Off on a Plot Walk...

“I’m just off out for a plot walk.”

Maybe as little as five years ago, I didn’t know what a plot walk was. Now it’s a Twitter hashtag, with its own variants (such as #plotsit) and one which is usually accompanied by gorgeous photographs. 

When I say I didn’t know what it was, I really mean I didn’t know that it had a name and that quite so many other writers do the same as I do when they’ve been staring at the screen for so long their eyes hurt and their story is at the I-need-this-to-happen-but-it’s-impossible stage. They slam the laptop shut, pull on coat and hat and scarf and wellies (because a real plot walk is not fair weather dependent) and head out. And somewhere in the wind and rain, among the sodden cats and battered daisies of the local front, the fallen leaves and left-over cans of Stella in the park, or the tell-tale explosion of pigeon feathers at the edge of the field, they will usually find inspiration. 

That’s when they post about it. I imagine many of them are like me and, when the soggy ramble ends in failure, they shrug, go home, have a cup of coffee, and get on with the washing up. 

In fact I’m more likely to try a plot cycle rather than a plot walk; although I’m gradually realising that plot cycles are less effective (and, in direct contradiction to what I’ve said above, much more dependent on fair weather). Because you’re travelling faster there’s always something else to think about. Is the road wide enough for that lorry to get past me? Oops, that horse looks a little skittish — better give it a wide berth. Watch that pothole. And oh my god, is that a hare?

What a plot cycle often does, however, is produce a story prompt. There’s that abandoned shoe on the pavement, in all its morning-after abandonment. (Is that how Cinderella was written?) There’s the cyclist I was chasing up a hill to see how much of the distance I could make up and who just disappeared. (All right, turned off when out of sight, but that’s how plots are born.) There’s the abandoned child’s toy in the middle of a lonely road. (Yes, we know the child thew it out of the car window.) And there's that cat that knows everyone and seems to have no home.

Do plot walks work for you? Or do you have an alternative solution? I would love to know.  

PASSING ON THE BATON

Life under Covid has given us all a bit of thinking time, and one of the thoughts that came to me - Linda Mitchelmore - was that I have no idea if any of my ancestors had been published or if I am the first to do the honours. I do know my paternal grandmother was illiterate at the time of her marriage and signed the register with her mark - x - so no baton-passing there. My father - ever an avid reader - left school at twelve but passed on his love of reading to me and my brother. I also know that I was the first in my family - both sides - to be educated after the age of fourteen and that has to have helped in getting me where I am today. That said, my maternal grandfather was enlightened for his times and insisted his daughters received the same education as his sons. Finance, alas, prevented my mother from going into highter education and I never knew her read anything buy Woman's Realm and My Weekly - good as they were and are. I'm very happy to say that both my children have seen their thoughts and words in print - my son in a Boy Scout guidebook and my daughter in a poetry anthology. This blog has been going a while now and yet there is so much about one another we don't know so I thought I'd ask the others about their 'batons'.

Rae Cowie says this:- 'When invited to write about 'passing on the baton' I feared I had failed to encourage anyone to write. As far as I am aware I am the first in my close family to have had work published, but creativity flourishes in lots of different ways. Our youngest son is studying drama and has dabbled with scriptwriting and our eldest used much of lockdown to mix a new music album. In the wider family we have artists and knitters, dancers and ice-skaters, crafters and cake bakers - all inspiring and imaginative. I suspect I have been motivated by them to make time for what I enjoy, and perhaps that is the legacy we can pass on to those around us. Do what makes your heart sing.'

Victoria Cornwall is also the first in her family to become a published author. 'I was brought up on a farm in rural Cornwall and although I loved to read, as a child I considered authors to be a breed apart from the people I knew. They were usually (to my mind at least) highly intelligent academics (non-fiction) or well-educated, upper class arty types who had an unfailing command of the English language ... not a Cornish accent to be heard! I blame Enid Blyton and Barbara Cartland for this view. Therefore, my desire to write a book was kept firmly hidden until I was middle-aged. By then the world had changed and everything was achievable if you were only willing to try and risk failing. So I gave writing a go and secured six publishing contracts. I have since discovered that writers are not all upper class arty types, but a mixed bag who come from all levels of society, with a wealth of experiences to inspire great stories. My own children do not have the desire to write novels. However,my grandchildren do love books. Yes, they are still babies and sucking on the pages appears just as much fun as looking at the pictures, but there is always the hope that they might like to take up the baton ... or at least read one of my books when they are old enough to escape into a novel.'

Terry Lynn Thomas is in the US (so I have left her spellings as she writes them over there). Here is what she has to say:- 'I'm the first member of my family in print. Of all my family members my niece is the avid reader. She's read all my books and - I think - she has a good idea about the effort and labor (sweat and tears) involved in getting a book out into the world. When I decided to write I remember her as a sweet-faced kid, impressed by my efforts and championing me in that loving way that's unique to children. Now that I'm published she is one of my loyal readers. She insists on buying copies of my books even though I've offered freebies, and is great about reading and reviewing. Now she's living a very interesting life and is gaining the experiences and understanding of people and the world that all writers need. So while she doesn't know it yet, I truly believe one of these days she'll call me and say,' You know what? I think I want to be a writer.' At that time I'll pass the baton with pleasure.'

Jennifer Young is about to buck the trend. 'I'm not the first in my family to be a writer. My mother, like me, has always written - articles to begin with, for publications such as Punch and The Guardian. Later she moved on to write short stories for The People's Friend where she became a regular contributor and wrote two serials as well as short stories. In those days, when magazines paid decent money, she received far more money (in actual, not real, terms) than I did decades later. My grandmother was not a writer and I sometimes wonder if she would have been had she had the opportunity. She was born into a mining family in South Wales in the 1890s and left school at the age of twelve to look after her family and then, widowed with a small child, had to work hard to keep the two of them. There was no chance for writing although she did read as much as she could and borrowed books from the families she worked for. I know all this because my mother, at the age of eighty-nine, is stil writing - her memoirs. And although there is no sign of creative writing coming in the generation below, you never know. Maybe wone day it will.'

Kath McGurl has this very intersting piece to tell us:- 'I'm the first writer in my family. At least, the first to publish novels and make a living from writing. But not the first published writer ever. A few years ago my brother visited a distant relative (our dad's cousin) and talked about writing. Shortly after she sent me a few ancient newspaper clippings - poems written and published by my great-grandfather, John Coward. I knew he'd been an artist - I have a couple of his watercolours on the wall. But it seems he also wrote poetry - a bit flowery, sentimental and Victorian for our modern tastes, perhaps. My father could have been a writer, I think. He told the most marvellous children's stories. He'd sit on my bed and just make stuff up, and in later years did the same for my kids. When he received a terminal cancer diagnosis he began writing his memoirs in his own wonderful style. Sadly, he didn't get very far with them. And my youngest son will be, I hope, the next in the family to hold that baton. He has a first class degree in Drama and has a talent for scriptwriting. He manages to make serious, thoughtful points while being funny. He's currently working with a post-grad Drama student adapting his final disseration piece with a view to making it available to a wider audience. If ever there are audiences in theatres again, that is. Covid has put life on hold to an extent, as for so many young people.'

And last, but by no means least, is Jennifer Bohnet's story:- As far as I know I am the first novelist in my family but not the first writer. My maternal grandfather was a man of many talents. He started off his working life as an apprentice potter with Wedgwood - I'm lucky enough to have his original apprentice papers. Both he and his father won medals for the quality of their work from the King. As time went on and work in potteries became scarce in the mid-twentieth century, he retrained as a telephonist and this is when he bcame active within his trade union and the Labour Party writing short, and long, pieces urging people to stand up for their rights. Sadly none of this propoganda survives, although my mother did at one time have a few dog-eared newspaper cuttings. And sadly, he never lived long enough to hear about my writing. I know he would have been thrilled. Now I'm the one in the family to get to be thrilled and proud. I've passed on the baton to my son, Nick. He published his first novel earlier this year and is now busy writing the second (in between skippering a boat for the environmental group, Sea Shepherd). I have to admit I do feel proud when he and I show up on the same Amazon page. And here's the cover of his first book.'

Twelve More Sleeps

Hey, everyone. Terry here full of news about my newest release, which comes out in ebook on the 28th of October. The Betrayal is my first foray into contemporary psychological suspense, and introduces Olivia Sinclair, an attorney on the brink of retirement. This book was so much fun to write! The second book in in the series is with my editor, and I'm working on the third book now. Here's the prologue and buy links, for those who are interested.

Prologue 

Sunday, October 5

When the alarm blared the Sunday financial recap, the woman woke with a start. She didn’t care about the Dow Jones Industrial Average, nor did she care about market volatility. Fumbling, she unplugged the old-fashioned clock radio and tossed it under the bed. Her thoughts, as they often did, went to her lover. She rolled over and pressed her face into his pillow, taking in the scent of him, that strange concoction of vanilla and citrus that made her senses reel.

Rolling over on her back, she took a deep breath, and cradled her belly, thinking of the baby that grew inside her. The positive pregnancy test lay on the table next to her, its vertical pink line a source of unimaginable joy. She snuggled under the duvet as the automatic coffeemaker kicked into gear, filling her apartment with the aroma of the dark roast coffee her lover preferred.

She saw the card on the doormat just as she poured her first cup of coffee.

I’ve rented a beach house for us tonight. I’ll send a key and the address by messenger. Meet you there around ten?

Leaning back against the counter, the woman closed her eyes, anticipating their rendezvous. Dear God, she craved him.

She did not know she had less than fifteen hours to live.

Buy links. I hope my prologue has you intrigued. If you are interested, you can purchase a copy of the book here. 

That's my news this week! Hope you are all doing well. 

Happy reading! 

A Room of One's Own

All writers need somewhere to work. Some have studies or spare rooms kitted with a desk, some curl up on the sofa with their laptop on their laps. Some, in those halcyon sunlit pre-Covid days (remember those?) prefer to go to a cafe and scribble in a notebook.

Some need absolute silence when writing, some put together sound-tracks to listen to, others are happy to write with the hubbub of every day life going on around them.

Since the pandemic struck and so many people began working from home, full-time writers (who always owned the home space during the day) have had to get used to the other half, and maybe the kids too, being there all the time. How they've managed to continue writing books is heroic. Hats off to the writers with day jobs they had to do from home, and kids they had to home-school, and novel contracts they still managed to stay on top of during 2020.

When I still had a day job, I worked from home anyway - I had done so since 1998, before it was fashionable (using a dial-up modem, no instant messaging systems, certainly no video-calls!) I'd do my day job in our home-office, then move to a sofa in the evenings to write. After I gave up that job last year, I kitted out my old work desk as a writing desk but I often still find I prefer working on that sofa. Maybe it's psychological - I equate being curled up there with writing.

We're now in the process of moving house. The large family home is too big for just two of us. When house-hunting, I was always eyeing up potential writing-rooms. I knew I'd need somewhere to put a desk, somewhere for the four full-height bookcases to go, and somewhere I could escape to, and curl up away from the TV and general husband-noise. We've chosen a bungalow, and we plan to add a garden room to it. A beautiful, wood-clad, fully insulated room, that I imagine as MY room. Something like the one in the photo below. I envisage all the books lining the back wall, my desk to one side, and a sofa-bed in the middle, facing out into the garden.

It might not be until next summer before the garden room is built, but I am looking forward to having that perfect space in which to write. Or read. Or day-dream. Or nap!

Where do you write? What's your dream writing-space?

If life is a bowl of cherries, then what am I doing in the pits? (Erma Brombeck)

Whichever way you look at it 2020 has been a very difficult year for everyone. With just 3 months to go before we say goodbye to it and pray 2021 will be better, I thought we could all do with raising a smile or two.

When I first started writing a lifestyle column for several Devonshire newspapers Erma Brombeck was my idol and my inspiration. An American journalist she wrote over 4,000 newspaper columns, using broad and sometimes eloquent humour, chronicling the ordinary life of a midwestern suburban housewife. She also published 15 books, most of which became bestsellers. I realise her name in all probability will mean nothing to anybody under the age of forty but at that time she was the queen of family and lifestyle quips like this:

My theory on housework is, if the item doesn't multiply, smell, catch fire, or block the refrigerator door, let it be. No one else cares. Why should you? 

Sadly I know my humour in my newspaper column never matched hers - she had all the best lines stitched up already. Here are a few of my favourites.

Never lend your car to anyone to whom you have given birth.

When your mother asks, "Do you want a piece of advice?" it is a mere formality. It doesn't matter if you answer yes or no. You're going to get it anyway. 

Do you know what you call those who use towels and never wash them, eat meals and never do the dishes, sit in rooms they never clean, and are entertained till they drop? If you have just answered, 'A house guest,' you're wrong because I have just described my kids.

Have you any idea how many kids it takes to turn off one light in the kitchen? Three. It takes one to say, "What light?" and two more to say, "I didn't turn it on.”

It is not until you become a mother that your judgment slowly turns to compassion and understanding.

This year is the 24th anniversary of her death. Bombeck was diagnosed with polycystic kidney disease (an incurable, untreatable genetic disease) when she was just 20 years old. She survived breast cancer and mastectomy, and kept secret the fact that she had kidney disease, enduring daily dialysis. She went public with her condition in 1993.

There is a thin line that separates laughter and pain, comedy and tragedy, humor and hurt.

On a waiting list for transplant for years she received a kidney transplant on 3rd April 1996. She died 19 days later aged 69, from complications of the operation.

I’ll finish this short blog with one of her quotes that could have been penned in the 21st century rather than the 20th:

I'm trying very hard to understand this generation. They have adjusted the timetable for childbearing so that menopause and teaching a sixteen-year-old how to drive a car will occur in the same week. 

Erma Bombeck February 21, 1927 – April 22, 1996,