The time goes so fast these days. It barely seems like I’ve only just gotten out of bed when I’m tired and yawning and what do you know? Another day has flown by.
After finishing the latest book, Ash and the Faceless Man, I seem to have been on a bit of a come down. My shoulder started to ache, and I think that’s because the desk and chair aren’t at the right height and combining that with the hours I sat at my computer, there’s little wonder, I suppose. I had a marathon stint of writing and though I’m exceptionally pleased with what I achieved, now I have to wait. And I hate waiting.
Because of the way I had to adapt my writing this time, I don’t have a full word-count for the complete manuscript, but I estimate between 80,000 and 90,000 words. *The total is more like 86,000 words, I checked.
I started the story with a scene that drew me in and fascinated me. I enjoyed that scene immensely, not only when I was writing, but also when I re-read it. I’m not going to describe that scene, it’s full of spoilers.
The thing is, I had a complete story, beginning, middle and ending, without even needing that scene. It was difficult to fit the scene in, but in the end, like all good stories, it fits just where it needs to. I’m happy with where it stands and delighted because it has also led me forward for the beginning of the next book.
I have run the start of the next book over in my mind and I’ve also described it to my husband to see if it works in the telling of it.
That’s how my story-telling muscle works. Sometimes, a scene will play itself out in my mind and it captures my attention, and I go on to develop it into a story.
Deadlier… Than The Male started like that too.
I ‘saw’ a girl running through trees, the moonlight barely made it through the canopy sometimes, and she was terrified because she could sense something keeping pace with her. I ‘saw’ her threadbare clothes as they were torn by brambles and branches, her dress was old-fashioned and long, she had no shoes, just rags wrapped around her feet, and she had a shawl, handmade and threadbare, like the rest of her clothing. She lost the shawl, it was snatched from her shoulders as she ran past a low branch and though that was keeping her warm, she daren’t stop to retrieve it.
Whatever it was that she sensed in the darkness, held more terror than she had ever experienced.
I followed her through those woods (maybe it was me that she sensed?) and I desperately wanted to know more about the girl. How old was she? What was her family and home life like? She was obviously desperately poor because of the state of her dress – and especially the shoes. Or lack of them.
I felt empathy for her when she stumbled through a stream, and her feet were soaked through. I remember that sensation from when I was a child and my parents couldn’t afford to buy shoes for me and my siblings. I remember going to school with holes in the soles of my shoes. The cardboard I had cut out – cereal boxes cut into size and shape - fit inside the shoe so I wasn’t walking directly on the ground. That temporary fix didn’t last long, especially for an active child that seemed able to run everywhere. I remember the shock of cold when I accidentally stepped in a puddle. I also remember the crippling feeling of shame.
I remember my mother hitting me and the feeling of fury that I could do nothing to defend myself. As I grew bigger and stronger, not to mention more defiant, the beatings became more violent and one day, I gathered my anger, resentment and sense of natural justice, and I hit her back!
It didn’t go well for me that first time I retaliated. I got a more severe beating for that. The thing is, I had had so many beatings that one more didn’t make any difference. The next time she hit me, I had a bit more courage and I hit back harder.
It didn’t take too many of those episodes to make her realise that I was only getting better at fighting and she had only one arrow to her quiver – the size difference.
Then, because adults back then were used to kids being around and not listening, she told one of my aunts.
“I had to stop hitting her, because it was getting to be like child abuse. She would stand in front of me, defiant, and she would say, ‘That didn’t hurt!’ and I had to hit her until she cried, otherwise she would win.”
First of all: a mother hitting her child until the child breaks down in tears, otherwise the child ‘wins’ is not the flex she thought it was.
Second: ‘like child abuse’? That’s a thin line.
Third: that wasn’t the end of it. She only stopped hitting me when I started hitting back.
Finally: I don’t remember her hitting my siblings to the extent that she hit me. Ever.
So, not only do I have a girl running through the woods, with cold, wet feet, I have the bare bones of Ash sitting in my mind, moving around inside there with all my memories.
Then one more memory came along to sit beside those that Ash was moving around with.
One of the times I was sexually abused.
I described the incident to my mother – the one that a child is supposed to be able to go to for things like this – and I described what he did and what he said.
The next evening the spermdonor called me in for a chat. I stupidly thought he was going to get to the bottom of the incident and do the ‘dad’ thing and go and have words with the boy’s father. As I said, stupid me. Instead, spermdonor told me off. I had a right dressing down because of the terminology I used when describing what the boy did and said.
“Don’t you ever say ‘cock’ to your mother again!”
And so, I knew exactly where I stood in the great scheme of things. I knew who I could depend upon, rely upon and trust.
Back then, girls were still being primed to be the little housewife. Find a good husband, was my grandmonster’s advice. You’ll never get a good husband if you’re still climbing trees, she’d say – or whatever it was that she disapproved of me doing on any particular day.
She loathed my indomitable spirit – or ‘backchatting’ as she called it. She hated the fact that I would rather be off down the fields making friends with the ponies, but most of all, she hated the fact that I would stand up for my mother when she tried to tear her down in front of me and my siblings. She hated that I answered her back when she did that.
And there we have it. Ash in my mind, took on attributes that I showed as a child. She had the same ‘runaway gob’ on her, the same love for ponies and the very same attitude and volatile nature. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying I handled everything perfectly, or that I didn’t get into fights where I didn’t come out on top – I got all of that and more. And that’s why I have at least another story for Ash.
After finishing the latest book, Ash and the Faceless Man, I seem to have been on a bit of a come down. My shoulder started to ache, and I think that’s because the desk and chair aren’t at the right height and combining that with the hours I sat at my computer, there’s little wonder, I suppose. I had a marathon stint of writing and though I’m exceptionally pleased with what I achieved, now I have to wait. And I hate waiting.
Because of the way I had to adapt my writing this time, I don’t have a full word-count for the complete manuscript, but I estimate between 80,000 and 90,000 words. *The total is more like 86,000 words, I checked.
I started the story with a scene that drew me in and fascinated me. I enjoyed that scene immensely, not only when I was writing, but also when I re-read it. I’m not going to describe that scene, it’s full of spoilers.
The thing is, I had a complete story, beginning, middle and ending, without even needing that scene. It was difficult to fit the scene in, but in the end, like all good stories, it fits just where it needs to. I’m happy with where it stands and delighted because it has also led me forward for the beginning of the next book.
I have run the start of the next book over in my mind and I’ve also described it to my husband to see if it works in the telling of it.
That’s how my story-telling muscle works. Sometimes, a scene will play itself out in my mind and it captures my attention, and I go on to develop it into a story.
Deadlier… Than The Male started like that too.
I ‘saw’ a girl running through trees, the moonlight barely made it through the canopy sometimes, and she was terrified because she could sense something keeping pace with her. I ‘saw’ her threadbare clothes as they were torn by brambles and branches, her dress was old-fashioned and long, she had no shoes, just rags wrapped around her feet, and she had a shawl, handmade and threadbare, like the rest of her clothing. She lost the shawl, it was snatched from her shoulders as she ran past a low branch and though that was keeping her warm, she daren’t stop to retrieve it.
Whatever it was that she sensed in the darkness, held more terror than she had ever experienced.
I followed her through those woods (maybe it was me that she sensed?) and I desperately wanted to know more about the girl. How old was she? What was her family and home life like? She was obviously desperately poor because of the state of her dress – and especially the shoes. Or lack of them.
I felt empathy for her when she stumbled through a stream, and her feet were soaked through. I remember that sensation from when I was a child and my parents couldn’t afford to buy shoes for me and my siblings. I remember going to school with holes in the soles of my shoes. The cardboard I had cut out – cereal boxes cut into size and shape - fit inside the shoe so I wasn’t walking directly on the ground. That temporary fix didn’t last long, especially for an active child that seemed able to run everywhere. I remember the shock of cold when I accidentally stepped in a puddle. I also remember the crippling feeling of shame.
I remember my mother hitting me and the feeling of fury that I could do nothing to defend myself. As I grew bigger and stronger, not to mention more defiant, the beatings became more violent and one day, I gathered my anger, resentment and sense of natural justice, and I hit her back!
It didn’t go well for me that first time I retaliated. I got a more severe beating for that. The thing is, I had had so many beatings that one more didn’t make any difference. The next time she hit me, I had a bit more courage and I hit back harder.
It didn’t take too many of those episodes to make her realise that I was only getting better at fighting and she had only one arrow to her quiver – the size difference.
Then, because adults back then were used to kids being around and not listening, she told one of my aunts.
“I had to stop hitting her, because it was getting to be like child abuse. She would stand in front of me, defiant, and she would say, ‘That didn’t hurt!’ and I had to hit her until she cried, otherwise she would win.”
First of all: a mother hitting her child until the child breaks down in tears, otherwise the child ‘wins’ is not the flex she thought it was.
Second: ‘like child abuse’? That’s a thin line.
Third: that wasn’t the end of it. She only stopped hitting me when I started hitting back.
Finally: I don’t remember her hitting my siblings to the extent that she hit me. Ever.
So, not only do I have a girl running through the woods, with cold, wet feet, I have the bare bones of Ash sitting in my mind, moving around inside there with all my memories.
Then one more memory came along to sit beside those that Ash was moving around with.
One of the times I was sexually abused.
I described the incident to my mother – the one that a child is supposed to be able to go to for things like this – and I described what he did and what he said.
The next evening the spermdonor called me in for a chat. I stupidly thought he was going to get to the bottom of the incident and do the ‘dad’ thing and go and have words with the boy’s father. As I said, stupid me. Instead, spermdonor told me off. I had a right dressing down because of the terminology I used when describing what the boy did and said.
“Don’t you ever say ‘cock’ to your mother again!”
And so, I knew exactly where I stood in the great scheme of things. I knew who I could depend upon, rely upon and trust.
Back then, girls were still being primed to be the little housewife. Find a good husband, was my grandmonster’s advice. You’ll never get a good husband if you’re still climbing trees, she’d say – or whatever it was that she disapproved of me doing on any particular day.
She loathed my indomitable spirit – or ‘backchatting’ as she called it. She hated the fact that I would rather be off down the fields making friends with the ponies, but most of all, she hated the fact that I would stand up for my mother when she tried to tear her down in front of me and my siblings. She hated that I answered her back when she did that.
And there we have it. Ash in my mind, took on attributes that I showed as a child. She had the same ‘runaway gob’ on her, the same love for ponies and the very same attitude and volatile nature. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying I handled everything perfectly, or that I didn’t get into fights where I didn’t come out on top – I got all of that and more. And that’s why I have at least another story for Ash.
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