The First Draft

It’s been a long time since I last wrote on this blog. The reason being that I have been busy writing elsewhere. For the past year, any spare writing time has been devoted to working on my children’s book and I think, I hope, that the first draft is nearly done.

There are different definitions of what a first draft is. For some, it is the initial purge of words and spewing of ideas onto the page to clear your mind and focus. It is after the process of spewage that you actually begin to write the story.

My First Draft

This was my belief until one day, while chatting to another writer, she said her definition of a first draft is when you can do no more. That the story is as good as you can make it and that you need outside help, usually from an editor, to take it to the next stage.

I shuddered.

‘That means your first draft could take years!’

She nodded.

‘Yep.’

It’s annoying to be reminded that there are no short cuts to writing. Telling yourself that you are on your fourth draft after six months is much more satisfying than being on your first draft after one year. Satisfying because it sounds like you have done more and are further ahead, even if you aren’t.

‘Why would you make it harder for yourself? ‘I wondered after our chat.

However, I couldn’t rid myself of the idea that the first draft should be the best version of the story that you can produce on your own.  And so I have been doing precisely that. Writing a first draft over and over and over again. Say ‘over’ really fast for fifteen minutes and you get some idea of what I’ve been up to.

This year of writing has been a big learning curve for me. I’ve met other aspiring and published writers and therefore I now know what MG, YA and PB* means. I know the functions of an agent, editor and publisher.  I know that apparently, your narrator should always be older than your target market.**  I know what a beta reader*** is and even found some for my not-yet-completed first draft.  And I’ve been reminded that to try and write seriously is fricking hard and completely satisfying. 

*MG - middle grade, YA - young adult, PB - picture book.

** So if your story is aimed for  7-9 years old, your narrator ideally should be older than that. Personally, I think this is bollocks.

*** The first readers of your complete draft.

Andrée Grau

Andrée Grau is the Professor of Dance Anthropology at Roehampton University.

Yesterday while marking student papers in one of her favourite parks in France, she died suddenly of a heart attack.

I met Andrée in 2010. I was six months pregnant and about to start the MA Dance Anthropology degree at Roehampton for which she was the Programme Head.

At that first meeting, she exuded warmth and interest in her new student cohort. She was fascinating to look at, dressed in beautiful clothes put together with a unique eye. Her lipstick was vibrant, her jewellery works of art and her makeup impeccable. All my misgivings about starting the course in the late stages of pregnancy melted in the presence of this engaged and charismatic person.  I was won over even before I'd even heard one of her fascinating lectures or experienced her wise counsel and acute perception.

I was a part-time student and in the four years it took me to complete the MA, Andrée was ever present. She guided me, helped me and listened to me. When I was in the first year of motherhood, trying desperately to cope with a sick baby, my own ill health and essay deadlines, she was the only person who really saw what was going on for me and told me not to quit. That she could help me find a way through.

Andrée was a internationally renowned dance scholar. She was a pioneer in the field of dance anthropology; a niche discipline which she helped develop and grow. Students travelled from all around the globe to study her course at Roehampton. Despite her reputation and prodigious academic output she had no intellectual arrogance or entitlement. She was down to earth, funny, sharp and kind.

Andrée Grau

It's a terrible lesson to learn that sometimes things you put off, last forever. I hadn't seen Andrée after I graduated from Roehampton in 2014. We made plans to meet occasionally but it never eventuated. She was busy. I was busy. We'd catch up on Facebook from time to time. But that's it. We'll never have that coffee together.

I always thought I would go and seek her advice when it came time to consider a PhD. She would have been expecting me. Even though she knew I had no wish to be an academic, she knew that I am a scholar at heart.

It stuns me that I won't be able to do that. That I won't be able to talk and discuss and laugh with her ever again. I wanted to ask her about fieldwork and how she thought I could conduct it with a family. I wanted to ask her so much.

All day long, tributes from her ex students and colleagues from all far flung corners of the world have been coming up on Facebook. They speak about her warmth, her kindness, how she looked out for each and every one of us. How much she was held in high regard and with genuine respect. We are all devastated.

For all that she gave us, I hope she knew how much we respected and loved her. How much we owe to her and what an impact she had on so many lives. I hope she took heart in the fact that she created many new dance anthropologists, all scattered around the globe. That we honour her legacy and will remember her always.

I can't believe she's gone.

Thank you Andrée. I will miss you.

Arvon Foundation's Children's and YA Fiction Tutored Writing Retreat

A few months ago, I attended the Arvon Foundation's Children's and YA Fiction Tutored Writing Retreat. I'd started writing a children's novel in March 2016 and I knew I would need help along the way if I wanted to get to the end.  My aim in writing was not to be published. Not to become an author. Just to finish writing a book.

My prior weekend experience at Arvon had been so positive that I had high hopes for this course. A week in a remote part of Devon dedicated to writing with one-to-one tutoring from published authors in the genre. In the company of other writers all working towards the same goal.

It sounded idyllic.

Arvon Totleigh Barton centre

I arrived at the Arvon Totleigh center near Sheepwash in Devon with 30,000 words of a story that did not work. It had taken me about thirteen months to accumulate and shape those words; time stolen and snatched amidst paid work, childcare and domestic drudgery. I wasn't close to the story however and I knew something was wrong with it. But what?

Turns out, just about everything.

Melvin Burgess and Lucy Christopher were the tutors at Totleigh. Melvin, who has been nominated for the 2018 Hans Andersen Author Award has written a gamut of YA books covering everything from dogs to drugs to Vikings to giants. Lucy, a fellow Antipodean and lecturer in the MA Writing for Young People at Bath Spa has also covered the YA market with kidnappings, swans and a soon to be published reworking of Shakespeare's, The Tempest. Despite their considerable output, I had never read a book by either of them and didn't remedy this in the lead up to the retreat, Quite frankly, I didn't have the time and I preferred not knowing their work as I wanted to meet them as people, not as authors.**

The story I'd taken to Totleigh was not for the YA market. It was aimed for 6-8 year olds in the vein of a Michael Ende-ish Momo allegory with Robin Klein-Hating-Alison- Ashley humour.

Well it was in my head anyway. The reality was far from it.

All the retreat participants bonded quickly. As a group, we were united in our determination to use the week to write as we lacked time in our real lives to do so. It soon became apparent that the other thing we had in common was drinking. And even if we didn't to start with, a week at the retreat fixed that. We were a diverse group, hailing from around the UK with one participant from New York City. By the end of the week, we knew not only each others plots and characters but also occupations, childrens' names, places of work, relationships and preferred choice of tipple.

This is where we ate and talked about writing. 

This is where we sat and talked about writing. 

During the retreat, each of us had four individual tutored sessions with Melvin and Lucy over four consecutive days. We also had to cook dinner (in a group with three others) for one night and take responsibility for our own washing/clearing up. In the evenings we gathered together for group activities including author readings from Lucy and Melvin and a guest visit from David Almond. The last night was reserved for participants to read out something they had written during the week. The rest of  the time was free for writing.

Most of us had arrived with ideas of what we would work on in the week. Mine was to edit and bash my manuscript into some sort of draft material shape. Prior to attending we'd all submitted 2000 words to both tutors so they had some clue of what everyone was working on.

My first tutorial was with Melvin. Ten minutes into that tutorial was all it took for him to accurately highlight key issues with my story. My stomach twisted as I realised I would have to rewrite the whole thing if I wanted it to be the story I wanted to tell. Goodbye thirteen months work. Goodbye 30,000 words.

Kill your babies they say of the writing process. Get rid of what you love if it doesn't serve the story, no matter how good you may think it is or how attached you are.

In my case, it was more like, Torch the Village and Kill (Nearly) Everyone.

It's a strange paradox that writing can be a emotional, psychical process. To create characters and stories, you have to dig deep. But then you must be completely unsentimental to shape the story into life.

It's a fascinating and grueling learning process.

I stumbled out of the tutorial slightly ashen, in a state of semi-shock. If someone had asked me there and then to climb Everest, it would have seemed an easier prospect.

Over the next day or two, I buckled down and started from the beginning. I took some comfort from the fact that others were in similar states to me. Frantically re-writing, rethinking, re-working. We all worked so hard that week, including Lucy and Melvin who were locked up inside from 9am-5pm giving feedback and advice to writers in various states of mania and descending madness.

No wonder we drank.

So two months on from the retreat and I have plugged steadily away at my story. I am still nowhere near the end but I can see it now.  The story is rough and there are so many problems with it but the process of grappling with words, story and characters is rewarding. I have learned that committing to a writer's process is a daily struggle. It's hard, fantastic and renewing all the one time.

A small group of us from the retreat have committed to meet monthly to give feedback to each other's projects. And in truth, to attempt to recreate a small semblance of the Arvon atmosphere. You cannot write in a vacuum and as Lucy said, You must find your tribe. Writing stories is hard and only other people struggling with it truly understand.

But how lucky we are that we enjoy this particular type of struggle.

Hallelujah, Amen. 

**However during the retreat I read Junk by Melvin and The Killing Woods by Lucy. Both compelling in very different ways.

Life's Not Fair

I'm supposed to be working right now but I'm finding it hard to concentrate. This morning I woke up to find out that twenty two people had been killed at a music concert in Manchester by a suicide bomber. Amongst those killed were children and teenagers. If I stopped writing this to concentrate on my Excel spreadsheet, maybe it will stop the urge to cry. But from experience, too much time on Excel can kill other signs of life.

I've tried to avoid most of the news today. In spite of this, I've heard the words 'terror' more times than I care to. I am not scared though. It's something else that is bothering me.

I should be used to waking up to catastrophic news by now. When I woke up to Brexit, I was shocked. Such shock that there was no room for tears but instead, profound grief. For I sincerely believe that it's a decision that will change the course of world history for the worse.

After that Trump was a breeze. I cried but more from anguish than pain.

Months later when the guy bulldozed pedestrians off Westminster Bridge right outside my work place, I made a point of walking across the bridge many times to and from work thereafter.

Brussels, France. France again. Germany. Idiots sacrifice others for misguided reasons. This has always happened of course. Right now, political instability, rising nationalism, a 24-hour news cycle and social media are the forces working to create a playing field fueled by suspicion, worry and protectionism. If continued, the Hunger Games may become non -fiction in years to come.

Maybe it's disingenuous of me to lament this latest tragedy because it is closer to home. Manchester is my patch. More so than places like Syria, Sierra Leone or Papua New Guinea where many young people endure unthinkable suffering and die every day.

Last night I checked on my six year old before I went to sleep. She looked so peaceful in repose. Such a contrast to her high energy antics during the day. I stared at her sleeping face and was struck by her vulnerability and also my own. It occurred to me that someday in the future we would be parted. I felt a physical pain in my chest and snuck out of her room.

It was an Ariana Grande concert those kids were at. I can imagine their excitement, going to a concert with their parents or unsupervised with their friends. I remember going on my own to my first concert. It's a rite of passage, something I hope my daughter experiences one day. You don't go to a concert expecting to die. Until recently this wouldn't even have been in the lexicon of 'concert going.' But with Bataclan and now Manchester, it is becoming so.

Walking home from school yesterday, my six year old told me about her day. They had been learning about an African animal that was becoming extinct.

People kill it because they think it brings bad luck.

What does it do that is so bad? I asked

Nothing. They just think it is bad luck.

So the animal does nothing but they kill it anyway? 

Yes.

That's not very fair.

Life's not fair Mum. Don't you know that? Life's not fair.


It certainly isn't.