Women’s fiction and chic lit

November 5, 2020

Keeping going

, , 2 Comments

Keeping going

For a long time now, possibly years, I’ve been toying with giving up my writing. In any event, lately, I haven’t been writing much at all, and the dismay of my paralysis has been hard to get my head round.

So I’ve tried to ignore this particular patch of desert, to pretend that lockdown and its outcomes do not affect me. Though my situation remains surprisingly similar to what it has always been, the realities of lockdown, with their peculiar mix of worry and resignation, make working on a fictional series about hard-pressed women – and men – rather hard to justify.

Do I need to justify it? Lately, there have been so many good reasons why I should stop writing: I have lots of calls on my time, from my husband, my daughter, my sisters, friends, my mother, even my daughter’s guinea-pigs; but sitting here, crafting and editing my work, I am reminded again that I do sincerely delight in this particular combination of concentration and escapism.

Even when so much of writing seems to be carried out it a private world that feels like a vacuum, how could I excuse a final decision to stop, when writing makes me smile and feel good? I also know that it is one real, tangible thing I do, that my husband sincerely supports. He wants me to keep writing. And I’ve seen how the things that contribute to our happiness and sense of fulfilment make the routines and hardships of life easier to live with. Constructing fictional worlds is the nearest I’ll ever get to time travel; or, at this time, to actual travel, which is another reason why I will be keeping going.

I’m working now on a final edit of my three novels, which though they each stand alone, also represent a series of characters whose lives may work out in so many different ways. I’m almost driven to conclude that my novels are, as they stand, only outlines, scoping out what might happen, never cast in stone.

That I’m keeping going in itself gives me reason to feel celebratory.

Thanks for reading.

Please share:

FacebooktwitterpinterestlinkedintumblrFacebooktwitterpinterestlinkedintumblr

June 8, 2020

Reading Marian Keyes books

, , 2 Comments

Reading Marian Keyes books again, I am struck by how the messages I collect from her writing, change and evolve to fit my feelings and thoughts of the moment.

Uplifting messages of personal courage are there, of course; and so are the quieter messages of human existence: even though our heroines might go flying off at short notice to America in pursuit of a dream (“The Woman who stole my life” / “Angels”) their heroism is also about accepting and learning how to live with and truly love the ordinary things in life.

Unlike some authors of fiction (whom I shall not mention) not only are Marian Keyes’ heroines ordinary gals and blokes – no Dukes, formula One racing champions, top models or artistic virtuosi – their stories are not about how they won the lottery, effortlessly qualified for the Olympics, secured a mega corps film deal or were “discovered” on the beach by a top modelling agency… Instead, after their adventures, Keyes’ heroines often arrive back home with a fresh recognition that the ordinary things in life – true love, a meaningful job – are not so ordinary after all, and can be the stuff of which dreams and contentment are made, if only we have the sense to see it.

The kind of trite, “rags to riches” success stories that feature in so much popular fiction – the idea that a bright idea and a sparky attitude are enough to propel even the humblest aspirant to undreamt of recognition and success – are what first gave me the idea to write fiction differently, because I think that readers might sometimes like a choice: to read fanciful fairy tales that transport them to other worlds, or to locate within the pages of a novel, heroes and heroines who have experiences they can relate to their own lives.

I’ve always said that I can only write from my own experience, and that is what I aim to do. It is heartening to be reminded, when perusing one of Ms Keye’s books again, that successful fiction does not always have to rely on a host of improbables, but can revolve around ordinary, decent and faithful people with whom I have something in common. It’s nice to feel, in the success of one of Ms Keye’s characters, the potential of my own success.

Thank you to Ms Keyes, and thanks for reading.

Please share:

FacebooktwitterpinterestlinkedintumblrFacebooktwitterpinterestlinkedintumblr

October 28, 2019

A World of Difference

, 0 Comments

A World of Difference         

Or perhaps that should read, “A Word of Difference”.

There is, as I discover after many years of trial and error and trial, a world of difference between someone who says, “You write well, but…” and another who says, “I love this, really, I love what you’ve done here. But it needs work”.

Finding the soul who says enthusiastically, “I see where you are going, had you thought of ….?” becomes a positive, partnership-type of hope compared with, say, someone who opines, “I liked this well enough…” – beware the lukewarm response – “…but I think your characters are…and I don’t like… and this could be different…” Which reader will, I suspect, never be happy however hard we may work to make changes (unless, of course, the final outcome bears no resemblance to our first offering).

I would love to write a Catherine Cookson-style blockbuster.

I would if I could; I would dearly love to fit in with others’ expectations and hopes. But I’ve tried that for years – honestly, I have, and broken my heart a few times in the process – and it simply does not work. If I were somehow to procure a facsimile of what is considered sellable, it would lack heart, soul and meaning and sooner or later, that would become obvious and kill the story.

Besides, my characters have other ideas.

Do agents and publishers only aspire for their authors’ books to be bought by Sainsburys and Tesco? I get it, that this is one market where bestsellers are made, but has this now become the sum total of bestseller ambition?

I fully recognise that these is no point whatever in trying to appeal to everyone. In fact, that is impossible, and the sooner I accept it, the better. And therefore, there is no point worrying about a person’s – or even a whole bunch of persons’ – points of view. To have the help of those who will never fully understand is no help; enthusiasm must be the benchmark for all success. In other words, do I like my work enough that it still enthuses me? And can I reasonably hope that someone else will share that enthusiasm? Because unless we can hold faith with that ambition, everything else is a sell-out.

Thanks for listening.

Please share:

FacebooktwitterpinterestlinkedintumblrFacebooktwitterpinterestlinkedintumblr

September 20, 2019

In their own words

, 0 Comments

In their own words

Yesterday a funny thing happened. For the first time, as I was writing more of book 3 in my fiction series, I felt as if I was a privileged insider, given unparalleled access to write my characters’ lives in their own words, and, with my trusty pen and paper to hand, allowed to explain their motivations and hopes to readers.

Perhaps that sounds obvious, but in the past, I’ve never felt quite that level of inside awareness, as if I was writing a fly-on-the-wall documentary… and the words kept coming, only to be interrupted by the realisation that it was well after six in the evening and hubby had arrived home from work.

Of course, my characters remind me, I know them as no-one else does, so naturally it is my job to explain, and to highlight and help them resolve their dilemmas. I can show too, how often ordinary people are uplifted by humour and love, even in the midst of heartache.

When I resume writing a piece, I very rarely pick up where I left off. I like to go back a couple of pages, a chapter or two, and begin with a bit of rereading and editing, to check for tone and consistency. While I’m doing that, other ideas crystallise and I can more smoothly move forward. And usually, these days, that process is fairly easy, not least because, on my perambulations through Facebook, I collected a piece of very useful advice – it works for me, at any rate, though it may not work for everyone – to leave writing a story, if you have to leave it, while it is still interesting. To leave when you would rather not, rather than at the end of a good chapter, say.

Yesterday, in my reportage frame of mind, I felt as if I could simply keep writing until the story was finished. I have not far to go, and I did contemplate an all-nighter – briefly, it rarely works – but today, instead, I shall resume and simply hope that my journalistic bent returns. It is lovely being beside my characters, listening and watching as their stories unfold and trying faithfully to record what happens to them, in their own words.

Thanks for listening.

Please share:

FacebooktwitterpinterestlinkedintumblrFacebooktwitterpinterestlinkedintumblr

September 7, 2019

Short Story – We Need to Talk

, 2 Comments

Short Story – We Need to Talk

Suzie could see herself, snapping and snarling as she wiped the tiles behind the cooker, which streamed with steaming rivulets of water. The entire back wall had to be wiped down fast, her arms carefully navigating behind hot handles, sticky bottles of oil and damp teabag boxes containing unused chamomile infusion. She could hear herself getting angry, and wanting to stop, but why could Ali not see what needed to be done? Why was he leaving her to do all this now, while he tucked into steak pie? Why had he burnt the curly kale, left the potatoes to boil to mush? She had been gone only ten minutes.

Squeezing out the heavy, hot cloth, she abandoned her scrubbing, wiping and sniping, then sat reluctantly with a heavy thump and salvaged what she could of her own meal – charred kale, cooling potatoes and hummus – while her husband and daughter carefully finished their steak pie. Maxine slipped out of the door and Ali quietly waited for the storm to pass. Suzie had to decide what to do.

“I want you to– ” she tried to explain, “And I get cross, because you never …”

Ali nodded, “Yes. That is true. I don’t.”

“And you will always be just yourself, after all.”

“And I do love you.”

“I’m sorry I left the kitchen, but I thought you knew.”

“Knew what? You never said.”

“Not to burn the kale, to add water.” At this, she was hard pressed not to cry aloud, thinking that without her to tend to this kind of thing, her husband and daughter would live on pies and bacon and eggs. Her heart heaved with sorrow at the loss of green veg. Without her there, he would manage meals in his own way, but would that include any green stuff? It was a worry, of sorts.

Then she recalled her sister, burning onions, and a small, wry smile lifted her face.  Even the best cooks forget to tell each other, “The soup needs a stir in five minutes, I’m just out to the garden for a moment.” Even the best of intentions get caught up in conversations, as we stand with our backs to a pot bubbling up over the stove. Accidents happen when we have other things to do.

“I’ll tell you, next time I go out.”

“And I’ll try to watch more closely.”

Please share:

FacebooktwitterpinterestlinkedintumblrFacebooktwitterpinterestlinkedintumblr

June 12, 2019

Katherine by Anya Seton

, 4 Comments

Katherine by Anya Seton

In April and May hereabouts the weather is usually fine, albeit unpredictable, and we tend to think, “It’s going to be such a wonderful summer…” Then in June it rains, and we think, “What happened?” and wonder how we can fill our summer days.

I can tackle my TBR pile, review books and sort out my shelves; in fact, I must: my mother has several hundred books in a collection which has been whittled down from several thousand, and the only way I know to handle all the books that deserve reading, is to read them.

I am currently immersed in “Katherine” by Anya Seton which is the only book, lately, that has made me cry. I have to read it slowly, which is unusual for me, though the style and form make it difficult to speed-read. Dating from the 1950s, I thought it would be rather staid, but it’s surprisingly frank and engaging and it hits home in ways I scarcely expected it to, when I’m reading it late at night.

I am also loving the adventurous, based-on-true-life love story told well away from the harsh limelight of the Tudors, who look surprisingly spoilt when considering their prolific and adventurous antecedents, the Plantagenets. Though very occasionally, the tale leaks into gushing sentiment, the details with which Ms Seton fleshes out a scanty factual record, are engaging and really help to hold my interest. In my mind’s eye, I can see the wharfs where the Duke and his paramour stand together, I can feel the jolt of the horses they ride, the journeys Katherine undertakes and her splendid isolation in one of the Duke’s many castles.

I like a historical novel. Though “Katherine” is a big read and has taken me many days, yet I think it must rank as one of my favourite historical novels ever. Given the remoteness of the period and the reality that much of what is known about is overshadowed, written about in retrospect and with a rather caustic, politicised hindsight – high-born men simply did not marry their commoner mistresses! – I find myself rooting for John of Gaunt – of course! – and delighted utterly that finally, he and Katherine marry and they both live happily thereafter. Just like a fairy-tale.

I cannot, for the life of me, work out why this novel is not yet a film, nor why Katherine and John do not feature more widely in common myth, like Romeo and Juliet or even Eleanor of Aquitaine and Henry the second of England. But that could simply be because I fell in love with the characters.

Please share:

FacebooktwitterpinterestlinkedintumblrFacebooktwitterpinterestlinkedintumblr

May 13, 2019

Reading cheerful books

, , , 4 Comments

Here is a listening version of this blog post.

Reading cheerful books

Increasingly I find I make a virtue of reading cheerful books. I have read a lot of chic lit – that brand of rather uniquely sexist literature that fashionistas decry because they say it appeals to the lazy instincts of womankind. Woman meets man, loses man, finds him again; or woman loses man, finds herself, finds a better man. We are prone to scoffing at such easy, soft options for reading, as if by not reading Proust, or the latest discoveries unearthed within the pages of ‘Archaeology Now’, we are letting down the side, betraying the freedoms for which our older sisters and mothers fought so hard.

But what if the lot of women is already hard? What if the first thing woman does when she rises at seven, is to put away the laundry, open the curtains and make the beds? What if, when she reaches the kitchen and is within hailing distance of her breakfast, the first thing she sees is the pile of unwashed dishes at the sink? There is not much room there, for escapism, and precious little to look forward to, unless, of course, she is that delightful fiction of mankind, the woman who enjoys cleaning and clearing, and finds daily menus a delightful challenge.

As it is, I manage several loads of laundry a week, half a dozen cooked meals and an assortment of domestic duties, usually with considerable aplomb. On the occasional occasion when I mention my dislike, my husband, who rarely does laundry, says I make too much of my dislike. A few years back, his incomprehension would have been my cue for an argument and a bout of despair. Now, at least, I can think of a calm reply with a hint of humour, “Spoken like a true officionado” or some such… It’s just a pity that it takes me a week to formulate it, by which time the moment has passed.

There are times when the sheer loneliness of domestic isolation can become a bit overpowering. Held down by such feelings, happy stories and humour are a vital escape, allowing the mind to lift, and then find solutions, strength and new resolve. If Alice in her cupcake shop can tell the CEO of a large multi-national corporation that she is not interested in promotion, then I can find the steely resolve I need, to withstand long periods of fatigue, failures in communication and the demands that everyone makes on my time.

Thanks so much for reading.

Please share:

FacebooktwitterpinterestlinkedintumblrFacebooktwitterpinterestlinkedintumblr

May 7, 2019

Ownership of our writing

, , 0 Comments

Ownership of our writing

Here is a listening version of this blog post.

How proprietorial are we about what we have written?

For me, the most fun part of writing is the first bit, when ideas are running away from me, down the page, sometimes so fast that my fingers slip off the keyboard while my thoughts are pushing ahead. The excitement of chasing down an idea and framing it to the page is really the best part of the writer’s day. Having these ideas, and the words to work them into something, is what art and craft are all about. That first draft, the energetic outline, may be fleshed out very quickly. But we cannot leave it like that, can we?

A good first working draft is one thing. But surely, the most difficult part of creativity – and one part of writing which I actually enjoy very much – is the discipline of re-reading, discarding and re-writing, even if that means that sometimes we agonise for hours or days over one sentence or turn of phrase.

Every artist has pieces of their creativity littering their lives, the piles of which would very quickly become unmanageable without some sweeps of culling and clearing. I find that it is the processes of tidying, reinvention and re-writing that most tax a writer’s courage: how often should we re-write, and what should we throw away? Anything that we know in our heart of hearts will not appeal as much to our readers as it does to us, will probably be heading to the recycle bin.

Madrazo, Portrait of a Lady, MM.2014.03

Writing is not only about retrieving beautiful passages of prose and poetry from our souls. It also encompasses the benign destruction of our favourite passages, to allow the light of understanding to penetrate so that others can more easily share our enjoyment. Like a rosebush that is pruned hard to the ground and blossoms easily and wildly the following year, if we have faith in what we are writing and some patience to brew the final result carefully, that first taste of a good finished piece is surely worth the wait.

Thanks for reading.

Please share:

FacebooktwitterpinterestlinkedintumblrFacebooktwitterpinterestlinkedintumblr

March 27, 2019

Thomas looked at himself

, 0 Comments

Thomas looked at himself

Thomas looked at himself in the full-length mirrored wardrobe. This morning, with Felicity up and doing, he had a rare chance to get dressed in daylight, and he checked his outfit with pleasure. Not quite sure about the pink. Maybe it was too much? He hadn’t time to change. Maybe it would be all right.

What? Oh dear. Felicity, as usual was absolutely on point. Deadly accurate, her sharp observations were about as enjoyable as walking barefoot across burning sand. But she was right, he acknowledged. She was always so right.

To shake off that heaviness, he left quickly. His arrival early at work was met with favour, but not the pink shirt, on which his co-worker’s eyes – all right, that was Alicia – lingered mockingly. At least she spared his feelings. For that he was grateful, and smiled with genuine feeling.

His genuine feelings had long been buried beneath the silt of matrimonial disappointment and routine. He didn’t mind, he preferred not to feel things too deeply. He was traditional, not one given to outbursts of emotion, though there had been times when his feet could have left the floor, he was so happy. Now, he was content not to be targeted. Unhappy at work, he mistook his wife’s froideur for indifference, failing to understand – no matter how often she told him! – that a certain woman needs excitement, drama and a bit of tension to make her feel alive. The line of love had gone saggy, no electricity.

And then, suddenly, a miracle! There she stood before him. Beautiful, alive, her hair washed and freshly cut, her clothes a step up from her usual, bright, fizzing with excitement. What an astonishing transformation, which he watched with pleasure. For a month, exactly when the weather was at its warmest over Summer, she danced before him, dazzling and lovely as he had remembered her.

Then as the Autumn came in, that season of mists, she wilted, and he was sad with her; while she looked at him kindly.

***

Please share:

FacebooktwitterpinterestlinkedintumblrFacebooktwitterpinterestlinkedintumblr

March 25, 2019

Felicity examined her hands

, 0 Comments

Felicity examined her hands, a displacement activity to shield her from the truth that she needn’t upset her husband, but that she would anyway.

“Darling,” she said, because she thought she had the right to say what she thought, “That shirt doesn’t suit you. It makes you look fat. Why not wear something a little less…?”

“I haven’t time to change,” he apologised, looking stricken. “Sorry, I have to go.” And leave he did, probably sooner than he might have, without a farewell kiss or stroke of the cheek. Pity, but then, Felicity knew he would be in a hurry, and unconsciously liked to taunt her husband, because he evinced confidence where she seethed envy. Not a match made in heaven, but a tinder set to blow, she liked to assume.

Felicity was charming, everyone agreed, affectionate to her husband in public, but cold and dismissive in private. Oh, she worked hard, doing the housework and catering for the family, but often that was simply to fuel her own grudge and so that she might manufacture something to complain about. Pancakes for tea? No problem, darling, but I’ll never forgive you for forcing me to sweat over a hot hob. Smile? Not now, I’m busy.            

Until the day that Felicity met the man of her dreams. Yes, she had dreamed about him. Had known he would show, one day when she least expected him. There he was in his dark suit, impeccably tasteful shoes, marvellous head of hair. He said he loved her, took her out to lunch and afterwards, held her like she’d never – never! Never! – been held before. The sexual restraint she had been used to was so utterly English – like those poor women you read about in Mary Wesley novels – and for a while she felt transmuted, continental, Argentinian, maybe; all long legs, high heels and deep understanding.

Then, in a moment of rare compassion she returned the favour when he needed her, helped him with something, and suddenly he was cold, distant. The magic, he said – no more damsel in distress, fluttering her eyelashes and mewling prettily – had gone. Pity her, he was away like mist on a hot day.

And husband? Well, he noticed the change, ascribed it to the season, the weather, and loved his wife with more consideration than usual. Exhausted from her adventures, she looked differently at his steady thoughtfulness, and thanked heaven.

***

Please share:

FacebooktwitterpinterestlinkedintumblrFacebooktwitterpinterestlinkedintumblr
‹ 1 2 3 4›»