Time to Let Go Part 2

Happy New Year!

2024 was a year of such growth for me. I have left it as a very different person. I learned so much about myself and I’ve grown so much as a writer. Looking back some of those lessons were harder than others but that is life isn’t it? I have so much planned for this year already. 2025 is the year I become a published author. Whatever your plans for this year may it bring you health, joy and prosperity.

The finish line for the novel is in sight now and I’m looking forward to sharing snippets with you in the next few weeks. I’ve spent the holiday in a little bubble working through developmental edits and I am pleased with how the story is taking shape. I have line and copy editing up next to really polish the sentence structure and flow. I would also like to say a huge thank you to those who volunteered to beta read the novel, it will be with you soon!

I hope you enjoyed part one of Time to Let Go and I offer part two for your entertainment.

Part 2

Grace woke to the sun streaming in through the gap in the curtains with her head throbbing once again. This time it was the red wine to blame and she winced as she sat up. Louise had appeared at the door last night, no doubt dispatched by Anna, armed with a large pizza and 2 bottles of Merlot, Louise had claimed she needed to escape from the big football match whilst setting up camp at the table. They had talked about work, the weather and eventually the conversation came around to Grace. How she wasn't returning messages and how much they all missed her. Grace looked at her friend's creased brow and tried to smile reassuringly. She still wasn't ready to be in big groups and work kept her busy. Louise's arched brow showed she wasn't fooled but had decided to make a tactical withdrawal. Filling the glasses again Grace let the flow of news about their friends wash over her nodding at what she hoped were the right times. By the third glass of wine Grace felt woozy and glancing down the hallway at the clock she asked,

“Do you believe in ghosts Lou?”

“Are you being serious?” Louise responded, setting down her glass and leaning towards her friend.

Grace nodded.

“The clock keeps stopping at the same time and I thought I heard a voice...”

She tried to say more but her throat tightened. She cleared it.  Louise enveloped her in a hug and murmured.

“Oh Grace. It must be so lonely for you. You've been through so much.”

It must be common in situations like this Louise had reasoned, probably lack of sleep and an old house. Had she mentioned it to her counsellor or the GP? Grace had tried to find the words to explain the face and the clock but her throat remained stuck. Mutely she had pulled back from her friend's embrace.  Wonderful, Grace thought as she recalled the conversations from the previous night, now they would be watching her even more closely. She was not just sad but mad like one of the nameless women in a Victorian novel. A modern character lost in a Bronte story or Daphne du Maurier's Rebecca.

The door to the other bedroom was ajar again. The longing started deep in her chest and pulsed through her body. Grace lingered in the doorway, caught between her old life and her new. The chill of the hallway crept down her back whilst the scent of oak and leather from the furniture drew her in. She stepped forwards. Moving slowly around the room, she ran her hand over the side of the cot. Her father had wanted to clear this room but Anna had insisted that was something only Grace could do and only once she was ready. She sat in the nursing chair overlooking the midwinter frost of the garden and began to rock with the chair. 

It was the shortest day today. For Grace, the longest night. The morning was cold and grey as if all colour in the world had seeped away in the night. Grace wondered if she could just fade with light too so she didn't have to face the world. A world first without Tom and then without their child. Her mind drifted back to listening in a daze as the Doctor explained that Tom couldn't survive his injuries. The damage was catastrophic. A red Skoda had mounted the pavement and pinned Tom to the building. A blowout, she'd been told, and nothing the driver could do. Anna and the family had gathered and she had sat rooted to the horrible green chair holding his hand. In the days that followed, she was gently manoeuvred through the process of arranging the funeral. Her family and friends rallied and narrowed it all down to simple choices. Numb she floated through the days and nights—never left alone.

It had been the day after the funeral when the shock wore off and the storm of her grief hit. Wave after wave of sobs had wracked her body until exhausted she had lain on the bed raging against the injustice of it all. Her future, their future, stolen. How could that be? How could he be gone? Grace couldn't begin to imagine what she, what they, would do without him. Her hand moved to her belly as the realisation dawned. When had she last felt the baby move? 

The weeks that followed the baby's funeral were a blur of raw pain and anguish. Grace retreated into a cocoon and shut out the world. All offers of support were rebuffed and she became silent. Her voice gone, replaced by a constant lump in her throat. It was all she could do to breathe and it hurt to swallow. No matter how much those who loved implored her to talk to them, she couldn't. They didn't understand. She had no words. Only a bottomless scream of fear and fury and longing. If that escaped, what would be left? It was only when her wedding ring, now far too loose from her rapid weight loss, fell down the sink that the wave broke. Grace had howled and raged until she was empty. She had been sitting empty of emotion, cold and shocked on the kitchen floor when Anna found her. Too broken to resist, Grace allowed herself to be shepherded first to the GP and then to the psychiatrist.

Grace returned to the present, still in the rocking chair, in darkness. The house was silent. She had the strange sensation of being out of time and place. In the hallway the clock waited, and as Grace expected, so did the other woman. What question would be the right one? she wondered as she approached the clock. Running through the ritual of weighting the chains and starting the pendulum calmly Grace moved the hands from three minutes past three and shut the case. The light from the lamp cast the clock in shadow and although Grace couldn't see the reflection, she knew that she wasn't alone.

“Who are you? Grace asked, voice barely above a whisper.

“A friend.” The answer appeared directly into her head just as before. Grace repeated the name aloud.

“Is there something you want to tell me?” Grace asked.

“This is not a life Grace. You are becoming a shadow.”

Grace shrugged.

“The time is coming that you must choose”. The woman's tone was level but Grace recoiled from the words as if she’d been slapped.

“Choose?” Grace spat the word out. “I didn't choose any of this. I don't want it. I want to wake up and this have been a nightmare. Can I just choose that?!”

“No. You cannot go back”, came the soft reply. “Nor can you stay here lost in grief and anger.”

“Why are you here?” Grace asked again.

The tick of the clock cut through the moment and Grace felt light headed as time came rushing back in. Taking a shuddering breath she felt as though she had surfaced from being underwater.

***

As Christmas approached, Grace prepared herself to face another first. The months since March were punctuated by these events. Her parents, Louise, Anna, and her friends made sure she didn't face them alone and called themselves her support crew.  Although Grace knew she should be grateful, the support made each event feel like a test to be endured. She wanted to crawl into bed with the covers pulled over her head and wait until it had passed. Louise, at least, seemed to understand her desire to lose herself. On their wedding anniversary, Louise had helped her get so drunk that the room spun. Louise, ever the pragmatist, had curled up in the chair beside Grace, ready with a bucket. In the morning, Grace was woken with a can of Irn Bru and two aspirins before Louise handed the baton to her parents. Ever since the day Anna had found her on the kitchen floor Grace had been adamant she wouldn't take any antidepressants . Nor something to help her sleep. Dr Field, the psychiatrist, had suggested a number of options but each time Grace responded the same way. Would it bring them back? she had asked. No? Then no thank you, she wouldn't take them. The truth was simply that she didn't want the pain to leave. She couldn't bear the thought of it being dulled, of what might come next. Grace had agreed to the counselling sessions because her mum had been so desperate to see her accept help. It was here she had learned to use the little ritual of the clock as an anchor in the present.

Sitting in the living room, Grace remembered how excited Tom had been last Christmas. Once the first twelve weeks of pregnancy had passed they had started to dream and to plan. Sitting in front of the fire with mince pies, Grace laughed as Tom told her of his plans to have a real tree from then on and of the lego, bikes and telescopes that would one day sit under it. His enthusiasm carried on to the following day when they had visited the local garden centre.Tom selected a huge eight foot tall Norway Spruce tree despite her protests that it wouldn't fit. Upon getting it home, they discovered that Grace was indeed correct and Tom had to cut the top foot off so it could stand. It took four strings of coloured fairy lights to achieve the desired level of magic Tom wanted. He had to get the ladders out to put the star on the top because the tree was so wide. 

Now, the emptiness struck Grace. Other than a few gifts for Eilidh and Angus, which sat wrapped on the table, and the cards on the window sills, there were no festive decorations. She was just too tired to make the effort. The clock had stopped again and she rose wearily to start it.

Steel grey eyes greeted Grace in the reflection and the woman acknowledged her with a nod. This time, Grace was ready with her question.

“Why are you here?” she asked.

“To help” She responded simply.

“Are you my fairy godmother?” she asked “Or a ghost?” 

The woman threw back her head and let out a rich, full laugh. “Neither and both. It is hard to explain.”

Studying the other woman, it was hard to pinpoint her age. The laugh lines around her eyes and mouth suggested she was older but her smooth forehead and  bright eyes were those of a woman in her prime.

“That isn't particularly helpful, I know”, the woman conceded,” I'm here because you need me and I'll leave when you no longer do.”

“Not big on explanations then,” Grace noted. “What help do you think I need?”

“What help do you think you need? That is what matters.”

Grace paused, holding a long breath. She let out a sigh, her shoulders sagging, then whispered, “I don't know how to live like this.”

The other woman’s expression changed, all trace of humour gone and replaced by a look of sorrow and compassion that connected directly into Grace's heart. She felt the lump rise in her throat.

“You can't Grace”, came the soft reply, “this isn't living. You have to choose.”

Tears welled and stung her eyes. Grace shook her head, unable to find her voice to reply. As the tears began to roll down her face, she squeezed her eyes closed.

When she opened them, the face was gone.

***

Grace made it through Christmas and to Hogmanay. Having been out with her friends to the local pub, she had made her excuses shortly after the bells and left. The celebrations were too much for her and she felt so detached from the excitement and resolutions. She sat silent in the kitchen contemplating the passing of the old year and all it had taken from her. I'm stuck here, she thought, just passing time. How do I go on? What is there to live for? 

She felt insubstantial, like mist that would burn away in the morning sunshine. The clock struck and three clear chimes rang through the house. Grace moved to face it. How easy it would be to just let go, to stop time and cease to be. She stared at her own reflection. The clock reached three minutes past three and stopped as Grace had known it would. It was time now. The old made way for the new. As the echo of the last tick faded Grace watched  the reflection ripple. The other woman waited, her expression calm, as Grace drew a long, slow breath in.

“What do I do?” Grace asked uncertainly.

“You just need to choose Grace”, she said,” there is nothing to fear. Either take my hand and step through or stay there and move forwards.”

Grace pressed her hand to the glass and met the other woman’s outstretched palm. The memories came rushing through her mind like a film on fast forward. Grace and Tom’s first kiss, their wedding and hearing the baby's heart beat. The joy, the excitement, the love all swirled around her like a vortex. Grace remained calm in the centre, feeling the pulse of energy from the other woman's hand. She saw herself as she had been with him. Then saw herself now reflected in the woman's steady gaze. A shadow, a ghost in her own life, haunted by a future that no longer existed. She made her decision and let go. Her hand dropped to her side. With a whoosh of wind that lifted her hair, the present returned.

As it started to get dark, a key turned in the lock. Grace came down the stairs as Anna struggled out of her coat and boots. They made their way to the kitchen.

“Oh, your clock has stopped love,” Anna called, “It’s saying it’s ten past three”.

“Yes,” Grace replied with her back turned. “It hasn't been keeping the right time of late. Maybe it's the pylon...” There was a hint of mischief in her voice now.

Anna appeared surprised by the change in Grace’s voice  and gave her a long look. Over Anna;s shoulder Grace could see herself reflected in the window. With the chestnut hair pulled back in a low ponytail and skin a little brighter she was more vibrant. But it was her eyes, the beautiful colour of a stormy sea, that had changed the most. Light had returned and for the first time in months she felt alive.  

Photo Credit @Jaanus

Time to Let Go…

Hello!

It has been a while since I wrote a blog post. I’ve got so much to tell you! I’ve now written my first novel which I will share more about in the coming weeks. I’ll also be adding more author content to this site as we go along. So by way of apology for my absence, I offer this short story. It made the top 10% of entries in the Oxford Fiction Prize for 2024. Enjoy part one. Part two will follow next week.

It had stopped again. The absence of the familiar sound was jarring. The creaky floorboards and noisy pipes were a routine, a soundtrack to Grace’s day.  Each tick of the clock, however, divided her grief into sections. Without that it was unbearable. 

The grandmother clock had been a whimsical purchase to fit the cottagecore vibe on her Pinterest board. A grandfather clock would have dominated the hallway but this one was perfect. Grace had been delighted that it was exactly the same height as her at five foot six, its pearlescent face level with hers. 

Grace sighed as she unlatched the clock’s casement glancing at the reflection in the glass. The face she glimpsed was not her own and her heart leapt. It was there and then gone. The face of an older woman, chestnut hair pulled back and eyes the colour of a stormy sea. The clock was silent and it was three minutes past three. Grace knew she had not imagined it.

Shaking her head to dislodge the fuzziness, Grace reached inside and pulled first the hour and then the minute chain down. They were reassuringly cold and solid. Slowing her movements she resisted the urge to rush. Checking her watch, she adjusted the hands to half past four and with a gentle push, started the pendulum swinging. When she closed the casement and the clock had begun to tick, it was her own pale face that looked back at her. Grace stared at the dark circles under her eyes, skin dull, and untidy hair that needed a cut. 

Moving thoughtfully through the hallway to the kitchen, Grace boiled the kettle and gazed out of the window at the garden in the fading light. The kitchen overlooked the house behind where their windows framed the illuminated scene of a toddler wriggling in a highchair whilst Mum prepared the dinner. The child kept throwing her toys on the floor and Mum kept bobbing down to retrieve and return them. The toddler’s delight and Mum’s evident exasperation in this game made Grace’s heart ache. Then the longing appeared and left her hollow. After a moment Grace snapped the blind closed and turned her back on the window.  Opening Facebook Messenger she searched for the hairdresser’s icon and typed a short request for a cut and blow dry. She asked for the last appointment of the day on a Tuesday. Easier for work, she lied. It wasn’t, it was easier to avoid the busier hours and polite conversation from the well-meaning woman waiting for her colour to develop. Sarah, the hairdresser, had stopped asking how she was. Still in the two visits she had forced herself to make this year Grace had caught Sarah’s look of sympathy in the mirror and resolutely looked away. 

***

Grace arched her back to stretch as she closed her laptop and looked out onto the street. It was pitch black now and the frost on the road outside glistened in the streetlights.  She had been working on a tender for a new service and whilst it wasn’t a creative task it held her focus and the day had passed quickly. Grace shivered and pulled her cardigan on. It wasn’t worth clicking the heating on, she decided, as she would be leaving for her hair appointment soon. 

Gathering her cup and plate, she made her way through to the hall but paused at the silent clock. The pendulum was still inside the mahogany case. Starting the clock each day had become a ritual now.. One of the touch points that anchored her to the world, which her counsellor had assured her was vital. She wasn’t so sure about that. How could she move forwards when everything that was in her future is gone? Grace drew a sharp breath and steadied herself against the wall. She balanced her cup and plate on the radiator cover behind her and checked her watch.  It was only as Grace reached for the latch she noticed the time on the clock. three minutes past three. Her scalp prickled and the hairs on her arms rose. She lifted her head, eyes now level with the glass. There the other reflection waited. Tempestuous eyes locked steadily with her own. Grace held the gaze, taking in the lines around the eyes and mouth. the eyes held her still. She felt exposed and disconnected from the world. Now lightheaded she swayed and stepped back. Her hip caught the handle of the cup and in her peripheral vision she saw it fall to the floor. The porcelain shattering broke the spell. With a determined shake of her head Grace opened the clock, pulled down the counterweights and set the time. The only face reflected now was her own. Grace shuddered then bent to deal with the broken shards. 

A key turned in the lock and Grace spun back to face the hallway with her heart racing.  As the door opened, a blast of frigid air entered bringing with it Anna. Closing the door with a shiver, Grace's mother in law followed her to the kitchen with a bag of what she described as ‘bits from M&S’. She knew that Anna’s visit and the bag of ‘bits’ were part of a well choreographed routine of visitors who dropped in and watched her surreptitiously.

“I’m leaving for the Hairdressers in twenty minutes,” Grace said apologetically. 

Anna nodded in  response and Grace felt her shoulders tense as the other woman looked at her intently. Anna reached across the silence and put a gentle hand on Grace’s arm. 

“Are you still struggling to sleep love?”  Anna asked softly.

“No… well… yes,” Grace started, letting out a harsh laugh at her own hesitation. “I fall asleep easily enough but I keep waking through the night. I just don’t feel rested.” 

“Dreams?” Anna asked, her voice concerned. 

Grace nodded. “I can’t remember them though, I just wake with my heart racing or…” she trailed off, unable to put into words just how much she missed him. 

Anna gave her arm a squeeze and Grace knew she understood. The awful realisation each morning that Tom, Anna’s son and her husband had gone leaving only shock and grief. It had been sudden. Brutal. It made no sense. The sympathy Grace saw in Anna’s eyes reflected the ache in her soul. Grace knew she was lost. Trapped in a kind of no man’s land, where none of her friends and family could reach her. In the world but not really part of it and Grace wondered if she would ever find her way back. 

Grace left the house with Anna and once her mother in law’s car moved off Grace pulled her hood up and walked briskly towards the town centre. She entered the salon wincing at the brightness of the neon signs and tinsel round the mirrors. Sarah took her coat and pressed mulled wine in a latte glass into her hands. Grace sat in the chair and watched in the mirror as the nail technician painted tiny little penguins on the nails of the young woman behind her. The excited chatter about office parties washed over her. There was only her and Sarah left in the salon by the time Grace returned to her seat from the backwash. 

“Do you fancy a change?” Sarah asked, running her comb through Grace’s thick dark hair.

“Whatever you think best” Grace replied.

Sarah hesitated a moment, her head tipped to one side. 

“I think it needs a good couple of inches off the bottom Grace. How would you feel about a graduated bob?” Sarah asked.

“Yep, sounds good” Grace answered keeping her eyes lowered. 

Grace felt a squeeze on her shoulder and then Sarah began to cut. She had, Grace noticed, changed the playlist from Christmas songs to one that seemed to be generic pop hits from the 2000s. As the dryer switched off and the music returned Grace caught the chorus of “You’re Beautiful”.  Bile rose burning her throat. Tickets to see James Blunt live in Glasgow had been her Christmas present from Tom last year. Squeezing her nails into the palm of her hands she fought down the rising panic. Unable to do more than nod at the finished style and force a tight smile Grace paid and left as quickly as she could. She inhaled deeply, the biting air filling her lungs, pushing down the pain and shock. 

***

As Grace settled herself in bed with her book that night she pictured the face in the clock reflection. It was not a face she could put a name to, yet somehow, it was familiar. She tried to remember but there had been so many faces in the days after he died. With that thought the panic rose through her body, making her heart thunder and throat tighten. She squeezed her eyes shut, pressing her palms into them trying to block it out. It was useless the memories overtook her leaving her no choice but to surrender to them. 

The third of March. Grace had been preparing to start painting the baby’s room, although Tom had wanted her to wait until the weekend. Getting up into the loft wasn’t easy as she tried to manoeuvre her bump up into the hatch. Perhaps Tom had been right. Her phone had been ringing as she climbed clumsily down from the loft.  Too slow to reach it before it rang off, Grace smiled as she called him back. He had a sixth sense when she was doing something she probably shouldn't. The call was answered by Greg, Tom’s boss, and he had sounded so far away. 

“Grace? I’m sorry… it’s Tom… there has been an accident.” 

She woke feeling fuzzy and with a headache a few hours later. She made her way to the kitchen for a glass of water. The house was cold and she shivered as she passed the clock. “Grace… “ came the whisper,  a woman’s voice. A sensation of movement brushed Grace’s cheek like a breath and the hairs on her neck rose. “Grace… “ it came again, the tone urgent.  Soft vowels marked the voice as Scottish. Grace turned half expecting to see a ghostly figure behind her but there was nothing except the shadows and the hall was empty. She shivered again, this time with the uncanny feeling of being watched and quickly retraced her steps back to her room.  She stopped at the door to the other bedroom. It was ajar. 

“No!” Grace croaked, voice harsh in the thick silence. She reached out to the door hesitantly and then when she felt the solidness of the handle cool in her hand she pulled it firmly shut. 

***

Sitting in the Wee Blether coffee shop Grace wrapped her frozen hands around the coffee mug as the waitress in a set of elf ears put down the turkey and cranberry paninis. The walk from her home had blown away the cobwebs with the clear view of the snow capped Ochils and the bright sun. Catching sight of reflection in the window Grace noticed the cold had given her cheeks a rosy glow. Looking at the face of the woman opposite her Grace knew that flush wasn't fooling Anna.

“What are your plans over Christmas?” Anna asked. “Your Mum says you don't want to go to Aberdeen.”

Grace sighed. Clearly they had been conspiring again, attempting to manage her.

“There’s more snow forecast for next week and I don't want to drive. The trains are too unreliable between the weather and the strikes,” she responded, shifting in her seat repositioning her mug to hide her discomfort.

“You know you are always welcome with us don't you? But with Eilidh and Angus in the house it certainly won't be peaceful,” Anna said, tilting her head towards the speakers, currently playing the chorus of Silent Night.

Grace thought of her niece and nephew. Eilidh, still so delicate at nine months old. Angus, robust and determined, was just about to turn four. Angus looked so like Tom, his eyes the same hazel flecked with amber. His dark hair, too, had the same red tones when the light hit it. The emptiness opened in the pit of her stomach as Grace pictured Angus’ face. She tightened her grip on the coffee. 

“Come for dinner at least, Grace?” Anna nudged gently, pulling Grace back from her thoughts.

Grace agreed and moved the conversation onto safer ground. Anna worked for the local MSPs office and had been dealing with the ongoing saga of the huge electricity pylon in the woodland park. There had been endless complaints from the planning stages, through construction and more now the monstrous thing was complete. The local community groups had crowd funded for a team of scientists to measure the Electromagnetic Field detectable across the village. They had been galvanised into action amid a flurry of posts on social media about power surges and pets behaving oddly. It was the main topic of local conversation and had been for weeks. There was now a family experiencing poltergeist activity according to the waiter as he cleared their plates. Grace listened with interest as the waiter recounted the tales of furniture moving around rooms and items of clothing appearing in the kitchen completely shredded.

The walk home was less pleasant with the wind biting her face as it started to sleet. It stung now as Grace stood in the hall unwrapping her scarf from her neck and fumbled with numb fingers to undo the zip on her coat. She was always cold at the moment, no matter how many jumpers or cosy pairs of socks she had on. She clicked the boost button on the thermostat and the boiler flared into life. Grace noticed now how quiet the rest of the house was. No tick from the clock. Perhaps the EMF from the pylon was making it run down faster. Though that wasn't possible if it didn't have any electrical parts surely? Grace stood in front of the clock. three minutes past three again? Her watch said two thirty pm and the clock had been working when she left the house. The silence around her stretched almost expectantly. The hallway felt tense and she couldn't stand it. Grace pulled down the weighted chains and set the hands, the pendulum moved and the clock restarted with a loud tick. She closed the casing over and, as she expected, met the eyes of the other woman.

“Well?” Grace’s voice was terse. “What do you want from me?”

In the reflection, the other woman’s eyes shone with amusement. 

“That's the wrong question Grace.”

The words were clear in Grace's head, in the same soft voice as she'd heard in the hallway a few nights ago. Grace felt no fear, just that familiar and unsettling feeling of being an observer. Of watching her response from outside of her body. Then startled by a loud tick of the clock Grace blinked and the face was gone. Is this what happens when you go mad? Is it a slow unravelling of the mind, rather than a sudden and catastrophic implosion? Unwilling to dwell on that thought, Grace made her way quickly to the living room. Surfing the channels, she found the Lord of the Rings trilogy and sat down to lose herself.

Copyright © Lee-Anne McAulay 2024

Image Credit @coincidence

Taking the high road

It has been a very busy month here at The Wee Writing Bureau as my novel takes shape. I completed my writing course and submitted the first 25000 words for feedback. Editing the first 12 chapters has been a steep learning curve and helped me understand the story so much more deeply. Zooming out and looking at the bigger picture has helped me develop the subplots further and I now have a chapter-by-chapter plot plan. For a writer who tends towards ‘pantsing’ that has been quite a turn round. I’m now around 60,ooo words in and can see the finish line. If I am honest I am not sure how I feel about that. The thought of typing the words ‘The End’ is exciting but also a little bit unsettling. Then the work really begins.

My husband and I have set up The Wee Writing Bureau as a business to publish my own books. Sometimes in life you just need the courage to leap and surrender it all to trust. That moment for me is right now. Having decided to self-publish I am now learning exactly what that entails (a lot) and deciding where I will need the services of other professionals. I already have an editor I know and trust in Sammy at Serpent and Sword Author Services. My goal is for the book to be as polished and professional as possible so I have also hired a cover designer and somebody to help me format the book. This is an investment, of both time and money, in a dream I have had since childhood. I had a magical moment when I saw the initial designs for the cover with my name on it.

We made time to visit the beautiful Argyll coast for a few days on the west of Scotland. Just the two of us. A much needed break.The image for the blog this week is a photo I took at Tighnabruaich looking out to the Isle of Bute. The place we both called home as children and where as adults we met. Looking at somewhere so familiar from a different point of view was a beautiful way to spend an hour. On the second day we visited the ancient sites at Kilmartin Glen - a truly special place. I now have the spark of inspiration for the second book. It is currently taking root in the back of my head waiting for me to finish my current work in progress.

As we approach the school holidays and I have more time to focus on Project Pearl I am beginning to wonder what life will be like on the other side of this. Can I make my living as a writer in the future perhaps? Or from growing a business connected to writing? Looking back on the last 6 months it is hard to believe how far I have come. I’m not the same person now. When I introduce myself I don’t tell people that I’m a mother, wife and Headteacher as the most interesting things about me. I tell them I’m a writer and I feel so proud of that.

A view from the bridge

Hello friends. It has been a busy few weeks at The Wee Writing Bureau. I’ve managed to get back into my creative flow and writing regularly. As I recover I am finding that what works best for me is writing in short but focused sprints of 25 minutes or so. It is surprising just how much progress you can make doing that. Project Pearl now has well over 30,000 words. I have also had to start sketching out the next few scenes in each timeline before I write. That allows my writing time to be more focused and I don’t get sucked into the research rabbit hole quite as easily. It felt like going against the grain the first couple of times because I am, as those of you who have read previous blogs will know, a ‘pantser’ by nature. Writing the first draft is telling myself the story and I found the outlining assignment for my course a form of torture. However, I will admit that it has made the writing process easier for such a huge piece of work. Although, that was the point of undertaking the course. To learn how to write a novel as I go along with some expert support and guidance.

I have now almost completed my course and have the final assignment to submit, the first 25,000 words of the novel. I have set aside some time over the next couple of weekends to edit and then format my work into something that resembles a coherent manuscript. So far I have had a first go at arranging the chapters from both timelines into something that flows. I have also done a quick read through and identified a couple of issues. One of my poor characters was sent to look for something in a room deep in the tower and was still there 5 chapters later. I had to bring her back to send her to the archives to look for a letter and I am now hoping she doesn’t decide to punish me by taking another 5 chapters to locate it.

My children have been somewhat alarmed by my cries of ‘what did you do that for? Now I’m going to have to re-write chapter 2!’ and ‘Did I write that? I don’t remember writing that…’

The quick read through gives me a different perspective on the writing, like a view of it from a bridge. I can see how the parts are coming together. This weekend I am going to read it through aloud to myself and see if it flows. If the dialogue works. I am going to be brave and record myself so I can play it back chapter by chapter as I edit. The thought of that is actually a little bit uncomfortable but I know it will really help me.

I have also volunteered to be a beta reader for other authors. As a beta reader you get a rough copy of the manuscript, in the early stages of editing, and give feedback. Does the story work, are there any plot holes, are the characters engaging and so on. The author then has feedback from a few different people and can see if some common themes emerge or the points resonate. I have started reading my first manuscript as a beta reader and it is in a completely different genre to mine which is nice. It is also fulfilling to be able to support another author to get their book published. It is a hard thing to do, to hand your work over to somebody else in such a raw form but I can see the value in it. If any of you would be interested in being a beta reader for me then I would love to hear from you.

Picture Credit: @bendavisiual

Castles in the sky

This week I want to start by saying thank you to those kind souls who reached out to offer me support or encouragement following my last blog post. It touched my heart. I’m pleased to report that I am recovering and taking the time to rest and get my body and mind back in a healthy and happy state. My creativity is flowing again too.

I am lucky enough to be supported by some incredible women whom I think of as my wise council of ladies. Although I am not very sure what they would make of that title! One of these is my friend Kelly who talks about the creative process as building castles in the sky. Of dreaming something into being. I love this analogy because it conjures up such a magical image. Having a series of questions to figure out what I want has been very helpful during these last few weeks in helping me find clarity. The first step is the big idea or vision that you piece together - the castle. Not worrying about how or when at this stage just letting the ideas flow. My castle has many turrets, a library and (of course) at least one dragon. I’m sure you expected nothing less. The question here is:

“If you knew you’d be supported what would you choose?”

I would choose a slower pace of life, a softer life with more time to be creative. One day I want to be a full-time writer and make my living that way. I’d love a little place by the sea as a writer’s retreat with a real fire and a moody view. Where other creatives can come and enjoy the space, cocooned and looked after, supplied with endless tea and fountain pen ink. I love writing and I love stories. I want to support and encourage other writers to do what they love.

Okay, so how do I bring that castle down and ground it in reality? Well, a lottery win would help, but, as we know dear reader we make our own luck. Now the question is:

“If you trusted your path, what would you do?”

I would finish my novel and get it out into the world. Then I would write another one. Interestingly that doesn’t feel nearly as scary as it did at the start of this year. I’m not going to resign from my job and run off to a cottage in the woods to become an author. We are a long way away from that being an option. I’m going to finish my book, get it edited, publish it and see what happens next. I know I can do that. I have a plan that takes me through the process from right now to publishing.

Now, I am recovering from burnout and the very last thing I want is to end up back here again so I need to take it slowly and ensure I am getting the balance right. That said, writing brings me joy and that creative outlet is so important to me feeling like all of myself. Having started this process I have realised my real love for writing and that it is where I see my future. This means there needs to be time for rest and fun so that I can stay in my flow state. There won’t ever be a perfect time to do this unless of course, those lottery numbers come up. So the key word here needs to be balance. I need to get out of my own way! Breaking it down into smaller steps with consistent action. Harnessing the power of now. So the last question is:

“What is the next step or aligned action for today?”

I would love to know what your castle in the sky looks like. How would you answer those questions?

Image credit: @sapegin

A Song of Fire and Ice

The last fortnight has been challenging. My stress levels were getting higher and higher, my abilty to focus was getting lower and lower. I had hit burnout. Burnt out is a really apt description of how I felt. On high alert constantly and unable to switch off but so, so tired that I couldn’t make a decision. Any decision. I felt like a match that has been struck and blazed down quickly. I was hollow and ready to disintegrate to ash. At the same time I was wrestling with this idea that I had to be all the things to everyone and that I couldn’t let everyone down. If I am really honest I was also keeping myself busy to avoid that feeling of the overwhelm engulfing me. It was all very intense and I did feel like I was walking through fire. My physical and mental health was suffering and eventually I just couldn’t keep going. I had to accept that I needed to stop.

It took a week for me to be able to regulate my nervous system enough to be able to uncoil and just rest. During that period I didn’t write and couldn’t read. I could, however, listen to audiobooks and walk - which I have done a lot of. The next step was to really look at where my energy goes and what I am doing that helps me or adds to the frenetic pace. Had I put too much pressure on myself with the writing course and my novel? Possibly. I reached out to my tutor who was wonderful and reminded me that there is no deadline. I can go at my own pace. I also know that writing is a creative outlet for me and disappearing into my fictional world helps. I remembered how much I enjoy writing. So I took an honest look at my habits and coping strategies and realised that there are things that need to change. The truth is that my job is stressful and life is busy, those things won’t change, so how I respond to it needs to.

Alongside addressing some of the big stressors at work there are some obvious changes I need to make to my lifestyle to really help myself. My diet could be better, I need to exercise more consistently and give myself time to rest and recover. It was then I was introduced to the idea of cold water therapy. I had conversations with two friends who both regularly sit in tubs of very cold water and swear by the benefits of it. Well, I thought, I live in Scotland, it is flipping cold a lot of the time so maybe this is something I can do. I did some research (listening to podcasts and audiobooks by Wim Hof and Dr Susanna Soberg) then started with cold showers each morning. They were horrible but I did feel energised afterwards. From there I bought a cold pod (a nylon tub that you fill with cold water and/or ice) and set it up in the back garden.

The first morning it was sleeting, the outside temperature was 2 degrees and the water was 7. My ever-supportive husband agreed to supervise my first plunge in case I became unwell, or worse, couldn’t get out. I emerged from the house in my swimsuit and sliders followed by my husband dressed like Scott of the Arctic in jacket, gloves and bobble hat. I composed myself, took a deep breath and stepped in. With the out-breath I sat down, submerged to my shoulders and resisted the urge to swear. After 30 seconds I got my breathing under control and opened my eyes to the view of the snow-capped Ochils. This would have been a wonderful moment of tranquillity were it not for Scott of the Arctic saying repeatedly and loudly variations on a theme of:

“You are nuts, absuolutely nuts. I’m cold out here. Get out before you freeze to death”

It was cold but oddly when I got out of the pod I didn’t feel it. I’d managed a minute and a half and I felt awake and alert. By the time I had dried off and dressed I was full of energy. I even managed to focus to write for 30 minutes which in turn helped me feel like I had accomplished something. To get the benefits of cold water therapy it should be gradual exposure and building up to about 11 minutes per week (across multiple plunges). I’m going to try up to 3 minutes a session for now and in typical Scottish style have experienced a variety of weathers.

I thought long and hard about if I should share this blog post because it makes me feel raw and vulnerable. In the end I decided that I would because I always wanted this blog to be an honest reflection and record of my experiences as a writer. There will be highs and lows.

Image credit: @courtniebt13

Whispers on the breeze.

Hello dear reader, I thought I would start this blog with a bit of melodrama to reflect my current mood. As somebody who follows the seasons, I look forward to spring. The return of the light and colour to the landscape. As I write this, the cherry blossom outside my window is beginning to bloom, and there are daffodils and snowdrops on my woodland walks. The equinox is approaching and I have been exploring the themes of balance and harmony in my poetry.

A fellow writer on Instagram (@writinggwell) offers writing prompts that I often use for my warm ups when I am feeling a little flat. One of the questions this week really sparked my interest:

If you wrote a story about a world in which each generation , a hero would take in all evil from the world until they succumb to its darkness, and you were the new hero planning to be the last. What would the last line be?

I really loved this. It fit with the themes of my writing this week and it is such a deliciously dark and deep idea to explore. My response was, in fact, three lines. What can I say? I’m a rebel and why use seven words when thirty-eight go so beautifully together?

We were never meant to be just one thing, to hold only darkness or light. No magical sword can cut the bonds nor chalice contain the darkness. It was in perfect balance that the hope for humanity lived.

See, I told you I was feeling melodramatic! There are lots of prompts like this to be found on Instagram and I would encourage you to give them a go if you are looking for a little inspiration. It takes the thought out of planning a warm up exercise and opens up new genres. You never know what it might spark.

In the current module of my writing course we are looking at how to develop your ‘voice’ as a writer. Looking at examples of other authors and also reading my own work aloud. That has been interesting although not entirely comfortable to do. The little writing prompts also give me a change to analyse my voice and to play around with different tones. When I have a little bit more to share I will be looking for readers to give me feedback and that will be one of the things I want to focus on. I’ve almost finished act one of the narrative and plan on using a three act structure. The three act structure is really common and is seen in plays, screenwriting, novels and films. I’ve given myself a lot of work to do by writing in two timelines so keeping to a structure like this is helping me with the flow.

Image Credit: @babybluecat

Through the looking glass.

This week I have made a fair bit of progress with Project Pearl and have been in my writing zone. I have adjust my working pattern to a 9 day fortnight to give myself a day to write and do bookish things. I had the first of those this week and it was lovely. My husband was in the office and the kids were at school so I had 6 blissful hours for just myself and my cats. I had planned a trip to my favourite local bookshop to spend an hour editing in the cafe but the weather was awful and I didn’t leave the house.

This blog I thought I would share a little bit about Project Pearl and the progress so far. I am aiming to write around 75000 words in the first draft and am now around 10% of the way there. I know that doesn’t sound like a lot of words for 2 months of work. Let me explain. I invested a lot of time in developing my characters and then in world-building. I am already very glad that I did. My central characters feel more substantial than they have in my short stories and I am finding it easier to write their reactions and responses because I feel as though I know them. The outline is also proving helpful because I know where I am aiming to be at each point in the narratives.

I am still finding it difficult to give a succinct overview of what my novel is about when people ask me. I think that is because the ideas are still settling and I find that speaking it out loud to somebody else helps me process. I speak to think. This is probably the opportune time to apologise to my lovely friends and family who are subjected to this on a regular basis and are going to be bored to tears by the time I’m done. At least I am able to confidently say that the genre is historical fiction.

Writing in two timelines is really interesting and I am enjoying writing the 1700s narrative. That was such an interesting time in the history of Scotland and one of really rapid change. I suppose that is, in essence, what my novel is exploring. How people responded to these shifts when they had no control at all over the events. I have been reflecting on the parallels between the 1700s and what is happening around the world right now. It seems humanity has not moved on as much as we thing we have in the last 300 years.

I was talking to a fellow writer about characters this week too. Wondering if I see myself or other people I know in any of my main characters. That is an interesting question. My main characters are all women and there are aspects of each of them that do resonate with me. As the story goes on I suppose that might change. Or perhaps it won’t. Perhaps it won’t be the most flattering aspects of myself I see reflected through the looking glass. I knew writing would be a way to express myself, to let something inside out but I hadn’t considered that it would also be such a steep learning curve about myself.

Image Credit @Chriscgm

Read, Write, Think…

This week at the wee writing bureau I have been really enjoying reading again. I started The Book of Doors by Gareth Brown and have been completely hooked! Imagine being given a book that can take you to any door anywhere. Where would you go? Top of my list would be Orkney and through the doors of the beautiful house we stayed in on our family holiday two years ago. I would visit the Ness of Brodgar and take a walk back through time. Then perhaps to Budapest and through the magnificent doors of Buda Castle following the trail of Dracula or taking in the views of a city where east and west are fused. When I had finished exploring I would come right home through my own front door to my books, tea and bed. Well as the fantasy readers among us know only too well no magical object should be used lightly and there is always a price. I won’t spoil Gareth’s story for you but let’s just say that I’m absolutely spellbound by this book.

This week I made good progress in Project Pearl and have the first two chapters of the story in each timeline written. All the key characters have been introduced and I’ve got my roadmap through each timeline sketched out. Incidentally, I found it hard to complete the assignment on my course where I submitted my outline. I know I am a discovery writer (or a pantser) but for such a big story with two main narratives and a few subplots, I needed some kind of plan. Oddly once I had the main plot points down on paper I felt better. It doesn’t feel like such a huge mountain to climb now. My feedback on my latest text instalment was helpful and my tutor asked me how I plan to write going forwards. Was I going to write the two narratives separately and splice them together or write them alternating back and forth? I have switched back and forth so far and that has worked as I established the characters and set up the world building. At the moment I don’t know. I might have to experiment a little with both ideas and see what happens but as a discovery writer I think that I’m inclined to alternate and see how a development in one timeline informs a development in the other. Decisions, decisions… who knew writing required so much thinking?!

In other news this week I have entered a short story into another competition. It is one of my project copper stories and I have entered it into the Hope Prize. I felt the story really hit the brief for the prize (a story about hope) and I like that the prize is to help new writers establish themselves. I also had exciting news that another story I had submitted made it through to the top 20% in a very prestigious prize. I entered this in December with absolutely no expectations because I knew that the volume of entries would be huge and that the standard is very high. I’m delighted and encouraged by that news. Putting my writing ‘out there’ is uncomfortable and I have to keep myself in check because there is a tension between my work being judged and not pinning my worth as a writer on external validation. Writing is a creative outlet for me and the most important thing has to be that.

Photo Credit: @cvessels55

Watering the Garden

The last couple of weeks have been really hectic and I was finding it hard to get into any kind of creative flow. I was tired, anxious and couldn’t settle down to anything. Even reading was a huge effort. I read to escape into a different world and so when that isn’t working I know I’m out of balance. Something needed to give.

In the past I would have ‘powered through’ and forced myself to keep going. I believed it was ‘earning my stripes’ and what was expected of me. In education, there is a very unhealthy and unhelpful culture of equating how stressed we are and how many hours we work to how ‘good’ a teacher we are. Burnout is a badge of honour. I used to call the leadership equivalent of that the ‘Headteacher Olympics’ until I learned that it is only a game if you choose to compete. Just staying focused on my pupils, my school and my team was hugely liberating. Yet here I was again, feeling completely overwhelmed. My mind starting to spiral into panic about all the things I had to do.

When I decided to write a novel I knew it would be challenging at times to fit everything in. This week, however, I learned that there are times when I can’t make it all work. I also knew that this was in my control to change. I needed to stop trying to do more and step back. Letting go of expectations is still uncomfortable for me - I have spent so long measuring myself against other people’s standards - but it was actually my expectations of myself that were the problem here. So I took a step back and put it all down. I had a few days off work for the February break, I let myself take a week away from the ‘doing’ to focus instead on the ‘being’.

I have had a lovely week spending time with friends, I’ve rested, spent time meditating and journaling. I treated myself to another new book (I know, I know…), set aside an afternoon to indulge myself and sat down with a cup of tea and a blanket to read it. The next thing I knew it was dark outside and the tea was stone cold. The fiest time in weeks I had been able to lose myself in a story. Then having given myself time to recover I found I had more clarity for my own writing. I’ve had breakthrough in plotting out Project Pearl and the writing is flowing more easily.

I needed to pause and to slow down. I needed to water the garden.

Photo Credit Daiga Elleby

Earl Grey Tea and Bookish Things

Last Sunday my good friend and I had a bookish day out in Edinburgh. It had taken some time to co-ordinate our diaries around work commitments, children’s events and the good old Scottish weather but here we were. We started with morning tea at the famous and very opulent Dome. Sat next to a glorious bookcase filled with leather-bound books, under a crystal chandelier, sipping Earl Grey tea from delicate china cups we felt very pleased with ourselves. We were, after all, fully functioning adults at 10am doing something we enjoy and generally pleasing ourselves.

Once we had put the world to rights we planned to visit some of the city’s famous independent bookshops and set off in search of Stockbridge. Edinburgh is a beautiful city and as much as I love the Old Town, the New Town has some absolute gems. As I was so busy taking in the architecture I wasn’t following the map and so we found ourselves on Circus Lane. A beautiful, whimsical little cobbled street that was originally a mews or set of stables and carriage houses but is now a community of artists and creatives. After a visit to our first bookshop, The Golden Hare, we continued to explore area. We took a break from the books to explore a producer’s market and then found a cocktail bar to pause at and put down our heavy book bags. The day ended with dinner at the Bonnie and Wild food market in the St. James Quarter. It had been perfect and best of all we had only explored a fraction of the bookshops meaning this could become a regular fixture!

Of all the gifts my love of books has given me this friendship is a treasure. As a student teacher, I bonded with my mentor over our shared love of Gothic fiction and the rest is (as the saying goes) history. It was lovely to have a whole day to just ‘be’ and explore. To slow down and take it all in. To enjoy spending time with a friend doing something we enjoy. 2024 needs more of this!

The book situation in my house is getting out of hand and there are books hoarded in every spare nook and cranny. I have suggested that we could install a garden room for my husband’s office and turn the current one into my library but he isn’t keen. He seems to think that is start of a slippery slope. So I’m having to settle for taking it over by stealth one book at a time. To save any panic I had set myself a book purchasing limit which I did stick to… if you don’t count the ones I bought the kids… or as presents… or the notebooks. Seriously though if my ‘to be read’ pile on my bedside gets any taller I’m in danger of being crushed to death if one of the cats topples it on me. As an act of self-preservation, I have made more time to read this week and am particularly enjoying ‘Legends and Lattes’ by Travis Baldree. I wasn’t sure how ‘cozy fantasy’ was going to work but it really does!

Photo Credit: Michelle Henderson

Warming up and working out

The weather has been interesting for the last few weeks. Some really cold and icy days followed by some wet and wild ones. Perfect weather to be inside and cozy doing bookish things and I have fully embraced that. Much tea has been consumed with support from quite a lot of chocolate. Work has continued on character development and I’ve been researching some of the key places I’ll draw upon as inspiration within the setting. As the characters begin to take shape they have sparked some ideas for the plot too. I’m actually really enjoying the process of letting it all swirl around my head and ‘brew’ as I work.

I have found that some days I need a little bit of a transition from my work day into my creative flow and have been playing with writing sprints. These are similar to flask fiction in that I give myself either a time or a word goal but they don’t need to be complete narratives. I did these in module 1 of my course and they are helpful way to warm up my creativity. I start with a word or an image and then just write. I thought I would share a couple with you to give you the idea.

Candles

Some candles burn hot, fierce flames determined to tunnel to the bottom of the glass. With a singular focus, they smoke and baze magnificently. Others flicker gently. They glow softly and dance to their own rhythm. Burning slowly and steadily they cast a warm inviting light that draws you close, encircles you and shows the flame to its full advantage.

There is undoubtedly a time to burn and blaze. Just as there is a time to glow and flicker. The problem arises when one becomes so determined that their flame must burn brighter than all others. That its light is the only light. You cannot leave these candles unattended lest they set fire to everything. 

The Captain

A message had arrived. The British Artic Survey Ship, Sir David Attenborough, would dock today. In the crisp polar landscape, she would be visible for miles. 

The green lights of the aurora blazed through the sky. A sign of good news perhaps? So much depended on the results the survey was gathering. There had been so many challenges to get to this point. Convincing governments to hold firm to their pledges, testing and retesting theories, and raising funds. The idea of failing now was terrifying. Watching the flashes of green ribbon over his head he sighed. How like humans to more about space than our own deep oceans…

Valhalla Calling

Songs and sagas. Myths and legends. These are the foundations on which a community is built. The shared memories of a golden age are deep in our collective memory. Written in our DNA. They bind us together.

What must it have been like for the Norse settlers who carved out a new life and a new home in Shetland?  Right at the end of the world in a wild and hostile landscape. A foothold of land in an otherwise endless horizon. Whipped by the winds and at the mercy of the changeable moods of the sea. A landscape of greys and blues and greens.

What must these sailors, farmers, and fisherfolk have thought as they built their hearths and homes? The tales of the valor, of glorious victories and, of course, the warriors now living eternally in Valhalla told by the fire during the endless dark of winter. 

I would encourage you to give this a go. Anything can be inspiration. A song lyric, something you see as you are out walking, a conversation, an interesting work, a scent… literally anything. Set a timer for 5 minutes and just write. I have given the examples above a little polish to share them here but they haven’t had a significant edit.

If you do give this a go I’d love to hear how you get on.

Photo Credit: Chris Tirinth

Once upon a time…

This week I started my writing course with some warm-up exercises around genre and voice. Capitalising on my enthusiasm to get started I submitted the first two assessments in quick succession knowing that as the course progresses, and the assignments become longer, my pace will slow. My novel proposal was due alongside my assessments and so I faced the first big decision. I have two ideas to choose from (a lovely position to be in) which are very different stories. In some ways that made my choice easier as I won’t be tempted to try and fit them together. Whichever I went with I knew I just needed to commit to it so sat down and mapped out both with the details had. That made it easier. Both ideas are now in my notebook and so are on the metaphorical compost heap, nothing is being wasted. In the end, I proposed the idea that just won’t leave me alone.

Next came the feedback from my assessments. I’ll confess to you (she said in a conspiratorial whisper…) that yet again I failed to practice what I preach and went straight to the marks at the end. It really is a character flaw of mine isn’t it? This need to know if I’m ‘good enough’. Part of the reason I write this blog is to call myself out on that and start to work through it. Anyway, I have digressed… Once that was out of my system I went back and read the feedback. It was very detailed and gave me different ways to think about and approach writing as I continue to find my voice.

So that brings us to the exciting part. Beginning my novel. The next few weeks will be dedicated to developing my character outlines and getting to know them. This really is the foundation for the next eighteen months and investing the time to work up the detail around this cast of characters will help me as I go on. Learning is something I enjoy doing and at the moment I'm learning a whole new set new set of skills. I keep reminding myself it will feel challenging and uncomfortable at times. It is a process.

The scale of this does at times feel a little overwhelming. Especially as I don’t have any actual words on the page yet. However, to paraphrase the magnificent Sir Terry Practchett, I don’t need to be able to see the whole path through the misty valley, just the next tree.

I think I need to give this project a code name. I’ll call it Project Pearl.

Image credit Daniel Kainz

Pearls of Potential

I am fascinated by pearls. They are rare and beautiful prizes for those who put in the effort to seek them. I love the way they catch the light and glow. They are also the perfect metaphor for the process of writing. A pearl is formed when an irritant like a grain of sand gets inside the mollusk. To protect itself the mollusk wraps the irritant in layer upon layer of a substance called nacre or mother of pearl. For me, writing is about the spark which is then nurtured, developed, and edited over and over until l have a piece I am happy with. My pearls.

Not every idea or spark I have can become a story or a poem. There are notes in my ideas book that I have been so certain will make a great story that I haven’t been able to take forward. The plot doesn’t go anywhere or the characters aren’t strong enough so I put it aside. Neil Gaiman calls this the writer’s compost heap which I love because no idea is wasted. Then there are tiny grains of ideas that won’t leave me alone. Not quite enough to give me a plot outline but they refuse to be ignored. These fragments keep coming back to me revealing another layer of themselves. These are my pearls of potential and it is one such idea that I have decided to run with and write a novel.

Wait, what? A novel you say? Yes. Back in October I could not imagine sharing my writing with anyone. Yet I rock up here every week and pour my hopes and fears out to you. I am pushing the edges of my comfort zone week after week. I have been saying for 20 years that one day I’ll write a novel and the push I needed came unexpectedly. My son, with his preternatural ability to read what is in my heart, pointed out a book that had won a prize for a debut novel and said “That might be you next year Mum”. It was completely matter of fact, no doubt, no hesitation, and it made me stop and think.

Am I ready to write a novel? How do I write a novel? When am I going to fit this in?

Next came the self-doubt… I’m not good enough. I’ve only just started writing.

Followed swiftly by the excuses…I’m too busy and this will be hard.

My inner mean girl was in her element now and the only way to deal with her is a firm hand.

How, I wondered, did I imagine would know when I am ready? Would there be knock on the door one day from an agent of a secret society who congratulates me on now being deemed worthy? Would I be handed a guilded envelope containing my license to write a novel? Is there a shadowy council of writing critics who decide who is and isn’t ‘good enough’ to be a novelist? Nope, I’m pretty sure that isn’t how it works. I think I just have to work it out as I do it. I’ll either win or I will learn so there really is nothing to fear.

As I have said before I’m a firm believer in learning from others who are good at what you aspire to so I applied for a writing course. This course appeals to me because I will have a writing mentor who is themselves a published author and the end product will be the first 25, 000 words of my novel. It will keep me accountable and the deadlines will motivate me. I don’t need to have all the answers right now because that is what the course is for. To support me through it and to help me develop as a writer.

I have a world in which to set my story, I have a deadline to keep me motivated and I have a tiny grain of potential. Now begins the work of turning into a pearl.

Dragons and Portents

Happy New Year dear readers, I wish you a year of joy, adventure and creativity for 2024!

I am really positive going into this year and just know it is full of exciting new adventures and of big things for the wee writing bureau. It is the the Year of the Dragon in the Chinese Zodiac and, as those of you who have followed my blog will know, I have a real affinity with dragons. Not only do they (in my not very humble opinion) enhance any myth, legend or story they grace but they represent power, honour, luck, talent and success. A most auspicious portent!

Having taken some proper time to rest over the holidays I have found it easier to get back into my creative flow. Space to daydream and start to build the world in which my stories can happen. Mostly this has been scribbling down ideas in little bursts as they come to me and making list of locations I want to visit and explore. The landscapes, oceans and society have their roots in real places but without the constraints and rules of this world anything is possible.

I have been asking myself the two big questions ‘what if…?’ and ‘I wonder…?’. These are dangerous questions. I am sure that at the end of the world there will be a person, slightly singed around the edges, standing bewildered in the wreckage. They will no doubt be protesting innocently that they “only wondered what would happen if I pressed that button”. They are also questions that open up my fictional world to the characters who will inhabit it and the challenges they will face. It is exciting! There will come a point where I need to start to organise these ideas so that I can understand this world and how it operates to bring it life for the characters. That, however, is a problem for future me to deal with because right now I am having fun playing with ideas.

In conversation this week I was asked how I get inspiration for the stories I want to tell. There are lots of answers to that. Sometimes it is things I have read or seen, other times it comes prompts from other people. It can also be a question I want to reflect on or a particular style or technique I want to try. It is something I have fun doing. I would encourage anybody thinking about writing to let go of the memories around creative writing at school and just be curious.

In that vein and if you are so inclined I offer up two questions for you. Why not try writing three sentences in response to these and see what happens?

1. Following a lightening strike in your garden you find a mysterious egg. Being a curious person you bring the egg inside and leave it in the kitchen. What happens when it hatches?

2. A young woman is woken from sleep by a noise so loud she can feel the vibration. Alarmed, she rushes to the window. What happens next?

I would love to read your responses so come and find me on Instagram @wee_writing_bureau or email me at weewrtitingbureau@gmail.com

Reflections

It is the Winter Solstice as I write this and I always think of this as the true turning of the year. Reflections have been the theme of the week literally and metaphorically. With the shortest day and longest night I have enjoyed being cozy in fluffy socks, drinking tea and reading. The cats have enjoyed this too because I am still for long periods of time and act as a human heater for them. I have two books on the go at the moment one is an old favourite and the other is one I have seen discussed on ‘booktube’ which intrigued me. Terry Pratchett’s Hogfather is my favourite festive read and I particularly love Susan the no-nonsense governess and granddaughter of Death. She deals with monsters under the children’s beds by hitting them with a poker and depositing them in the garden. She’s brilliant. My other read I have just started and is The Book That Wouldn’t Burn by Mark Lawrence. I love the premise of this fantasy novel set across two worlds and hope it lives up to the promise.

I also received my manuscript assessment back from Sammy (my editor) this week and so my writing focus has been on editing. When the email arrived I had a real moment of doubt that required me to give myself a talking to. I have to say that although I was dreading it I found the feedback really useful. I can see how it will help shape my work and my voice in the future. It is a strange feeling to get such a detailed critique of my story from somebody who is looking at it from a very different point of view. To have somebody reflect my story back to me through the lens of their own experiences is really interesting and is something I hope some of you will help me with as test readers in time. Sammy has done an excellent job of making sure every comment is constructive and helps me understand how readers might experience the world I created and the narrative.

I’ve also entered a short story into the Oxford Flash Fiction competition. I was inspired to write from the narrative point of view of an 8 year old by coming across a photograph of myself at that age. The story is about a girl and her imaginary friend playing in the garden whilst something she doesn’t understand is happening between the adults in the house behind her. I am not the girl in the story and it is not autobiographical but it does explore something we experienced as a family. They say you should write what you know and that is what I have done. It was important to me that my Mum had read it and was comfortable with the story before I sent it out into the world and so I shared it with her. Her feedback was lovely and we reflected on how that period of time was one small part of our lives and how much we have to be grateful for.

I have been gifted a beautiful new notebook which I am going to use for my world building notes and a coaster which declares that ‘I am a writer. Anything you do or say may be used in a story’. My husband lives in fear of this since I mentioned that I want to go on a writing retreat hosted by a forensic psychologist. He has read my work and although a man of few words he has expressed relief that he has not so far appeared it.

Best wishes to all of you for the festive season and a peaceful, prosperous New Year.

Brave New World

This week at the wee writing bureau I have been keeping myself busy as I wait for feedback from my editor. I’ve polished my child narrator short story ready to submit for a competition in a few weeks and starting planning out my letters for the epistolary effort. I then spent a wonderful Sunday afternoon with friends at the final session of our Mastermind group. I always find this time of year is when I am at my most introspective. As the old year passes and the new begins feels it like a crossroads, an opportunity to leave some things behind and create space for something new. So this meeting came at a good time for me as we reflected on the last three months together our thoughts turned to what next year might bring. The last three months have been amazing for me as I have started to write again, bought my beautiful wee writing bureau, created this blog and sent my work out into the world. I feel more fully myself than I have ever done.

When the conversation moved to our big dreams it came as a bit of surprise when the words ‘I want to build a world’ came tumbling out of my mouth. Where had that come from? The slightly startled looks on my friends faces were followed by the not unreasonable question of what, exactly, does that mean? Now, lack of ambition has never been my issue but even for me this is a reach. I want to build a world in which to set my stories a place that can hold epic adventures, where short stories unfold and flash fiction explodes. A place you can lose yourself or just pop in for a visit and be home for bedtime. It is the writer’s equivalent of a castle in the sky.

I excitedly informed my nearest and dearest of this grand plan and being as I am a ‘little bit witchy’ they were unconcerned. The children are unimpressed unless I intend to write a best selling series of novels and set them up for life. My Mum (when we established I said build a world not row it) took a minute to consider this statement from all angles before declaring that seemed about right and asking when I was planning to make a start. My husband was positively enthusiastic because this he believes (somewhat optimistically) will keep me out of trouble and more to the point out of the shops. Alas, I am sure world building will require many notebooks and colours of ink. Possibly a new crystal or two for the vibes and certainly eleventy billion flavours of tea. Still, we can let him have hope can’t we?

How does this fit into my plans for my work on Project Copper? I think this world could be the golden thread that runs through the stories and will give shape to the themes. It is part of the same big project and I am already realising this will need me to develop and hone a new set of writing skills. It is exciting and daunting just as any dream should be. So thank you to Kelly, Eliz and Pauline for giving me the space to realise this is what I want to do next and the confidence to take the next step.

The lost letters

I’m feeling a little nostalgic here at the wee writing bureau. I always find December a month where I want to ‘go inwards’ and reflect. That is a bit of challenge as a teacher when the pace of school life is frantic and we are jingling all the way to the end of term. In previous years I have literally crawled into bed on the last day of term and slept for 24 hours so I could ‘do Christmas’ with my own family. In my current school we take a much lower key approach to the festive season and that means I can still have time and the head space to write. Hoorah!

I had two letters to write this week and as I began it took a while to find my flow. I sat wondering how often people do write letters now, real letters with a pen and paper, that are not related to their professional life. It is a dying art form and that is a real shame. A beautiful letter, written with intention, is a precious gift. It makes you choose your words carefully and allows you to express yourself fully. I believe that there is a kind of magic that happens when you write with a pen. In my case I think my subconscious intervenes at some point between my head and my hand to add a little creative flair. I love receiving letters too and sitting down to read them properly. Letters force us to slow the pace down, to step out of our heads and be truly present. Who doesn’t need that today?

When I was younger, letters were a regular part of my life. I had a pen friend who’s Grandad lived on our street. When she stayed with him during the holidays we played together and when she was at home we wrote to each other. We also received blue envelopes of airmail from Dad when he was at sea. They would usually arrive in bundles of two or three at a time addressed to The Brat Pack and signed by the Chief Brat. Before email and satellite phones, or when having to maintain comms silence, these little blue envelopes were our lifeline. We loved hearing about the dolphins or the seals and other sealife Dad saw and we tracked his progress on a map with pins from where his letters were posted. I have romanticised this and made it sound like we were little Victorian children! We most assuredly weren’t and besides it was the 80s.

All of this brought me back round to the wee writing bureau and the purpose of it. A place for correspondence and communication with little compartments for storing paper, pens and ink. I’m unreasonably pleased that it is being used that way again. I also began to wonder what might have been written by previous owners who sat right where I am now. What was in those letters? Who responded? How were they connected? Imagine, if you will, a figure hunched over a desk deeply absorbed in the letter they are writing, discarded sheets of paper strewn around them and ink stained fingers…

Well dear reader, given that this is a writing blog and goodness knows I’ve done enough foreshadowing I am sure you have guessed what is coming next. My new story is going to be told through letters discovered in a long forgotton box. This kind of writing is called an epistolary narrative and arguably the most famous example of this is Bram Stoker’s Dracula. This will be a new style for me to try and I am full of ideas for how it might unfold. A theme that keeps bobbing up (like a cork on the ocean… too far?) is that an inaccurate piece of information in a letter starts a chain of events which overtake the characters. I think this is why they say that the pen is mightier than the sword!

Shooting Stars and Chasing Rainbows

It has been a very exciting week here at the wee writing bureau. I finished my first draft of a short story from my Project Copper series. Having found it challenging a couple of weeks ago (when I lost my plot) it feels really good to have it completed. This particular piece has been a steep learning curve but it has also reignited my love of writing.

The next step is now to get feedback which is not comfortable at all yet. I have had to actively shut down the little voice of doubt in my mind which comes from a fear of failure and not being ‘good’ enough. I am very lucky to be part of an amazing group of women at the moment who are my cheerleaders in this and who are helping me to really step out of my comfort zone and embrace my dream. Although I have friends and family who would read my work and give me their thoughts I made the decision to go to a professional editor and get a manuscript assessment. For me this is the best option because it will help me to know what I need to work on in the future too and I see it as an investment in myself. I also know that I might well (for that read certainly will) find the feedback hard to take at first. I know, I know! I have given feedback on many things as a teacher but as a leader I know that feedback on something that really matters to somebody has to be honest, intended to support and above all carefully delivered in the best way for the person receiving it. If you listen to or read about how really successful authors describe their relationship with their editors it is about trust and a shared vision. How does one even begin with this?

There are so many fabulous editors out there and I started by working out what I wanted from this relationship. It came down to two main criteria: a special interest in paranormal, gothic and/or uncanny fiction as well as a being a writer themselves. On the wee writing bureau Instagram page I follow a number of writers and editors so I started my search there. I found Samantha of Serpent and Sword Author Services and was delighted to learn that not only is she a writer but she also lives locally to me. I really like the content she shares on her page and how much she loves her job so I reached out and asked if she had space to work with me on this. The process from there was quite simple and after signing my contract I sent off my manuscript to my editor. MY manuscript to MY editor! That was a real pinch me moment. There is the first of my rainbows for the week.

I know that coming into the festive period I will get busy and there will be times when I just don’t have time to write but I also know how easy it is to lose the habit (as I sit here with my treadmill starting reproachfully at me). I work well with a specific goal or deadline and so I will be entering a couple of writing competitions at the start of the new year. Working towards the entry requirements for those will give me structure too. I am especially excited by the Oxford Flash Fiction competition as I have a few sparks of inspiration and it is so much fun to do! These are rainbows I am excited to chase.

For the first time in 20 years I am beginning to be able to imagine a life outside of teaching. I am realising that even though I love my job there are other things I could do that would bring me the same satisfaction. I absolutely want to pursue my own writing but alongside it I would love to support other writers. Perhaps as a teacher, a mentor or a developmental editor I could use the skills I have learned and combine it in a new way with my love of stories. Maybe that is what I am meant to do next. After I hit send on my email to Samantha I went out for a walk. It is really cold and clear here so there is a good chance of seeing the aurora borealis over the Ochils. The moon was very bright and as I stopped to take in the view I saw a shooting star. It is the first one I have seen since I was about 9 years old and of course I made a little wish. When all is said and done we need a little more magic right now.

I started this blog as a way to record my journey for myself but also to get comfortable with sharing my words without needing feedback or validation from others. Just a few weeks in I am finding that I enjoy the process and I look forward to sitting down to write this way. I hope you are enjoying reading it.

Been here, done that…

Have you ever had Deja Vu? The odd and unsettling sensation that the moment you are experiencing is something you have experienced before? It has happened to me twice this week. Now, as the parent of two teenagers I find that I do and say the same things over and over ad nauseum. But this, this was different.

I am a huge fan of audio true crime and real life mystery series and my absolute favourite is Danny Robins’ podcast Uncanny on BBC Sounds. I love to listen with my headphones on whilst I am cleaning the bathrooms or kitchen. I tell myself it is research and in many ways it is. I had been trying to work out how a my character in Project Copper might describe the strange experiences she is having to her friend. What tone of voice and choice of words would she use? How would her friend react? So I had pressed play on an episode called Double Trouble (S3 E5 in case you are interested). Whilst listening to Jen’s story of an encounter with an older version of herself I wondered what that would be like and as I moved across the room I caught my reflection in the mirror. The sensation of deja vu was really powerful and made my heart rate race.

The second time was whilst driving to collect my daughter from football training when I passed two broken down transit vans within half a mile of each other. Again I had that odd feeling of having been here before and it left me feeling slightly out of time and place. I have to admit I was relived when we passed the vans coming home and my daughter also commented on how odd it was. She then followed it up with asking if I was being witchy again and causing a glitch in the matrix*. I wasn’t imagining the vans at least but deja vu twice in a week was definitely spooky! Naturally the first thing I did when I got home was write down both these experiences in my ideas notes as little nuggets of inspiration.

Now for the sceptics amongst us I know that it is hardly surprising that I am experiencing these things given how much time I spend reading, listening to and writing spooky stories. I’m also highly imaginative and therefore probably more susceptible to the these stories replaying through my subconscious. For those in #team_believer there are many other possible ways to explain my experience. Bit of a time slip, perhaps due to quantum physics and wibbly-wobbly timey-wimey (my favourite Dr Who quote and an excellent example of assonance)? Or maybe it is precognition? So off I went down the paranormal rabbit hole where I have spent several happy hours discovering the theories around deja vu and now have an outline for another story in the Project Copper series.

My husband in his trademark no-nonsense view of the world has informed me that I have now reached new levels of ridiculousness. Not content with conjuring ghosts to freak out my readers I am now haunting myself. He may well have a point.

*A running joke in our family after I lit a candle to mediate and all the power on our estate went off**

** I swear it wasn’t me!