Kate Genet's Blog, page 9

It’s An Addiction

It’s been two weeks now since I finished my new novel Building Character and since then I’ve been too busy with editing and formatting to do any writing. After putting 117 000 words on the page in that book over a period of three months, you probably think I must be in need of a holiday anyway.

But I’m already starting to get that ‘itch’ again. It’s a restlessness that can only be cured by writing. I love the whole creative process so much, that I’m only really at ease now when I’m writing. It’s practically an addiction.

I’m actually behind (my self-imposed) schedule for this year. I took a whole unanticipated month off writing at the beginning of the year and when I did finally knuckle down and start Building Character, it soon became clear that this book would take longer than the two months I’d allowed for. There just turned out to be a lot of story in that story. And I enjoyed writing every word of it.

I’ve so many ideas for books, I’ve the whole year booked. I know exactly what my next full-length novel is going to be about – and for those of you lovely readers who have told me in no uncertain terms that they want to see more of Scarcity from the short story of the same name, you’ll be pleased to know that I’ve discovered she wants to be part of the next book, even though the main character won’t be Teresa but someone else. Scarcity will fit right in though, I know that already. I can see the story in my head, all that’s left is to start writing it.

Before I dive headlong into that particular book, however, I’ve a number of smaller projects I want to finish up. There’s the short story version of Fat Pat and the Accidental Death of Maryanne, which I’ve decided I want to include in an anthology of short horror stories (just for fun, don’t ya know), and there’s also another Michaela and Trisha story waiting to be finished. It was supposed to be a short story too, but so far it’s sitting at almost 20 000 words. I don’t expect it to be too much longer, but with those two characters, I can never quite tell.

So it’s not time to start another novel yet. I need to finish some of those small projects I amused myself with working on when I felt like a break from the long stuff. They’re fun and I like them too much to leave them all unfinished.

All the same, I really can’t wait to start the next novel. Novels are where my heart really lies. I relish the opportunity to burrow deep inside a story and tell it from start to finish, to live it like I’m right there with the characters. They’re my favourite thing to read, so I suppose it stands to reason they’re my favourite thing to write.

Ah, so many books to write, so little time.

In the meantime, faithful reader, keep an eye out for Building Character – it should be out as an ebook late next week. I’m bringing this one out in print too for any of you who like the heft and smell of ink on paper. I’m really excited to find out what you think of this new one – a bit of the old biting-your-nails nervous excitement, but looking forward to the feedback all the same. If any of you are bloggers or reviewers who think you might be interested in an interview or reading the book to review, just shoot me an email.

Tomorrow however, I think I’m going to have to do some writing. Finish one of those short stories, I think. Just to keep that itch from turning into a rash.

(I almost forgot – I’m going to post the first chapter of Building Character sometime in the next few days; you might wanna watch out for that too! I’ve also made a board on Pinterest with pictures that remind me of characters and places in the novel if you want to have a look.)

Filed under: Writing Journal

Telling Stories With A Jar of Pickles

In this blogging challenge, I was given three nouns to use, in any way I wished – the only requirement being that all three must be included under one subject. Lucky me. The nouns are: pickles, chills, and snakes.

Besides my bovine-oriented job as a milk harvester, I also spent a lot of time over the years working in schools as a professional storyteller and running creative writing workshops for the children as well. A hugely enjoyable job, I only reluctantly gave it up when I realized that Fibromyalgia not only put a stop to the active style of performance I gave – jumping around, acting my little heart out – it affected my memory so that I could no longer rely on being able to tell a story straight through, even the ones I’d performed for years. It is not a pretty thing to get half way through the story of the Magic Porridge Pot and realize you cannot remember the words to make the pot stop boiling. Especially when fifty adorable five and six year olds are gazing up at you like you’re the best thing they’ve seen that wasn’t on television.

But it was great work while I could do it, and the kids and I had a lot of fun in the workshops as well. Usually only having an hour to impart as much writerly wisdom into their darling heads as I could, I concentrated on the absolute basics.

Which funnily enough, are still the basics even when you’re grown up and calling yourself a proper writer.

First – and this was especially popular with the little kids – we would spend some time playing with language. Literally playing. I would tell them all about how wonderful and fun words can be, to say, hear, write – words like ‘pickles’, which if you say it often enough, actually kinda tickles inside your mouth. (Go on, try it, I bet you want to). Then we’d throw a ball around and whoever caught the ball had to say a word they liked – for any reason, whether for the way it sounded or what it meant. Usually I would have a room full of giggling kiddies giving me many great examples of onomatopoeia by this stage of the game.

The next job, for the older kids as well, was to work together to write a passage encompassing both action and description. But I had specific criteria for the description.

A lot of people, when they’re writing, only describe things using one or two of the senses. Showing what the character sees and hears are the easy ones, but to really make a scene come alive, what about the others? How things smell? Feel? Taste?

I always picked a scary scene for the older classes to describe – I found that when they were getting the chills, they were more apt to use their language and their senses more creatively. (Or maybe I just had more fun when we were writing about someone lost in the woods in the middle of the night, I don’t rightly know, come to think of it). But the whole thing worked a treat. Learning to filter scenes and action through all your senses is an important part of discovering how to write with life, depth and authenticity. Plus, the kids had a terrific time describing the dangerous slithering of snakes through the undergrowth, the pungent smell of damp earth, the gritty, sour taste of that soil in your mouth when you tripped on a hidden tree root, the sudden hoot of a snowy owl, the yellow light of a torch running out of batteries. We all had a great time.

I still do. Whenever I write a story.

Filed under: Writerly Workbox

Cows With Guns

(It was my turn to choose the blogging topic today. I dread to think what sort of payback the beloved has in store for me)

Several years ago, before I developed Fibromyalgia, a chronic pain syndrome, I was working two part time jobs and studying full time at university to become a qualified secondary school teacher.

One of those jobs was working in a dairy shed as a milk harvester, which is just a fancy way of saying I milked cows. Six hundred and forty of them to be exact, every afternoon and quite a few mornings. It was hard, physical work that gave me fabulously toned arms and I actually rather enjoyed it. It’s hard to believe now, that I ever worked such a job – out in all weather, some mornings so cold that the water that washed the cups would be frozen on them by the time the platform had traveled the two feet to where I stood. On those mornings the first thing I did as the cows lined up would be to fill a bucket with steaming hot water to dunk my hands in every few minutes to thaw them out.

It was a dirty job. You learned very quickly to skip out of the way whenever a cow looked like raising her tail. Then it was a case of wrestling with a high pressure hose thicker than my wrist to wash the muck away. When I first started milking, I wasn’t even strong enough to use that hose. By the end, I had that sucker well and truly licked.

I enjoyed the animals, admired the ones that were intelligent enough to have figured out that if they were first in line to be milked they were also the first to get back to the paddock. The cows were pretty easy to like though I pitied them their life, hustled back and forth to the dairy shed twice a day. Bulls are another matter of course, as I almost found out to my detriment the day I wasn’t paying attention and almost rammed a suction cup onto a bulls gonads. Not something I recommend anyone trying.

Whatever you can say about milking cows however, you can’t claim that it’s in anyway a mentally stimulating job. I was forced to take care of that myself.

For a while I contented myself with thinking up names for the cows as they travelled around the spinning platform. I never dreamed I knew the names of so many flowers. And trees. And clouds…

Growing bored with that, I graduated to practicing my rusty French on them. Bonjour ma belle cherie, comment ca va aujourd’hui? Vous etes une vache tres belle.

Then, just to mix things up a little, I tried naming them again. In German. It was soon apparent how much of that I’d forgotten since leaving school.

I remembered two poems I’d learned for German oral tests, however, so the lucky animals were treated to repeat performances of those.

Then poems recited in English. In a variety of exotic accents.

Finally, one afternoon, I shut up and listened to the radio for a while.

For some odd reason that the radio DJ probably thought was funny, a song called Cows With Guns was played at least once every morning and afternoon at milking time. It was a local radio station in the middle of one of the biggest farming districts in the country, so hell yeah, that guy knew what he was doing.

Cows with Guns.

Fat and docile, big and dumb

They look so stupid, they aren’t much fun.

Cows aren’t fun.

They eat to grow, they grow to die

Die to be et at the hamburger fry.

Cows well done…

Well, since the cows I was currently staring in the rear end of weren’t beef but a dairy herd, I wasn’t too worried about an imminent cow insurrection. So my mind wandered from the song to murder in general.

As is apt to happen without enough mental stimulation.

And from murder to the issue of that mighty document, the Last Will and Testament.

And back to murder.

How, I wondered, if I were a man, would I kill my wife so as to get away with it?

I whiled away almost the whole afternoon on such pleasant thoughts and soon had come up with an interesting idea. Or if not precisely an interesting one, at least an almost amusing one, if you’re easily amused by such subjects.

The cows continued on their circular journey around the milking platform, the machinery humming, the milk flowing and I decided how to murder a wife and maybe even get away with it.

Two years later I wrote a blog post called Fat Pat and the Accidental Death of Maryanne.

Man with tum, murder well done.

Filed under: Writing Journal

Are Writers Born or Made?

(This is part of a new blogging challenge the beloved and I have set for ourselves, with a topic chosen each day from any of the wide-ranging discussions we indulge in. They may or may not be writing-related but we will both be blogging on the same subject, without reading each other’s effort until our own is complete and posted. The beloved is, of course, the talented and hard-working author and writer in several genres, Kelli Jae Baeli, also a prolific, thought-provoking and entertaining blogger who is determined to kick my lazy ass when it comes to blogging. She decided on today’s topic – watch out for my pick tomorrow.)

Here’s a news flash – I’m a major Stephen King fan. No surprise, I’m sure, given the type of thing I write. I was a tender and innocent twelve year old when I discovered my first Stephen King book – Carrie – on the shelves of a second hand bookshop.

This was in the early ‘80’s when horror fiction was enjoying the tail end of a period of fashionable success, helped along in no small measure initially, I’m sure, by the book and subsequent movie The Exorcist (which I watched, then read, not long after that first time of mine with Stephen King, and which caused me to radically re-evaluate my desire to be an exorcist myself when I grew up – that and the fact that my mother had informed me, much to my disappointment, that we were not Catholics, a prerequisite apparently, for the legitimate performance of the exorcism ritual).

I went on to read every one of Stephen King’s books I could get my grubby little mitts on, along with other such luminaries of the horror genre as John Saul, Dean Koontz, Richard Laymon, Graham Masterton, and the list goes on (can’t forget Peter Straub either). Even today, I enjoy Christmas mostly notably because there is usually a new King novel to buy and read.

Several weeks ago I discovered one book in his formidable list that I had missed. How I’d made this oversight, I do not understand, but when my daughter, fully aware of my taste for this dark side of literature, unearthed a tattered copy of ‘Firestarter’ from the dusty shelves of the local thrift shop, I looked at it in surprise, then carried it up to the counter, handed over my last fifty cents and went home to read it.

It turned out to be an interesting exercise.

King published Firestarter fairly early in his career – 1980, to be exact – and as I read it, I kept laughing over the amount of what I have come to term as ‘rookie mistakes’. In amongst the brilliant writing that Stephen King has become known for (deservedly in my opinion, ‘cos, you know, I’d be his number one fan if that part hadn’t been taken by the ever-so-crazy Annie Wilkes in ‘Misery’) there lurked all manner of writerly no-no’s. Adverbs abounded, sentences were occasionally convoluted, motivations were mixed, and credibility stretched within an inch of breaking point in the odd place.

In the end, of course, the story did what all good stories do and swept me along for the ride, but part of this obsessive brain of mine (the part that is pretty handy dandy at multi-tasking, bizarrely unlike the rest of me,) kept an amused eye on those rookie mistakes and I finished the book with a hopefulness that was only just short of uplifting.

We all start out as rookie writers. Writing is as much a craft as an art, and the craft can be studied, learned, improved. Read a lot, write even more, review, revise, re-envision, rewrite. Rinse and repeat. Daily.

I look back at my own efforts from just a few short years ago when I first tried my hand at fiction writing, and the difference in quality between then and now would be obvious even to the untrained eye. The improvement has come from both the serious study of the skills a writer needs and the serious application of them. Add to that a hefty dose of reading – in a variety of genres – always with some thought as to what that writer is doing, doing well, and completely screwing up, as the case may be.

Broadly speaking, it isn’t only an ideal to hone one’s skills as a writer until you’re laying down prose that’s sharp enough to cut the paper it’s written on (or, well, what would the digital equivalent be? You think one up, why don’t ya? Write them in the comments for me) – but it’s a necessity. An absolute necessity.

I’ve read a lot of books lately that just haven’t cut the writerly mustard. Put bluntly – and please excuse that adverb – they’re baaaaad. They’ve forced me to wonder why someone would go to the trouble and take the time (and writing a whole novel takes a lot of commitment, believe me) when they, bottom line, just suck at it?

I don’t think they know they suck at it. That’s the only reason I can come up with. There must be something in them that says ‘hey wouldn’t it be just super if I was a writer? Writer’s are cool. I can write a book’ – and so off they go with a little skip in their step to sharpen a pencil and start scrawling. Some of these people have made an obvious effort, and tried to learn the craft. You can tell these ones, because their books generally don’t suck quite so much, and perhaps if they kept at it, they might come up with a story, that if it were published as a print copy, wouldn’t be good only as toilet paper.

Others of them, you know are never going to make the grade. They just don’t have it in them. Those are the ones that really oughtn’t to quit the day job. I’m not sure why they don’t figure this out, but that’s one of the big mysteries of human nature.

So are writers born or made? I want to say anyone can learn how to write a sentence, shape a paragraph, learn the mechanics of a story arc, but I’ve been forced to the reluctant conclusion that I’d be lying if did. I think you have to have some modicum of talent to write in the first place. It doesn’t have to be much – an okay writer can learn to be a good writer, but the further up the totem pole you go, the less that holds true. A good writer is pretty much stuck just being good, I think. Great writers have an extra, indefinable something, that makes them learn the ropes easily, that lets the story flow, which through a magical, alchemical process, turns the words to literary gold. (And please, don’t take that literary to mean literary fiction, some of the best writers about wield their magic pens in the realms of genre fiction, and always have).

Those, perhaps, are the born writers. The best of the rest of us are born with some talent for sure, and a tenacity, a desire, and a proclivity for sweating words from our very pores.

(Read the beloved’s take on the same question at her blog The Synaptic Circus; I know I can’t wait to).

Filed under: Writerly Workbox

Accidentally Hit That Nail On The Head

I’ve discovered something about myself. And baby, it ain’t that pretty. Though having the epiphany was pretty cool (despite having to look that up to see how to spell it – I do know what it means though, just have this problem spelling shit these days). Anyway, where was I?

Oh yes, the epiphany. It started out as just a normal day, you know the sort – it was a dark and stormy night, I mean day, and I suddenly remembered that I had signed up to Pinterest, because, well, why did I? Oh yeah, it sounded fun and everyone else seemed to be doing it (which believe, me is not one of the criteria I generally require to choose to do anything) and I’d wasted – spent productively, I mean – spent several hours browsing around such entertaining and educative topics as pink hairstyles, voodoo dolls, and literary tattoos.

So, having the idea that Pinterest would be a fun way to add an extra dimension to my writing, I signed up and spent about zero point seven minutes dreaming about making a board with visuals from my new novel. I did this late at night, of course, and went away to bed thinking that I’d made progress just by signing up.

Of course, looking back, what happened next was inevitable (and herein lies the seed of my epiphany). You see, I forgot about Pinterest. I never did go back and do anything with it (though I did go back and spend time looking at some rather funny pictures of cats). I believe I have one board up on Pinterest, but that’s only there because my beloved signed in as me and did the work.

Oh, don’t get me wrong, I thought about making a board for my new novel Building Character. I thought about it several times in between totally forgetting about it. I would even get so far in thinking about it as to express to myself that it was a jolly good ideal old girl, and as soon as I could find the time, I’d get right to it by Jove. (No, actually I don’t really talk to myself like that, not unless I’ve had too much to drink, but it’s awfully more polite than what I’m known to actually say).

But I never did find the time. I never made the time either.

And following this train of thought right out of the station and several meters down the track has led to the epiphany.

I can’t be bothered.

I can’t be bothered doing all that much apart from writing stories. (And cooking and housework, but that not so much, come to think of it).

Added to the whole Pinterest thing, it seems that Americans don’t generally use the phrase “I can’t be bothered”, or at least my beloved apparently does not have a vocabulary equipped with that particular gem. Consequently I’ve been forced into noticing just how often I use it. Which is so often that she has suggested I put up a quote widget on this blog and have it load only the one quote – yes, you guessed it – “I can’t be bothered”.

Some of you may be finding this funny, or at least slightly amusing. I however, am forced to admit that I find it not amusing, but alarming.

Et voila, the epiphany.

I finally finished my new novel Building Character this week, congratulating myself on penning a main character with no resemblance to myself. She’s set in her ways. She only does what she wants when she wants it and if she doesn’t want it she doesn’t do it and if she doesn’t want to do it at that time she won’t until it’s more convenient, which often never happens because chances are that if she doesn’t want to do something enough to want to do it straight away, she really doesn’t want to do it at all. And so doesn’t.

Damn that sounds familiar.

Filed under: Writing Journal

How The Mind Does Wander (and Wonder)

A very random post showcasing some of the questions I asked myself today:

Does the brain continue to think, even for the shortest time, after a head has been decapitated? (Thanks to Q Kelly and her novel THIRD for leading me down this path).

Why is the word describing the phobia of long words – sesquipedalophobia – a long word? (Imagine being a sufferer and not be able to say what is wrong with you. My mind is boggling.)

Exactly how blithe do you have to be to be a blithe spirit? I guess there aren’t degrees, to blitheness (is that even a word?) but perhaps there are for blithe spiritness (that ain’t a word either). Maybe.

How many of the words I actually use, would I be able to give a direct meaning of, as though reading from a dictionary? (And why is it so hard to do this?)

Related to the above, what is Existentialism anyway? (Yes, by the way, I was actually able to answer that one. Probably the only one of these question I actually can answer).

If artificial intelligence ever becomes completely viable, will they end up thinking humans are stupid? (Yes. Yes, I suspect they will).

Why, when I hang my washing on the line, do I prefer the green pegs over all the other colours? Am I prejudiced when it comes to laundry pegs? (I quite like the pink ones too, actually).

Related to the above – did that bird really just crap on my head?

And there you have it. What’s more, that’s really only a fraction of the questions I ask myself every day. Curiosity builds strong minds. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

Filed under: Writing Journal

Building Character

I’ve been quiet on here lately for the best reason – I’ve been writing. And writing. And then writing some more. I’m terrifically excited about my new book and am pleased that the end is almost in sight, because I’m really looking forward to seeing what you all think of it.

This book has been a challenge to write. It’s exercised writerly muscles I wasn’t even sure I had, and I knew it was going to be this way when I started. But I like challenges.

It’s called Building Character and it’s a consuming tale of love, lust and sacrifice. I’ve had an awful lot of fun writing it and discovered talents for writing scenes I did not know I possessed. This book is hot!

Anyway, enough waffling, here’s the blurb, and the cover. This book is coming out in print as well as digital – my first book to do so. I can’t wait for you all to read it!

Fen Marshal believes in living her life exactly as she pleases. She’s a writer and a womanizer who has her fun and walks away before anyone has a chance to want more from her. It’s not part of her plan to fall victim to obsessive lust, and as for love, well that just never enters the equation.

But Ruby is the woman is the woman of Fen’s dreams – literally. Fen finds herself attracted and obsessed – besotted – with a particularly delicious character from one of her own noir fiction novels.

It’s an obsession that brings Ruby to life – somehow, who cares how? Fen doesn’t. Fen just wants to love this creature she’s manifested through the pure strength of her imagination.

There’s only one problem. Ruby is not a nice character.

Yes, she’s beautiful. But she’s also ruthless, possesses no heart or soul and doesn’t bleed.

She may just be the worst mistake Fen’s ever made.

Filed under: Writing Journal

Small, Untitled Poem

Buttered like toast

with words of love.

Soft and dripping,

you are filled,

satisfied,

I’m consumed again.

Filed under: Writing Journal

Buttered like toastwith words of love.Soft and dripping...

Buttered like toast

with words of love.

Soft and dripping,

you are filled,

satisfied,

I'm consumed again.

Filed under: Writing Journal

See the Writer at Work (It’s Like Watching Paint Dry)

Filed under: Writing Journal