Beginnings, Middles and Ends

A story should always have a beginning, a middle and and end.

Or so we were all told at primary school. Actually, it's a lot more complicated than that in real life (or on the MA Professional Writing course), but that will do for starters.

Beginnings
I love beginnings. It probably says a lot about me (and my inner thrill-seeking tendencies). I'm addicted to the buzz of starting something new. A fresh idea always gets me excited, and this is the reason I often find myself burning both ends of the candle.

Middles
Alongside Waiting for Spring, the novel I'm writing for part of my course, I've also decided to resurrect my teenage fantasy novel Earthwitch, which has been sadly languishing untouched for several months.

Although this may seem like utter madness, there are perfectly logical reasons for this:
1. I'm stuck on Waiting for Spring. Having planned it all out in detail, I can't seem to get anything else down on paper. It will come, but in the meantime, perhaps writing something else will help.
2.While lying awake in the middle of the night going over plot outlines (doesn't everyone do this?), I came across the solution to the problem I'd had with Earthwitch. I'd been trying to figure that one out for months, and then BAM - inspiration strikes when you least expect it.

The middle part of any project is always the toughest. There's nothing else for it but to keep on going. It's a little like walking up a mountain - worth it when you get to the top for the amazing views and the sense of achievement of how far you've come - but a bloody hard slog getting there.

With that in mind, I'm going to plod on. Perhaps I'll try out some visualisation techniques. Athletes use them all the time. It's been scientifically proven that by imagining not just winning the race, but the entire process athletes can actually increase their performance.

I wonder if it works for novelists?

Ends

The Great American Novel

There are certain books that stay with you long after reading. The power of a compelling, well written story is haunting.

Sometimes you come across one of these books quite by accident. A serendipitous meeting of story and reader in the right place, at the right time. It's interesting how some novels have a greater or lesser effect on you, depending on the age or stage of life you are at during the time of reading. Rereading Sylvia Plath's The Bell Jar recently, I was disappointed to find that it didn't have nearly the same impact as it did when I read it initially in my teens. I'd outgrown it.

I'd recently be given not just one but two recommendations to read The Road, by Cormac McCarthy. I'd been toying with the idea of writing a post-apocalyptic teen novel. I also have a slightly strange fascination with the idea of the-end-of-the-world-as-we-know-it. This may have started after reading The Day of the Triffids by John Wyndham, which remains one of my all time favourite novels.

McCarthy's bleak future is perfectly captured in sparse prose and minimal, often repetitive dialogue. It's a perfect example of the power of what is left unsaid. Interestingly, McCarthy leaves the reader to speculate about what has happened. The land is charred and essentially lifeless, forcing the few survivors to plunder the remnants of civilisation for sustenance - or resort to cannibalism.

Incredibly sad, yet beautiful, it encapsulates themes of love, self-sacrifice - and hope. The relationship between the father and son is tender; reading The Road you find yourself hoping against all the odds that they will find a way out.

The Road is due for cinema release later this year, starring Viggo 'Aragorn' Mortensen as 'The Man.' It will be interesting to see how the poignant minimalism of the novel translates to the big screen.

News from the mothership

I'm regressing into my teenage self, as I usually do when I'm back home chez famille. I haven't resorted to fighting with my brother yet, but that's only because he's got his own place now and has been busy doing whatever mysterious things it is that he does.

Meanwhile, I have been talking some well-earned time out, while also stressing about not having started on my novel for next term yet. My subconscious is still working hard, and that's got to count for something, right?

Visiting my old workplace yesterday was a slightly surreal experience. On one hand, it felt as though very little had changed, almost as though everything that has happened to me since has just been a dream; sooner or later I will wake up and have to go back to work. Yet at the same time, I'm aware of how much is different. I'm totally committed to doing something that I love, whatever may come of it. It feels good.