Fiction Excerpt: "Him"

Him (an excerpt of an, as yet, unwritten story by Abigail Ann)

I hate him! He just gets in the way of everything! 8pm today when I came home; and he had the nerve to tell me I was too late. What right has he to tell me what to do? He's not my father!
It's all his fault anyway! If he wasn't here I wouldn't have to spend all day down the park with that little nuisance. If anyone should be blamed for that 'c' word she uttered then it should be him! Before he came I'd never have felt the need to us it, let alone write it in the playground's shelter. Anyway, I was just trying to follow the doctor's orders- he said I needed to have more chocolate and what better place to do that then with friends. I just couldn't eat with him watching!

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Grounded!

I hate him, I hate him, I hate him!

She'd have let me off if it wasn't for him!

Watching TV, looking out of the window.

Bored!

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Went cycling today. There's nothing like freewheeling down onto a dual carriageway to get the adrenaline going.

They spent the day out with their little angel. Went to the zoo or something. Couldn't care less where I was!

But it was all my fault that we'd ended up in the cemetary half a mile away. Said he'd told me to stay on the estate. Well, he says a lot of things- how can I be expected to take them all in?

Fiction Excerpt: After the event

What follows is a short passage of fiction which I wrote at a writing workshop. As always, I'd love to know what you thnk- what do you like, hw could it be improved, would you like me to write more etc.


After the event

Time slows when you're alone. The mind wanders. The body itches. A tickle on my back- a spider crawling along my spine. I want to look, to flick it away but the muscles stay taught, unresponding. "Incy wincy spider wet up the water-spout" runs around my mind. Now the creature looms in front of me, the curse of my imagination. I close my eyes and it explodes into seemingly millions of smaller images sketched across my eye-balls.

A flicker of light drifts across the canvas of my eye-lids. I open them, just in time to see the nurse scurying past. "Hello", I call, but she doesn't seem to hear. Or maybe she chooses not to.

Here few choose to speak to me. The voices lying just beyond the dividers might as well be on another planet, alien as they are. I strain to make sense of them, to recognise the words that I've overheard in the 'boulangerie' or the local 'inter-marche', to put sounds to the words that I've snatched sight of down at the 'planche de l'eau'.

Outside lies a little piece of my home. My friends are the only ones who understand me- not just the words of my heart, but those that come from my mouth as well. Sure, there's my family, but my daughter seems more of them than me and my parents seem happy to float in their own world. When we moved from 'angleterre' I never thought it would be like this. I never thought I could long so much for the smell of 'Fish and Chips' drifting through our enclave of the French countriside.

Saturday nights mean home to me. Eating good fat chunky chips set next to a slab of battered cod. Popping down the pub for a quick beer. Its easy to forget where you are over a good game of bingo. And everyone understands me, not like here!

The doctor wanders by and I try another tentative "hello". Was that really a glare? Are doctors allowed to look at their patients like that?

He approaches. "Bonjour" he says, before his words dissapate into unintelligable babble. I feel myself beginning to panic as my mind scrambles to get a hold on what its hearing. I watch his mouth move as if it might give me clues to the word's meaning. And then, all of a sudden, the noise ceases.

I stare at the still lips, willing my brain to stop its annoying mumbling. My mind feels as if its about to explode.

But, somehow, it doesn't. And, somehow, I finally manage to realise that he is looking at me. One eyebrow is raised as he stares straight at me. Never before have I known more what the phrase "it felt like he was undressing me" meant. My brow beginning to boil, I struggle to regain some sense of what is happening. So what if he's undressing me, surely he's seen it a million times before. But I know that's not what he's doing- he's simply looking inside my soul!

Looking inside my soul? As if that's any better! Who is he to guesss what I'm thinking, he's not a pyschiatrist, how could he possibly understand?! Or maybe he is! It now occurs to me that I've never really been introduced to this man! Sure they rambled something in the lingo franca, but the bit they spoke in English (so that I might understand) was fragmented and simplistic at best.

The doctor sighs and repeats his question once again- for I now realise it was a question that he was asking all the time. I try to engage my brain in order to fathom his meaningless words, to no avail. Slowly and patiently I tell him "I..... do..... not..... understand...... French". His eyes roll, as if they might come out of his head. My patience finally exhausted I too sigh and lie down to sleep, hoping that by blocking out this world I might return to that of my own.

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England is my home, if you believe the old saying 'home is where the heart is'. However, my house has been in France for the last three years. That was a few months after my parents got it into their heads to renevate an old farm out here.

It's not to bad though, the old ex-pat community kept us sane as we made our way through the building work. My daughter safely off at school, friends accompanied us as we scoured the shops for the objects that would make this place ours. By the time Dad had got the walls laid it had become clear that we would have to look back home for the household necessities.

The one plus side was the fish. Every time things got too much, and they regularly did, Dad would make his way out back with his line. I never could stand watching the wriggling worms that he attached to his line, preferring to wait until tthe produce was gutted before looking at his catch. Then it would be down to the fish and chip shop to get Tim to batter it up for dinner- the perfect garden to mouth existence.  Of course when they holiday-makers arrived we'd have to share our catch with th visitors- altough there was the other cottage to look to before then.

It took quite a while to build our little hamlet- removing the unnecessary barns and stacking up the walls. Every little feature had to be carefully converted before the furniture arrived from across the channel. And there was the blasted septic tank- that luxery that would haunt us for years to come.

Approaching the writing process

A few weekends ago I was in Nottingham for the BookCrossing UK UnConvention 2011. During the event we heard three authors speak about their books and their writing. What struck me the most, however, was the enormous differences in the way they approched the writing process.

Eve Makis (author of Eat, Drink and Be Married) told us that she cannot really plan where her books are going. She gets a very vague idea, works her way inside the head of the story-teller character and then writes. She often uses real people as the basis for her characters, as she feels that she knows them, better. She never really knows where her books are going and likes the way that she discovers what is happening along with those she is writing about. She writes what she enjoys.

Stephen Booth (crime novalist) talked a lot about how he visits police stations for ideas. His focus is on the interaction between people and he likes to use quirky incidents from real life.

Catherine Cooper (author of The Golden Acorn) collects ideas in notebooks. She uses other people's images, folk-lore and places as inspiration. Her writing seemed to be more methodical and planned that that of the other two. She stressed the importance of always asking herself questions about her character's motives and what was behind their actions. She was also writing for a clear purpose- to get boys into reading.

So, I wondered, which of these approaches do you most associate with?
Do you think it matters what sort of book you are writing?

The Stopping of Summer Special

Well, the end is here. Thankyou to all who helped out, commented and visited during my month of summer madness. I hope you picked up some tips of things to do, places to see, recipes to try, authors to read and/or blogs to visit. I'd love to hear what you thought- maybe you could leave a comment or make a blog post to tell me. Hopefully this will be the beginning of more events that I'm able to hold.

Just before I leave you to go back to normal broadcasting, I bet you want to know who won what. Well, here you are:

The Winner of Bloody Jack is Mystica
The signed bookmarks were won by Sahina Bibi
The personalised magnetic bookmarks were won by Jade Walker and Janhvi Jagtap
The Winner of the Hairdresser of Harare is Mazz Nixon
And, finally, Anne was the winner of Murder in the Dark.

Congratulations to all the winners. You have been contacted by e-mail and now have 48 hours to respond.

If you didn't win this time, don't despair- you can still win with my 100 followers giveaway (see the sidebar of 'The Story Factory Reading Zone' for more details.

Writing Prompts: The Ten Dos and Donts of Airplanes Etiquette

Hosted by Mama's Losin' It!

In an attempt to kick-start my writing once more, I'm joining in with the 'Writing Prompts' meme for the first time this week. I've chosen option 5, to write about the dos and don'ts of airplane etiquette. Those of you who know me will not be surprised to know that I've written a short fiction piece for this purpose.


Buffetted in the waves, Dave began to taste the tuna that he had mistakenly consumed before boarding. In his drowsy state, he began to imagine the plane falling to meet his stomach way below them. Touching the deep below, a baby screamed out for rescue, as the water crashed against his stiffened back.

As he pulled his sticky eyelids apart, he returned to a fuzzy reality once more. "We apologize for the turbulance" announced a strangeled voice above him, "We have now descended to a lower level, and expect a clear sky for the rest of our journey".

Rising instantly after the words came the noise of a fighter plane approaching Dave's rear. Each shot rocketed his body forwards as it pelted into the small of his back. He turned as took a sly, yet pearcing glance at the child who sat engrossed in his video game. His mother, oblivious of the boy's actions, desperatly attempted to calm his young sister.

Dave sighed and, returning to his aquired position, tried to make himself just a little bit more at home. By leaning forward just an inch he was able to reach the inflight magazine. Just an inch the other direction and he was back at 45 degrees once more. Wishing he was able to lean back, Dave opened the glossy cover and began to read.

Soon he found himself on a tropical island. The sun beat down on him and, in the distance, waves lapped upon a sparkling shoreline. Dave rested his back upon a palm tree, as the birds serenaded him to sleep. A steel-band's gentle melodies assisted him to drift off into what felt like an everlasting rest. That was before they upped their tempo.

The drums began louder, deeper and suddenly gained a bass. The island disappeared, as Dave felt the air stiffle and the heat become stuffy. He put his hands over his ears and tried to curl up, but the grip of his seatbelt forced him back to reality. Dave picked up the magazine and turned the page. He sighed as he searched for another article that might bring back his sanity.

"Would you like a drink sir?" interrupted the flight attendent.
"No thanks" Dave muttered, trying to wish away the real world.
"Chicken or beef?" the attendant continued.
"Neither thanks" he replied.

Silence restored, Dave breathed once more. He was grateful he hadn't bothered with a meal when the seat ifront of him hit his knees. He was not as grateful about the gift he had received- a bruised kneecap! Stuffing the magazine onto his lap, Dave leant forwards as his seat went back. The seatbelt pulled, but finally released him to peep at the muscles of the man infront. Dave meekly leant back once more, noting how he could finally get into some sort of sleeping position. He closed his eyes and tried to return to his dreams.

He awoke suddenly to something, or someone, poking him.
"Duty free sir?" said the attendant, as the men between them looked on impatiently.
It took a little while for Dave to responded. "Ummmm, not today" he yawned, closing his eyes once more.

Dave peacefully drifted down a river, as the wind caressed his face. Either side of him, trees swayed gently in the breeze. On the river bank he spotted a family of beavers, their chewing floating across to him as they worked together to form their new home. He watched as they felled one of the tall trunks and heard the splash as it hit the waters below. It was then that the boat capsized.

It tipped back, as something landed on his stomach. Dave awoke with a start and jumped up from his seat, fighted off the tray infront even as he battled with his restraint.
"What the F****K!" he shouted
The plane turned towards him, but Dave hardly noticed as he threw the magazine from his soaked jeans onto the floor.
"Enough's enough!" he belted, as an attendent approached.
"You!", he turned on those behind, "as if the constant bawling wasn't enough, I have to put up with gun fights as well. Not to mention the kicks I've enjoyed courtesy of your overactive legs!"
"Now sir......" the attendant began.
Ignoring him, Dave turned to the front, "And you! Where did you learn to eat! Do you have some need that I have to hear what you're eating? Do you gain some enjoyment from squashing me against my seat?"
"Now sir, if you don't desist we'll be forced to have you removed....."
Dave turned on the interrupter, "Now you decide to act! I have to tolerate all these rude people and now you have the nerve to tell me to 'desist'" At this point Dave wiggled his fingers in the air, as if physically adding the speech marks around his words. "At what point were you made judge and jury?! You're just as bad, trying to force feed a man, making him spend his money on useless tat!

Dave never got to Alcapolco! As he was escorted off the plane, the man next to him passed down his bags to the attendant. The boy from behind watched, his head hanging down. As he looked up, Dave almost thought he saw a glance of apology.

Author Interview: Joanne Harris

I'm sooooo excited to be able to welcome Joanne Harris to this blog. I enjoyed reading Chocolat well before I started writing this blog. She has written 15 books so far and is still writing. Thanks to Mozette for sending her the questions.
 
So, without further ado, the interview:

    Please introduce yourself to our readers

I’m a 47-year-old former teacher living in Yorkshire. I have an 18-year-old daughter and a husband I met via graffiti on a school desk when I was just 16. I ‘m addicted to Haribo, Diet Coke and musical theatre.

Oh, yes - and I write a bit.

    What book do you think you are most like?

Parts of me are in all my books and all my characters. I don’t think you can write a convincing fiction unless some of it is supported by experience and emotional investment.

    What sort of books do you write?

I don’t like categorizing what I write. My books are often very different from each other. Loosely speaking, I appear under general fiction, but I’ve written crime novels, fantasy, historical, cookbooks, short stories. Most of my books have an element of suspense, and many of them focus on the senses in some way – often those of scent and taste.

    Can you tell us a bit about your favourite character from your own writing.

It’s hard to choose a favourite character when there are so many to choose from. One of my readers’ favourites is Vianne Rocher, who has appeared in two of my books so far; a mother, a traveller, a reluctant witch and of course, a maker of chocolates. I’m writing another book about her now, because I sense that her journey isn’t done.

    What books/authors have influenced your writing the most?

Ray Bradbury; Jules Verne; Victor Hugo; P.G.Wodehouse; John Mortimer; Mervyn Peake; Vladimir Nabokov.

    Tell us about the place where you write.

I used to write at home, but now I have a shed in the garden. It’s made of stone and it’s quite spare inside, with just the basics; a chair, a desk; a kettle. I don’t like distractions when I’m working, so it’s good to have somewhere to go where I know I won’t be disturbed too often.

    Do you have any techniques that you use if you get writer's block

I’m not sure I believe in writer’s block. The idea presupposes that a writer can always write whenever they feel like it. Some days I can write, others not. On the others I do something else.

    What are your top 5 tips for writing?

Read as much as you can, in as many different areas.

Pay attention to current events. Newspapers are full of ideas.

Talk to as many different kinds of people as you can. Everyone has a story.

Don’t try to copy trends. Be yourself, and be honest.

Enjoy what you do, and keep trying to improve. That in itself is already success.

Thankyou to Joanna Harris for the useful tips. I must say that I for one am very glad to hear an author saying that you don't have to write every day. You can find more tips for writing on Joanne Harris' website.

Over to you:

  What is your favourite Joanne Harris book?

 Tomorrow I'll be interviewing blogger Hilde of 'Turn of The Page' over at 'The Story Factory Reading Zone'.

Autumn Overhaul

Just a quick note to let you know that you may spot a few changes on my blogs over the next few weeks. Don't panc- nothing major's going to change, I just wanted to give the place a makeover whilst I have the chance. The main things that will be happening will be to make the blogs more similar,  so that people can (hopefully) clearly see that they're all run by the same person. I'm also hoping to make them easier to navigate.

If you have any suggestions of anything you think could make this blog better do leave  a comment. I can't promise I'll act on them all, but I certainly seriously consider them!