What would happen?

This started from a very simple question, what would happen if I came home from work to find a man lying on my bed? It turned into this, and I still have no idea what I would do.

-

There was a man on her bed and he was bleeding onto her floor. Her new beige carpet. Her first thought was that he was dead. Then he moaned. Emmy grabbed the baseball bat from beside her bedroom door; she had been keeping it there for Harry. This was not Harry. This man had light brown hair and was dressed all in black. He was lying face down on her expensive flowery quilt, one hand hanging over the side, dripping blood onto her floor. He moaned again. She tightened her hold on the bat.

Slowly the man began to move, he put one hand down on the bed and then the other. He pushed himself onto his knees and looked down at the deep gash on the back of his hand. His hair fell into his face, obscuring it from her still. 

She shifted her footing, trying to get it right.

He looked up like a dog pricking its ears. His gaze settled on her, wide and staring. He looked at the bat, and then to her face. He was tan with large bright eyes, blue, maybe grey. But did it matter? His lips parted and he put a hand to his head, his hair was greasy so that when he pushed his hand through it it stayed sticking up. It needed a good cut.

‘I haven’t called the police,’ she said, wincing as her voice came out a little to high.

‘Thank you?’

‘So you can go, no one will bother you.’

He closed his eyes and squeezed his temples for a moment, when he opened them again there seemed a sheen of tears. She still had the bat raised. Was that what he was worried about? She began lowering it and he shook his head. She stopped.

‘What is it?’ she said, ‘You can go. I won’t hurt you.’ She let the tip of the bat touch the floor.

‘No,’ he raised his hand, ‘I think, you should stay ready.’ He said it with his eyebrows drawn together as if he were thinking hard on something. ‘I, I don’t know who I am. I could be dangerous.’

That’s for sure, she thought. He was large, big shoulders, square jaw, black tracksuit bottoms and a black t-shirt like some sort of gang member. And there was his hand, which he had rested on his leg. It still oozed blood when he moved it. 

‘You don’t know-’

‘No, I don’t know where I am, I don’t know who I am. My hand feels like it is on fire and I can’t help but think the bat is a good idea.’

‘Nothing?’

‘Nothing.’

Emmy whistled through her teeth, ‘were you drinking last night?’

His brow furrowed again, ‘you mean alcohol? I don’t even know if I like alcohol.’

She raised her eyebrows. ‘Do you know if you like burgers? Because that’s what I was planning for dinner.’

‘Dinner.’ He still looked as if he was trying to concentrate. ‘What time is it?’

‘About half six.’

‘In the afternoon?’

‘No dinner is a morning thing.’

‘But it… Oh you were…’

She nodded.

He smiled a little and moved so that his feet were on the floor. She noticed that they were bare.

   

‘Dinner or tea?’ he asked.

‘Dinner. How do you know the difference?’

He shrugged, ‘I just think we are in the south.’

‘London.’

‘London.’ He rolled the word as if he had never heard it and was just trying it out. He looked down, his hair fell over his face again. It was then that Emmy realised that she should call the police, because, well. Wasn’t that what you did when random men invaded your home? 

‘Burgers could work,’ he said when he looked up. She noticed his injured hand open and close. He was shaking. Emmy did not want to give him over, not to them. They’d sooner lock him up for breaking and entering than help him. 

She set the bat down by the door.

‘Please, keep that on you,’ he said.

Selfish, egocentric, sometimes lost.

I have always thought of my writing as deeply personal. It is something that most writers say, in fact it may even be an accepted fact. Often published works get torn apart in search of what the writer really thinks, scenes are related to their lives to try and find their beginning. People want to know if writers write about themselves, they want the fact beyond the fiction.

I am here to tell you that writers are an entirely selfish group. We write about ourselves constantly. But, before you go picking through your favourite novel for personality insights you must realise something. Yes, our hearts and souls are in that work, but you will not find us there.

What I am trying to say is that everything I write is a part of me, but unless you know what you are looking for you will never find me in it. I could relate that to the island in Pirates of the Caribbean. 'It can be found only by those who know where it is.' (Probably the wrong quote but it has the same gist) A lot of the time, even I have no idea of exactly which part of me I am divulging in a piece of work. Some make me feel more naked than others, and most of the time I do not even know why. I just know that there is something deeply personal about what I am handing out, and it makes my skin crawl.

I suppose we could add egocentric to selfish. And why not? To share our work is to say look, this is something I like, this is something I am proud of. If we go with my, 'there is a piece of a writer in his/her work' theory then that makes us extremely egocentric. 'Look, stare at this majestic part of my self! Marvel at my psyche!'

So what happens when we begin to lose ourselves?

I have been able to write little but fragments for the passed few months. I may have finished the first draft of my novel but I also feel like when I read over the ending I will not find what I am looking for within it. It is a scary prospect, that we might change, that actually that piece we held close to our heart has drifted from sight. I could read something from a year ago right now and not find a shred of myself in it. It is scarier still that I might have just completed a 95 000 word first draft only to not be able to feel the warmth that I felt when writing it.

Something has slipped, I have slipped. My writing is coming out with a more serious tone, a more realistic edge that I never thought I'd want to feel. Others must have gone through this, to think themselves one kind of writer when they were young, only to turn around and be on an island that nobody can find, surrounded by water. If we run with that analogy then really I am sitting on the edge of my island dipping my toes in the cold, ice water. I want to jump in, and really I suppose I should. It is always best to jump straight in and get used to the cold water rather than dally on the side.

Come Death.

Girl, who loves with Juliet’s first kiss,

Who, a virgin, has Venus on her lips,

Come forth, beauty to match Helen of Troy,

Leave crazy Heathcliff when just a boy,

Step into the dignity of Guinevere,

Give to men that which Arthur should fear.

But take not your share of virtue when,

Passionate throws give to Helen ten

Thousand ships that travel on the wake

Of the poison ruined Romeo must take,

And with haste Guinevere will leave, 

Afresh with winters warm blood breeze.

In Sparta Paris saw nothing, no shadow amiss,

When it was he who shared Juliet’s first kiss.

Expectation/reality on finishing a first draft.

It is no secret, on twitter at least, that I just finished the first draft of a novel. I like to see it as THE novel. The big break, the novel of all novels. If I did not see it that way then I'd have cheated myself. I'd have spent six months wasting my time.


Here is a list of my intentions when telling people about my first draft victory, and their reactions.

My mum - I had been home from uni for a few months and all I got from her was 'you don't do anything, you just sit around, what are you doing?' Because she could not see my sitting on the sofa writing all day as something productive. So I sent her a picture of my completed first draft to just rub her face in the fact that actually, I am a goddess. Her reaction: 'Oo bring it home with you! I want to read it!' I immediately lost. Because I was forced to respond with: 'I can't, it's a first draft, it's terrible.' In future I'll be waiting until I have a slice of brilliance that will blow her away before I start bragging.

Twitter - I've been about for a while now, trying to build some kind of follow base. I tweeted about the build up to completion and then the completion itself. What I wanted was one of those miracle moments, where an editor stumbles upon what they think is a stroke of genius all contained in a single tweet. What I got did not disappoint me, but it was no editor. The twitter writing community is incredible. I tip my hat to you.

My friends - I am not going to lie here, I wanted some kind of recognition. 'Look, here is this thing that has prevented me from doing all I wanted to do with you for the past six months.' Here is the sad truth of life, your friends do not care about your writing. Especially when they are twenty years old. They are making it in their own lives, you are just this random person they know who is creating, quite frankly, nothing that is going to contribute to them or make you any money. That may make it sound like I have the worst friends in the world, but I can assure you they are not. They just aren't writers.

Writer friends - Now this is an entirely different story. I know how much these people are struggling with their own writerly goings on. I had no intention of bragging, I just wanted to give a heads up, a 'hey guys just so you know I might have something for you to read soon.' As with twitter, writers understand writers. And I felt much more comfortable sending one of them a terrible first draft than I would have if I had sent one to my mum.

I think that about covers the people in my world. I just wanted to share my expectations and realities so if there was anyone else out there struggling with a first draft they would know that actually, completion is worth it. Not only do I feel like a wordly genius but I've learned some things.

The hated A3 sheets of paper!

This is probably a good time to point out that I am not a creative person. That may sound crazy, I am a writer, creation is in the name of the thing that I am. But, I have never felt like a creative writer.  I imagine stuff and I write that stuff down and it becomes words on a page. I cannot create diagrams and pieces of artwork to go with those words. If I had to write it down without a word processor it would be indecipherable, if I had to make a collage for it, it would just be unevenly cut squares stuck down on a page. I have no visual capabilities. And I know this because in my first year of uni they tried to help me develop them.

We had a class in which the tutor enjoyed pulling out big A3 sheets of paper and lots of coloured pens. She would give this huge inspirational speech about how we must fill these sheets with ideas.

'Draw!' she would cry, 'draw your ideas, draw spider diagrams and swirls and write all over everything!'

I would stare at my big piece of paper, select a pretty green pen, and proceed to list my ideas down one side of it. Yes, list. Now, do not misunderstand me. My first few attempts at creation were spider diagrams but, the ideas that came out of them felt deluded and unconnected. I cannot make connections in that way.

And, no matter how many times I have tried to draw one of my characters I never can. I study creative writing at university and many of my friends come out with these wonderful drawings that they can then find inspiration in. I have my lists.

So, when we were told that for our ECP (FYP, dissertation, whatever you want to call it) we could do whatever we wanted many of my friends began to get very excited.

The tutor was standing there like, 'you can make videos and paintings and sculpture or music or dance if you want to! As long as it adds to your final piece.'

And I am sitting there like, 'you will get 8 000 words of genius and you will like it!'

I have handed in my proposal for my piece, I have talked with my tutor. And yet I still do not know what it is I want to write. I know it isn't what I said in the proposal, and I know it isn't any of the ideas I have come up with so far. I have only just decided that I want to write a contained piece rather than an extract.

So, today I am going to sit in my room and go through all of my idea places (Notebook, phone, ipad wherever I've scribbled them) and I am not going to leave my room until I have something. Anything. Even a name would be good at this stage. I am going to write out lists and read books and probably make another blog post and tweet a lot, all in the name of story building procrastination.

Sometimes...

Sometimes I get scenes stuck in my head that have nothing to do with anything. This is one that takes place during a zombie apocalypse, I have a few other oddbits from the same story but no clear plot or idea of what is actually going on. Only that there is this guy looking for his friend. This is the moment he finds her.

-

Ollie was there.

His clothes were torn, and his face smeared with mud and blood, but it was him. It had to be. Jen ran down the steps, pausing at the bottom. She lifted her hands to keep the sun from her eyes.

He waved.

It was him. 

She felt her breath catch in her throat.

A strong wind blew over them causing the trees to bow behind him. He used a hand to push his long fringe from his eyes. It had been shorter last time she had seen it. Short and choppy. Now it hung long around his face at all different lengths. The wind brought with it the smell of burning. Most likely it came from the town that spread out a good ten miles away. She wondered if he had come through it.

Jen looked him up and down. He wore dark jeans and a white t-shirt with a short sleeved shirt over the top. The shirt was torn and the jeans jagged at the hems. Mud smeared his skin and there were scratches on his cheeks and all down his bare arms. His eyes were darker than she had thought, but his smile was just the same. He eased his backpack off of his shoulder and let it drop to the ground.

Ollie held his arms out to her.

‘I come all this way for you, and you aren’t gonna give me a hug?’

It was like a dream, she took one step and then another. 

‘Jen!’

She paused and looked back.

Ethan stood on the top step. Dressed in tight jeans and a shirt, his skin clean and pale Ethan cut a fine contrast. However, he did not smile. His lips pressed tight together, he rushed down the steps and put a hand on her shoulder. The pressure was light and warm but dominant.

‘Ollie’s here,’ she said.

‘He is bleeding.’ 

‘A wall fell on me,’ Ollie shrugged. ‘You can look,’ he held out his arms, ‘I haven’t been bit. I wouldn’t have come for Jen if I had.’ 

Jen shook Ethan’s hand from her shoulder and made to go to him again but Ethan pulled her back. She turned on him, ‘what?’

‘He could be lying. Jen…’

She had pulled away. Moving quickly she found Ollie’s arms and pressed herself into them. She felt him stiffen, and knew that he was looking at Ethan. His cheek pressed to her temple and he pulled her in close. He smelt of smoke and blood. His skin was rough where it touched her own, he had been through hell and back, most likely. 

That was when she remembered. ‘Where’s your brother?’ she asked as she pulled back, his hand brushed down her arm. For a moment he caught her gaze, but he could not hold it for long. 

‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’

He smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. ‘Don’t be. It’s not your fault.’ 

He gave her arm a light squeeze. It said: it’s mine. 

‘Ollie,’

He let her go and picked up his backpack, ‘well, I didn’t bite her head off.’

Ethan was still standing at the bottom of the stairs. He nodded slowly. ‘If you so much as clear your throat, I’ll shoot you.’

‘And when you miss because of the recoil I’ll break your legs.’

Ethan stepped towards him. Jen placed herself between them. 

‘We need all the people we can get,’ she said to Ethan,.‘And you,’ she looked at Ollie, ‘you’re new here. Don’t start stirring stuff up.’ She took Ethan’s hand and headed up the stairs, having to tighten her grip and pull him after her.

This is this and that is that.

I cannot even begin to list the amount of 'how to' articles I have read about writing blogs. Just google it, it's mental the amount of professionals who just wanted to say: 'Look here kid, this is how it is.' I'm not going to lie, I stopped reading most of them half way through, so if this has a good start but a bad ending then I only have myself to blame. Then again, if it has a bad start and a good ending wouldn't that just turn those 'pros' upside down?

I have never had a 'serious face' blog before. I toyed with tumblr for a while, but that felt like rounding up a flock of immature twenty somethings to look at porn. I left that behind a long time ago and now here I am, fresh faced, porn free and scrutinising myself to death. Is this the right picture? Should I really be favouriting these films? Am I even that interesting? I listed 'American history' as one of my interests. I am never going to be interesting. 

It's the kind of scrutiny that only a writer can understand. 

I am predominantly a fantasy writer. I can try as hard as I like but I will never be anything else. Recently I have been experimenting and asking myself what fantasy is. Then I get bored and throw in a dragon. Or gruesome, murder. I have no idea if introductory posts are the 'in thing', but I thought I should let people know what they are getting into. If you are looking for hardcore reality this isn't the place to be (although, I would argue that fantasy can often deal with the most pressing of real world problems, but that's for another post) I will be talking and writing my kind of fantasy.