There’s always a revival of a Rodgers and Hammerstein show going on somewhere.
In a former life, I was in a few. You might have seen me, in an end of the pier show, strutting my stuff.
the end of the pier show
Love of musical theatre runs in my family. My mother took me to the Hippodrome theatre in my childhood hometown. See this page. My love affair with the stage began then. When my little sister was born, she loved music, too, and her favourite song of all was Bali Ha’i from the Rodgers and Hammerstein musical South Pacific.
one of my favourite shows
The best musical shows feature strong stories and strong characters, as well as memorable melodies, of course. One of the worst criticisms my mother might come out with would be you can’t come out of the theatre humming the tunes.
I’ve been humming Rodgers and Hammerstein tunes all my life. So has my sister. The year I played Bloody Mary at the end of the pier show, she couldn’t be there to see it. We both regret that. There’s a line in Bloody Mary’s big song that takes us both back to her baby days when she bobbed up and down to the rhythm of the music before she’d learned to say the words properly.
When I decided to write a romantic short story, I wanted to write about people who don’t quite fit into the usual parameters of what is considered the norm. We all have our own Bali Ha’i, a magical place where everything will work out just as we’d like it. In South Pacific, that place is an island, out of bounds to the marines. In my short story Not Rodgers and Hammerstein, that place is . . . you can find out here.
May we all find our own Bali Ha’i – wherever and whatever that may be.
It seems you’re expected to answer this question of how do you write a novel. At some point, your followers are going to want to know. That’s lovely. That’s why I’m writing this blog: to reach people I’ll never meet in the flesh. I’m delighted to have some followers. I hope to have lots more.
the lady diarist at her desk
Other writers will be curious, too. We all have our own ways, what works best for us. There are probably as many different ways of setting about the writing of a novel as there are different kinds of books. I have a link here to tips from published writers. I read both Larry and Holly and I think their information is so valuable to new writers setting out on their journey.
I don’t beat myself up about targets. I write here about letting it happen. Sometimes, my plans take a day off and the page stays empty. Other days, an idea explodes out of nowhere and I have to drop what I was writing and scribble down this new idea for a short story. It isn’t a problem. I let it happen. Why would I want to shut out new ideas just because I’d been planning to edit chapter fifteen of something else?
So, I run with the sprint of a short story when it presents itself. Writing a novel, though, is a marathon. Planning is a must. I plan everything in great detail. I know my characters inside out and upside down. By the time I get around to writing their scenes, I’ve lived with them for weeks. I know exactly where they live and how it looks. I won’t use all that information, but it’s useful for me to visualize them when they’re walking along the streets of the village I’ve invented. I even draw maps.
my version of Montalhan sans Vents in the novel Trobairitz
Okay, so the drawing isn’t fabulous, but this is the village my Trobairitz is imagining when she tells her stories at the overnight truck stop. She knows where the vineyards are in relation to the housing developments. She knows where the river runs past the chateau on its way to the sea. She knows the narrow passages and steep steps linking levels of the circulade.
circulades are spiral shaped
In Trobairitz, the shape of the village is reflected in the stories she tells. There is a central theme, hiding under the archways, shrinking back into the alleys, revealing itself only gradually. I like that kind of a tease in books.
I plan a timeline, too, so I know how events from the three books fit into a chronological order, even if in the narrative I don’t treat them chronologically. The whole thing becomes a magnificent obsession, to borrow from Douglas.
Now, there was a story. I wonder whether its themes would stand up today? That might be an interesting exercise one day; one day when I’m not obsessed with my own creations.
Sometimes, the short story I dashed down in between writing chapters of the magnificent obsession pops back, like indigestion. Erm, over here, it says, have another look at me. I’m not finished.
And I have another look, and it isn’t finished and, would you believe it? There’s enough there for a whole new novel. I’ll make that another post.
We’re supposed to be getting ready for the car boot sale. Supposed to be sorting, clearing, feng- shuing, de-cluttering whatever you want to call it. I didn’t mean to get sidetracked. I thought I had my head in the right place. The determined place. The not susceptible to sidetracking place. The don’t get in Celia’s way mood. She’s determined.
what does a cupboard like this say about its owner?
We’ve had boxes stored in the roof space since we moved to France. That’s coming up 6 years now. They say if you haven’t used something for two years, you don’t need it. People write and sell de-cluttering books all about throwing away what you don’t need. They’re full of before and after pictures and it’s true that a simple tidying up can make a room look much more inviting. But I don’t want to be extreme. I would be ashamed of a cupboard like this one. Yes, ashamed. I wouldn’t want to let anybody see it. I hope the person who did this for his/her book made a lot of money. Because they must be lonely. I couldn’t live with a person who kept cupboards like that one.
However, there comes a time when one’s lackadaisical non-system of stock rotation of belongings is crying out for attention. So, here I was, this morning, ready to get at it. Ready for the fray. Determined.
And the track forked in so many directions I didn’t know which way to run first. Oh, the lovely things I found in those dusty boxes. Inside a box, inside a box, inside another box, I found one of the joys of one of my former lives. Sheet music.
Novello – so 1930s!
I rushed straight to YouTube with it. Found recordings of it and sang along, remembering all those times I’d sung it before. What was more, it was the ideal choice for our upcoming social evening with other choir members. We’ve had Burns night as posted here in January. There’s always a celebration on St Patrick’s Day, too, but this year, for the first time, we’re having an English night on St George’s Day. A group has got together to give us a bit of Gilbert and Sullivan. I’m not a fan of G&S, but offered to find something else. And here it is! My Dearest Dear.
Now, I know Ivor Novello was born a Davies baby in Cardiff, but aren’t his songs the absolute epitome of English musical theatre of the 1930s? And isn’t the 1930s my absolute fave era? And haven’t I got just the thing to wear, darling? Because what did I find in another box while I was supposed to be throwing things away?
detail of handpainted silk scarf
I used to paint on silk scarves and sell them at craft outlets. I kept a few for myself. So, here I am now, singing My Dearest Dear, with a 1930s Clarice Cliff-ish design silk scarf around my neck and I haven’t thrown one thing away yet.
But wait. What’s this old briefcase? Was that thing ever mine? And what’s this poor scrap?
Ah! Celia, hold on to your sense of reality, girl. Stay with me. In the here and now.
my first draft outline of my first novel – page two
Walsingham Matilda, my first novel, lovingly unpublished and reclining on a memory stick with other unpublished gems. Walsingham Matilda, the 140,000 word family saga that starts in Yorkshire and comes all the way back again, seventy five years later via Norfolk and Sydney, Australia.
Awwww! Bless! A quick scan teaches me how much the story changed from that first outline and I wonder, afresh, whether I might have been better sticking with the original plan. My stories GROW so. Oh, they grow.
And now, here’s himself coming through the door, looking for lunch.
‘What you got there?’ he says.
‘Memories,’ I tell him.
‘Am I in them?’
‘No, darling. It’s before you and me.
”What’s for lunch?’
It’s time to put the memories away. I’ll return to de-cluttering after lunch. Eventually, we will be ready to do a car boot sale, but It isn’t going to be the one this weekend.
I don’t get much serious writing done on Mondays. I don’t get much writing done at all. I might find a few minutes to write a short post on here, then it’s warming up the old vocal chords (and I do really mean old ) before it’s off toward the hills and rehearsals in Capestang.
The wind blows fit to knock you off your feet as you turn the corner around the church to walk to rehearsals. To the right of this picture, you can see where the building stops. Like the church was suddenly chopped. In fact, that’s exactly what happened in the 13th century. Some contributing factors may have been to do with the Plague and/or the change in the course of the river, but there’s also the story that says the Bishop in Narbonne sent out his spies to see what was happening in Capestang and when he discovered the completed church would have been bigger than his own seat, he used the money for something else.
the language of music
I love these old stories. Even the smallest villages here have stories to tell. I love to hear about them, read about them. Sometimes, I might be inspired to write a new story based on what I’ve discovered. But I can’t get into that today because it’s Monday. Monday is singing. There’s no serious writing today. Serious singing instead. We’re rehearsing Carmina Burana for performances in May. O, Fortuna, velut Luna statu variabilis . . .
Singing is so vital. I can’t imagine a life without music. When I take Mondays off, away from writing, I know I’m gonna come back Tuesdays all fired up and ready to go again.
Today I tweeted a story. 14 Tweets and that was it. I thought maybe I could call on the luck of the Irish today and get my Tweets in without too many interruptions.
See, I’m still a bit of a newbie on Twitter. I’m still learning about hash tags and how to use them over there. Also, I have a tenuous claim to call upon said Irish phenomenon re: good luck. I have the Irish grandfather. Yes, really. I’ve banged on here on my website re: my maiden name Micklefield and some possible interesting South African connections with that name in the Capetown area, but I have neglected to mention the name of the other side of my family. So, here it is.
O’Driscolls were born to travelwaiting for me at the end of a rainbow?
My mother’s maiden name was O’Driscoll. So, today, on St Patrick’s Day, I call upon my ancestors to bestow upon me and my little 14 Tweet story the legs to reach the world and bring me a crock of gold.
I wish!
If you didn’t catch the 14 Tweet story on Twitter – here it is
14 Tweet story
When he got up, he didn’t notice anything different. She looked as if she was still asleep.
He had work to do. First, the sink to bleach; he liked the smell of it and she never did it properly. Then, his phone calls.
He made coffee. Went outdoors. The day was set fine. He’d be able to get those seedlings planted out.
He smiled, having the day to himself with no interference. Retirement meant doing exactly as he pleased. He’d earned the right.
At twelve, he began to feel hungry. He wondered, briefly, what she was planning for lunch, but there was still no sign of her.
He looked in the fridge and grabbed a crabstick. It wouldn’t spoil his appetite for later. There was no sound from the bedroom.
His stomach rumbled as he opened the bedroom door. He called her name. Her face was pale and still. Grey and unattractive.
He thought about the greyness of her. There was no wonder he hadn’t wanted to kiss any of it for years.
He made tea and enjoyed rearranging the caddies and repositioning cups in better places in the cupboard on the wall.
He spent the afternoon lining up plant pots. He finished the crabsticks. He thought her selfish not making him refreshment.
At seven, when he wanted his dinner, he realized she was dead. Brain haemorrhage, the doctor said. Ah well, he thought.
How could he have known she was dead? Why would any man make it part of his morning ritual to check if his partner was alive?
She’d done it on purpose, of course. To make him look bad.
Ah, well. Now she’d got everything she wanted. She’d always told him she felt she was dying inside.
THE END
(If you enjoyed this – please click the Twitter button at the bottom of the page and Re-Tweet this page. Thank you. I’ll share the crock of gold. Yeah, right!)
In the days before Social Networking, this is how we used to listen to music. It was another life. We behaved like a different species from kids today. We invited friends round to listen to music. Generally, kids walked to one another’s houses in those days. We actually got out there on our own two feet and put bodily effort into social networking.
You might get a bag of chips from the corner shop and Mrs Wilkinson might offer you some bread and butter to make a chip buttie. Yes, really. It’s not SO long since. That’s what social networking amounted to when I was growing up.
Who could have foreseen the changes that have come about in less than half the time it takes to turn into a grandma? Now kids are in contact with each other all the time, without ever having to touch each other.
Lyrics to Hi Ho Silver Lining :
You’re everywhere and nowhere, baby
That’s where you’re at
Going down a bumpy hillside
In your hippy hat
Flying across the country
And getting fat
Saying everything is groovy
When your tyres are flat . . . .
Yep, Jeff Beck. That about sums it up. You have to be everywhere today. Kids have to be connected by all and every electronic means. There’s a new word apparently in the dictionary: nomophobia. It means fear of not being connected, not having a mobile phone.
You have to have presence. And it’s not just the kids. You have to be on this network and that one, not forgetting the ones over there. You must post regularly so people will become aware of you and you must always have interesting things to say, until you are a celebrity and then it doesn’t much matter what you say as people will hang on to every word of it anyway.
Darlings, you can spend all your time keeping up with all this social networking malarkey and NEVER do any bloody writing.
Isn’t a silver lining supposed to be a good thing?
Brilliant, this Oneword website. What a way to begin your day. Sixty seconds to write whatever comes into your head. It doesn’t matter if it’s not perfect. It doesn’t matter if it doesn’t even make sense. You just write. You throw away all your inhibitions and write. You fly by the seat of your pants for sixty seconds and the freedom of it is exhilarating.
Now, we know you ought not try to write a novel this way. We know where pantsing gets us. It gets us lost. That’s where it gets us. In the wilderness, a little voice crying Help me, I’m lost.
go there
But, oh, the joy of flying by them for 60 seconds.Prompted by just Oneword.
There’s a Fridayread page on Facebook. People share what they’re reading and what they like in particular about that book.
I can’t join the discussion. I have nothing to share. When I’m writing, I can’t get into a book. It’s as if I’m afraid I’ll somehow ‘catch’ their voice and lose my own.
I keep Daphne du Maurier’s Rebecca by my desk as my talisman to remind me of the power of characters. See my post here on the subject. Not only is Daphne one of my sources of inspiration, I find I’m safe with her. I can re-read her short stories and I know her voice won’t get into my head. I’d recognize it straight away and so I’d be able to stop it from turning up on my page.
But, if I’ve been reading Joanne Harris, for example, I know I’m going to start describing my settings the way she does. Before I knew it, there’d be sugary, powdery aromas in my sentences or Gothic shadows lurking in my paragraphs. If I’ve been reading Lee Child, to give another example, my characters would start acting out, different, sharp. Clipped sentences. Move in. Move on. Fast.
So, I don’t read when I’m writing. Except for dear old Daphne.
I used to get upset. Rejections used to make me feel depressed. I’d get into such a state that I couldn’t think about anything other than how I was no bloody good at writing cover letters, no bloody good at writing a synopsis, no bloody good at writing the narrative in the first place. In fact, I might as well admit it; I was no bloody good for anything. I might as well take a long walk on a short pier.
And then, I’d read other people’s blogs and websites.
NEVER GIVE UP, they’d shout at me. KEEP AT IT. After all, you’ve got to be in it to win it, girl. You have to persevere. Don’t lose heart.
But each rejection was a little death and my heart was fading. And that’s when I got angry. Not with the people who were rejecting my work. With myself. Who did I think I was? The best thing since Margaret Atwood? Get your finger out your eye, I told myself. Use your brains. WHY are they rejecting this particular short story or sample chapters? Hang on a minute . . .
hang in there
You’ve got to hang on, haven’t you, in a situation like the guy on the left? Or else, what? The end of everything.
No way.
I have things to say. I want to say them MY way. I have to find the people who want to read the things I say my way.
Many years ago, I rented my own space at a country craft outlet. You know the sort of place, with converted barns and stables occupied by artists and potters and handicrafters of all kinds. I sold my paintings. I sold prints of my paintings. I made greeting cards out of reproductions of my work and sold them too. Sometimes, I’d be surprised by what actually sold. Ideas I thought hadn’t worked so well might turn out to be popular. I did a series of military and naval uniforms through the ages, ran a load off on an inkjet, put them in inexpensive frames, took them to a maritime festival and sold the lot.
You have to find a matching outlet for your product. Rejections mean you haven’t found the right match yet.
Living in a house in the sun means you get a lot of visitors. Sometimes it isn’t all fun. When you’re part of a blended family, you might have to be careful what you say.
