A Tearful Journey

Inspiration hits. It hits you hard and sometimes you just aren't prepared for it. That happened to me whilst waiting for my 120 bus from Pontypridd to Caerphilly. It was a sad thought, concerning one of my most treasured characters, a person whom I'm mentally close to. Alas, the scene played out as my journey home begun, only to have tears rolling down my face. The other passengers started to look at me, of course they did. I was sat on a bus going home to a warm house. Why would I be crying? If only they knew the tragedy going on in my mind about a loved one... The tear-welling scene is still clinging to my emotions, tugging at every quiet opportunity. When I got home, I scribbled it down to keep for the future. Who knows, I might just use it.

Back On Track

My university had cruelly placed four 2000 word esays/reports within the space of just a week. So, clearly, not much writing has been done since. The stress was getting annoying. Anyhow, those assignments have been done and submitted. Yay! Since clearing the uni work, I have been getting back on track and writing the newest scenes of the sequel. I'm introducing new characters, and discovering them is all to exciting. Working on the novel writing month, of 50,000 words, is half way done!

Editing Sesh

Okay, I've heard writer's can get into editing loops, at first I thought I was in that same loop. But, I hadn't realized just how long it had been since I had last read Madeline from a critical POV. While submitting the first three chapters to everyone is exciting, within that three month period you seem to drift from the novel. And while those words that seemed familiar pop back up on screen, you're mind just finds ways to improve. One way I find it easier to edit and give more to your book rather than taking away is to read books. You'd be amazed by how much description is added during a character simply walking into an unfamiliar room. Every sense is involved, and if you write in the first person, personal thoughts and feelings regarding that room are evolved into a big experience for a tiny detail in the novel. It's the little things that count.

Primary sources

The joys of finding an original source for your reports is probably the most exciting thing in the world when you've been panicking over a deadline that's been pushed forward. Alas, my writing week has not been filled with the wonderful words of Maddie so far, it has been over taken by the panic and sweat, also blood and tears of a horrible historical report on the nature/nurture debate. Two days of solid cramming complete. Now I have all day tomorrow... *sighs* only one day left. Boo.

It's Been One Of Those Days

The rain is falling harshly, and the wind is blowing hard. Again, it's another awful day here in the Welsh Valleys. Popping your head out every half an hour to check whether or not that the box of fireworks you've bought a week ago will finally be put to use, was being something of a ritual. Success did happen, although we had to stop half way through and then begin again with the five remaining fireworks an hour later.
Still, the rest of the day has been one where Maddie is plaguing my mind. I've edited the opening chapter of her sequel, and ever since it's been burning on my brain. Why? I have no clue. Some might call it divine intervention, telling me to get on and edit the rest.
But, before any editing should occur, the book must be whole.
Large chunks of scenes are saved on a document, totalling up to 57,248 words without being pieced into a flowing novel and the bits in-between. Oh, and there are scenes missing.
Nevertheless, this book is complete... in a very dysfunctional form... but it's there. Plus, I have my trusted mind map of the plot. An outline always helps, for me anyway.
Following the flow of the multicoloured map, and Maddie's newest story is unfolding.

A Room Without a View

It's reading week (Hooray!) and thus a week of writing has been voluntarily thrust upon me. No assignments, no classes and a lie in. Fabulous.
Although, sitting at my desk - yes, it's the desk today and not the bed - I found myself scowling at my window. While others will class Wales as a mountainous vast green delight, my view today, however, had appeared less interesting and inspiring than a stale piece of bread. The rain fell so pitifully it blew into a thick mist. Those green tress turned grey as the clouds hid the sun, and the wind constantly howled.
My inspiring mountains and sunset were no where to be found, just an empty depressing slop of rain. My heart bled to see the neighbours cat sitting on the windowsill during it all.
Some might call no view a joy, that there is nothing to really watch, and no people to spy on. I like my view. I have the sunset, and without it I felt a little less than complete.
Of course, Wales is notorious for being miserable, wet and cold, but today was especially unexceptional.
Despite the dull view of the valleys, words did appear on paper - well on screen. A new scene. A scene I have no home for in my novel at the current time. It always happens. Random bits of the book jump out at me quicker than others, then I end up piecing them together, like I am right now with Madeline's sequel.
I still haven't had those fireworks, but on the plus side the novels are coming along. One scene at a time. Then it's time to sew them up.

My Writing Room

Lots of writers have a place that they like to hide away in and produce fabulous novels. Many like the structure of a solid table and chairs, a notebook and expensive pen at the ready, but others prefer the cushions of their sofa and a tablet or laptop. I'm the latter.
While most of my first novel, Madeline, was written on my netbook, a lot of the book was simply written down on anything. Various apps installed on my phone housed numerous scenes ready for emailing to myself. University lecture notes turned into dramatic scenes and so on and so forth.
I do have a desk. It's home to a stylish printer that I bought exclusively for printing my novel pages out and performing a hard copy edit. And for university assignments, too... of course. I love my desk. I have sat for many hours at the little wooden structure, paying no attention to the sun giving way to the night or the rumbles in my stomach.
The only issues I have ever found with that desk is that it's a distraction. Various cups hold onto neat little pens, markers - every writer has an obsession with stationary. Behind my desk is my bookcase, filled with the inspiring stories that have started me on my journey. Then there is my writing file, home to every edit I've made, some typed, some hand written. But the worst thing... the drawers. Whenever a moment of pure block occurs, emptying drawers and find things you didn't realise you had becomes strangely therapeutic. Even the old pieces of foam you had used three years ago from your art project lurk at the bottom waiting to be discovered.
The desk is far to tempting for me. That's why I prefer the comfort of my sofa, or my bed. Either is good. The bed has a duvet... pillows... a warm electric blanket underneath... a small corner shelf, perfect to hold cups of hot chocolate and such. It's pretty much my heaven when I'm not 100% goal orientated on a novel.
By that, I mean, when I have nothing else to really do. I'm a fully time student. My psychology degree and nail technician course keep me occupied and stressed over referencing the right person in the correct way so marks won't be deducted.
When I was waiting to start university, I had months of empty time, given that I only work part time on the weekend. I filled my time with my novel simply because I could. I lived for it. Those six months flew by far too quickly, even if my novel only took four of those weeks to actually complete.
So what did I do with the rest of it?
I didn't plan my novel. That's something that didn't occur to me being a first time novel writer. I had no clue of the ending ahead of me, and that, when it started to approach, frightened me a little. I didn't want to disappoint myself. Luckily, every idea spilled into another and then another until a whole chain of thoughts just made sense, and, fortunately, I wasn't disappointed.
No. What I did was think about writing. I had the characters, but no background on them. I wanted to know who they were. Writing them might've been a very good way of doing so, but, given my studies, I wanted to look behind them. I had to get to know Maddie and Nicky, to become their closest friend. It worked. They now pester me at the most irrelevant of times.
Another thing I did was Research, while my research lacked on the simple things such as location, since my novel is set in America (and I'm British), most of it consisted of research on the topic of Maddie's situation. I understood the basics, and anyone with a wild imagination can create a demonic bully, but I wanted to know the effects of it - and thus where my access to psychology journals took place.
So six months past, and I lived inside my head. No notebooks became full, and no words were typed until the last four weeks, maybe three if you count only three days into the fourth week. Every thought I had was processed, revised during countless situations until I found the best for my novel, and stayed locked inside my thoughts. I'm amazed how my memory holds out. The "Madeline" box in my memory must be due for a spring clean come the new year, so I can refill it all over again - this time without it taking so much time.