekly basis.  I could just write these in a diary, but a blog is about exposure and no one is going to read my work unless I expose it to them.

I am an active twitter user and am slowly building a small following in the twitter sphere. 

I have created a J Freese facebook page which I post to regularly.

I use Wordpress as a catalog for my short stories and poems.  Writing new stories then gives me something to read at events.  In the space of a month I have read at three events, that’s two stories Count DireLife and The Light map and one poem My Mothers Land.

On top of the requirement to provide words (what kind of a blog would it be otherwise?) I also need images in my posts to break them up and avoid the horror of a wall of text.  So I take photographs, or screen grabs sometimes edit them in photoshop and finally install them into the blog. Now I can include a photo in my twitter posts, on facebook and on Pinterest.

Get that for aspiration, I told you I have it in buckets. I said to husband the other day that I feel as though after ten years (the child is ten) we have finally come alive again, we have woken up and are doing things. The only problem is that ten years ago I was thirty four and now I’m knackered. Much as I have loved this recent burst of activity I’m simply washed out.

Next weekend I want to stay at home and go no further than the backyard. Tonight my main aspiration is to put my feet up, drink tea and watch a movie or else I fear my candle will be burnt at both ends.

What Is Friend?

We all know of the archetypal writer, an introverted character, struggling to find the right word, passionate with a message, a muse an inspiration. 

I describe the writer of leisure, the writer who is able to indulge a creative whim, the writer who does not have to get up and go to work tomorrow, or see to the dinner or put together a fancy dress costume at late notice for a play you missed in the school newsletter.

The leisurely writer is aloof and mingles with only a select few. OK I might be going a bit far with this, but this is how I always envisaged a writer. When in fact the only way a writer is likely to come up with new ideas, original notions and character driven narratives is by getting out there and mixing.

In the past month my family and I have been doing quite a lot of mixing, we have done two craft fairs (one in the pouring rain), we have been to one private art showing of contemporary sculpture, and then last weekend we part took in a Cos-play event and later that evening we attended an international language and cultural event where I read my poem My Mother’s Land.

I love people. I like nearly everyone I meet and am generally a dreadful judge of character. I enjoy talking to people and people give me ideas, ideas for plot lines, ideas for characters, even just ideas for character descriptions.

During these past weeks of mixing I have met and talked too old ladies about sewing, young mothers about children, a well traveled woman who wrote for the world of fashion, a doctor of philosophy who didn’t know what sominal realism was but defined nominal realism for me. I have met and talked to games enthusiasts, I have discussed gardening, community projects, I have petted numerous dogs and conversed with several tramps all of whom were enamored with my husband’s art work.

At the language and cultural event (LESIN) I met my first Mexican (South America fascinates me), I spoke to some Arab men (two of whom turned out to be visiting from my home town Cardiff). I chatted to several Spaniards; who were all quite stereo-typically smoking on the balcony. I talked to a chap from the Czech Republic, an American travel writer and a Syrian Asylum seeker.

These have all been great experiences, new conversations, new music, new dancing (from the Philippines) the beautiful rhythm of foreign languages and exiting exotic food. The language and cultural evening was several hours of thoroughly enjoyable newness; but for one thing…

The Syrian: he stood alone in the corner of the balcony, I spoke to him and asked his story. He said “I am Asylum”. He has been here for eleven months and his English is poor. I asked had he made any friends.  “What is friend?” And I struggled to explain with words he might understand.

Mixing is important, it’s where you get ideas and inspiration but it’s also how you make friends and everyone needs a friend.