Kathryn Freeman's Blog, page 19

What I learnt this week: Thursday 28th May

Cricket – it’s a funny old game.

Now I know that most you who are kind enough to read my ramblings will groan at the title (except for my lovely father-in-law. Keith – this one’s for you!). The thing about cricket is that it has a reputation for being a bit, well, boring. And despite the advent of 20 over cricket, there are many who still can’t understand why anybody would want to sit all day watching a few men in white try to hit a red ball with a stick of wood.

Having been surrounded by the game all my life, I’ve come to like it. Not love it, you understand, but like it. As a child I watched it on the television with my dad. After a well deserved break I managed to fall in love with a man who, guess what, didn’t just watch it but played it, too. Marriage led to children, which led to my husband rolling balls at my two sons to hit with a toy bat before they could even stand.

So now I watch my husband and sons play cricket. Below, the batting pair discussing tactics at the end of an over …

Is it still a bit … boring?

Honestly, yes, it can be. It can also be incredibly cold, heart breaking (getting out to the first ball they face – ouch), worrying (yes I know they wear a helmet, but I don’t like that hard ball getting anywhere near their head). But last Saturday, seeing the last wicket pair of my husband and youngest son bat out 19 overs (that’s 114 balls to you and me) together to save the match, was nail biting. The opposition just needed to get one of them out to secure a victory, but they clung on for over after over, hardly scoring (they needed far too many runs to actually win) BUT not getting out. The opposition went from cocky, to frustrated, to admiring. Here is my son with fielders surrounding him, waiting to catch an edge. He didn’t give them one.

When they came off the field, they were greeted by their team mates like conquering heroes. Yet all they’d done is stodge out 19 overs.

As I said, it’s a funny old game.

 

 

 

 

What I learnt this week: 14th May 2015

Teeth – you take them for granted, until they cause you pain. I’ve never experienced toothache before, but now that I have I don’t want to experience it ever again. Agony. Sadly it looks like I’ll have to because I’ve managed to crack my back tooth and though the dentist has tried to repair it, he thinks it will continue to cause me pain until it decides to shear off. My bathroom cabinet is fully stocked with painkillers and clove oil.


It’s amazing how a combination of pain and lack of sleep scramble the mind. And how, when you’re at a low ebb, life decides to take the piss and throw a few more hurdles your way. I get up after only a few hours sleep, thanks to the aforementioned toothache, to find the motor on the fish tank filter has burnt out, leaving the fish in a dirty, oxygen deprived tank. Scenes from Finding Nemo came to mind. Having rescued the fish and put them in a bucket (with some water, obviously) I set out to the nearest fish aquatic centre and it’s there, when paying for the new motor, that I promptly forgot the pin number on the card I’ve been using practically every day for the last 5 years. Thankfully I had some cash on me, but as days go, I’d probably had better ones. Regular readers of this blog will be delighted to know it wasn’t Googley’s tank that was affected. He was looking smugly down at them from his spotlessly clean, airy, penthouse (below photo). Considering how the other fish once bullied him, I daresay he even managed a small smile, though it’s hard to tell with a fish.

The cricket season is back with a vengeance. Only others who sit in a windy field on a May evening to watch their children play cricket can possibly understand how bitterly cold it gets. Ignore the bright yellow sun – it will soon hide behind the trees or the pavilion, whichever it finds first. The wind though, that will continue to gust down your neck all evening.  Essential kit for cricket watching in May: gloves, scarf, two fleeces, boots, thick socks, padded jacket with hood, hat, flask. And if it looks like a lovely sunny evening – still take all these. You WILL need them

What I learnt this week: Thursday 7th May 2015

Effort versus reward 

I love my new story, Search for Truth (good job, too, because if I don’t love it, readers don’t have a chance of even liking it). I’ve become hugely attached to Jim, the stubborn, determined, fiercely driven (and blindingly handsome) research president of Helix pharmaceuticals. And I so admire Tessa, the frankly spoken, fiery journalist who’s on a mission to discover whether Helix’s new cancer drug killed her mother. That being said, I’m now on my fourth read through in as many weeks, and, whisper it, I’d really rather be reading something else. I’m nearly there though. When I submit these line edits at the end of the week, I’ll only see the manuscript once more, at proof. After that, it’s up to my kind readers to take on the challenge of reading it – though you won’t be asked to wade through it more than once.


Over the last few days I’ve cooked roast chicken, cottage pie, butternut squash and chorizo pasta and sausage and mash. Yes, only the last meal on that list had my family licking their lips.


Teenagers studying for exams are even more monosyllabic than usual. They have my utter sympathy though. I may hate getting older, but I’d hate going back in time even more.


A few weeks ago I mentioned that it’s the plants in my garden that I have nothing to do with that thrive the most. First the cherry blossom put on a spectacular display for me. Now it’s the turn of the pink azalea to reward all my years of neglect with this stunning bloom.

Is there a message hidden in these rambling statements? Well, to my revising son, the message is clear. If you put the effort in, you should then reap the reward.

Alas we all know this isn’t always the case, as with my cooking. The meals I put most effort into, were the least appreciated. With the azalea it was the opposite. I put no effort in, yet am rewarded handsomely each year.

As for my book, only when it’s read by somebody other than me will I  know whether all the effort has been worthwhile.

Here’s to a rewarding summer, for all of us.

What I learnt this week: 30th April 2015

The nitty gritty 

I’ve just received the line edits for Search for Truth. Yes, come on , you should know all about this one now. It’s about a tale of love in the pharmaceutical industry. Cue photographs to get you into the spirit.

 

So, this round of edits is a line by line sense check of my manuscript, and what it means for me is my final chance to make any real changes. It’s a daunting prospect, but it’s also the part I’m better at. I find it relatively easy to look at a sentence and check it reads okay next to the sentence before it, and the sentence after it. I’m rubbish at taking the paragraph, the chapter, the whole story and seeing where it works, and where it doesn’t. This is because I get too bogged down in the nitty gritty. Removing the extra that’s which jump into the sentence when I’m least expecting it (sneaky little devils). Swopping my sentences round and swopping them back. Taking out an and to make two more definitive sentences. Then perhaps putting it back again because it’s too stilted otherwise. Okay, I faff a bit. 

It’s why I’m so grateful to have an editor to help me. And this might sound sad, but having incorporated her suggestions from my first round of edits, I’m now looking forward to reading this manuscript again. Okay, I know exactly what’s going to happen, but I have a chance to see whether the changes I made really work. I thought they did at the time, but this read through will be with (relatively) fresh eyes (I doubt fresh is ever a word I can use to describe myself now…).

So bring it on. Let’s just hope I’ll still be this excited about Search for Truth this time next week.

Of course after that, I will only get to read the manuscript one more time, at proof. This is when I really can’t make any major changes. And when suddenly major changes are the only things I want to make…

What I learnt this week: 23rd April 2015

Sometimes it’s better to leave things alone

It started with my cherry tree. For most of the year it sits in the middle of our patio and just … well, is. But for seven glorious days in Spring the pink blossom comes out and it looks, frankly, stunning. Like something we’ve cultivated and cared for throughout the other fifty one weeks, when really all we’ve done is, umm, nothing. Of course soon I’ll be cursing it as the blossom falls, creating a slowly decaying pink carpet that will cling tenaciously to the patio slabs. For now though, it is a spectacular burst of colour that lifts the heart just to look at it. And according to what I’ve read, because we’re having such cold nights, the blossom may actually survive a little longer this time.

The cherry tree isn’t the only thing thriving in my garden at the moment. I’ve spotted further blossom, even more delicate. This from a tree – or maybe a bush? – that is so neglected I didn’t even realise we had it. And I certainly don’t know what it’s called.

Having taken a few proud photographs of the blossom, I sat at my desk and prepared to re-look at a novella I’m working on (while waiting on the line edits for Search for Truth). It’s my third read through of this book and it wasn’t long before I realised I was changing a number of sentences back to how they’d been on my previous draft.

Silly things:

Letting out a deep sigh, he put his head in his hands.

Putting his head in his hands, he let out a deep sigh.

Seriously?! Worse, I probably agonised over both changes.

And it doesn’t always stop at a few lines. On a second draft I’ve been known to add a whole chapter, or a prologue. On the third draft I’ve deleted them.

I can see you’re getting confused. What has this got to do with my blossom? Well, all I’m trying to say is that sometimes it’s good to meddle with things, but equally sometimes it’s best to leave things well alone.

For me, in the garden … I definitely believe I’m best leaving well alone.

When I’m editing … sadly I’m still trying to work that one out.

 

 

 

 

What I learnt this week: Thursday 16th April

I finished my first round of edits on Search for Truth – my fourth book, due out hopefully at the end of next month. My first featured a barrister, my second a doctor in a refugee camp; the idea for this was born from a desire to write about something I knew about for a change. No, not romance (I still don’t know much about that) but the pharmaceutical industry. Following the advice of my very astute editor one of my major edits was to add a prologue so the reader can immediately understand what motivates my heroine to do what she’s about to do (hah – that’s the part where I add a drum roll). I also gave my hero and heroine some time in Rome – how kind am I? It’s a business trip, but as Search for Truth is still very much a romance I had to let them have some fun. They sampled gelato by the Trevi fountain, but thankfully it didn’t look like it did when I visited last October. Throwing a coin into an empty fountain just didn’t cut it.

On other book news, I’ve just reviewed the typeset manuscript for Too Charming. It’s coming out in paperback in June and I can’t wait to see it. Having a book published at all is an incredible feeling, but to hold your paperback in your hand … it’s almost as amazing as holding your newborn. And a lot less exhausting.

And in other news …

My eldest son is learning to drive and we now have a lovely mini with L plates on. I’m coming to realise that whilst to him the L means learner driver, to other road users it means License to overtake, cut me up and generally drive like a lunatic near me.

I planted petunias and pansies in my hanging baskets and pots last weekend. I’m worried that my gardening genes haven’t switched on yet because I don’t do this task out of love, but a desire to see pretty pink flowers when I’m drinking my rose in the sun. Though I do talk to them when I shove them in the soil, its only to say ‘don’t die you bugger.’ Maybe, despite all other signs to the contrary, my genes aren’t old enough yet?

What I learnt this week: kids really age you

I know I’ve just had a ‘big’ birthday. That now when I tick an age range on a form it is the 50+ bracket. That when I have to give my date of birth I need to scroll down forever before I find my year. In common with most people my age though, I don’t feel much different to how I was twenty years ago. Then someone in their fifties was middle aged, bordering on. But I’m not.

The trouble is, my cute little children now tower over me.  There was a time they looked up to me, were even impressed by me (okay, maybe I made up that one). Now they beat me at all the things I used to be better at.

I’m the swimmer in the family. I’m the one who does eighty lengths twice a week.  When I take them, they do a hundred. 

I run twice a week too – maybe more of a shuffle, but I get out and do it. They rarely bother, but when they do they zip past me, laughing in my red, sweaty face.

I pay tennis. I’m not great, but I play for my village club. And yes, you’ve guessed it. Where once I would wait patiently for ages for them to get the ball over the net, now it comes over so fast I barely get a racket to it.

Part of me is proud of them. The other part is really, really miffed.

There is still one thing I have over them. I can drive. But where once I was strapping my eldest into his car seat at the back, now he’s sitting in the drivers seat.  He’s not beaten me on this one, yet. He’s still learning, still taking notice of what I say. But give it a few months and he’ll be off on his own.

How can that be, when I’m not old enough to have a son who drives himself to school?

What I learnt this week: he said, she said.

It’s week two on my edits for Search for Truth and I’ve finished going through the manuscript once, making all the major changes. I’ve added, shuffled and deleted bits.

Now it’s time to check that I’ve added, shuffled and deleted the right bits.

One thing I’ve been conscious of changing quite a lot is the word said.

Janet said

John said

And though my heroine is Tess and my hero Jim, I hope get my drift. When I’d grown beyond the reading stage and into the writing stage at school, I remember being taught he said, she said was very monotonous. Find different ways to express it.

Now I actually call myself a writer (gulp), I feel the weight of this responsibility even more.

And there are a host of other words to choose from. Here is my crib list. I’m sure there are many more (and if you think of them, please let me know!)

Informed, told, replied, asked, whispered, mumbled, muttered, demanded, taunted, teased, mocked, grumbled, breathed, drawled, scoffed, bellowed, ventured, stated, countered, retorted 

Sometimes these work well. They really add to the spirit of the conversation. He scoffed gives a sense of not just who is saying the words, but how they are saying them. The attitude behind the words. I can often hear my husband when I use the phrase.

‘Do you really need this many boots?’ he scoffed.

[Answer: yes]

Then trouble is, we say things in a multitude of different ways and it’s not always possible to pin the emotion down to this small list of words. I can cheat and add words after said though.

He said tightly, gently, mildly, lightly, harshly, jokingly … you get my drift.

And many times I can get away with just the speech because it’s obvious who’s talking. Or I can interrupt the speech with a he frowned, he went to shut the door (other phrases are available).

But whilst I’m worrying about all this, will my reader care? I’m not sure I even notice the use of the word said when I’m reading. Is that because I’m so engrossed in the dialogue, or because the writer has cleverly drip fed the word, mixing it with a variety of others throughout the book?

Finally, I look at Lee Child.

The guy said, ‘So that’s our legal advice?’

Reacher said, ‘Noted.’

His books are riddled with saids. And it doesn’t seem to have done him much harm, does it?

So I hope, if you read Search for Truth, your focus will be on what is being said. And not on whether I actually used the word said …

 

What I learnt this week: descriptive text

I received my editorial report for Search for Truth last Friday, and started editing on Monday. It’s the fourth time I’ve worked with an editor, and the second I’ve worked with this lovely editor, so the process isn’t new.

And I love it. It’s wonderful to see suggestions on how the book can be improved, and know that they’re right. Putting these suggestions into action can be hard, but that’s the challenge and the fun. Plus the end result is always a better book, so it’s worth the brain ache.

My heart sunk a bit when I saw this comment though.

Detail: Take care to mark each scene. Description, atmosphere.

Here is where I hang my head in shame. I hate writing descriptions. Give me action and speech and the words flow like warm syrup. Ask me to describe where this action or speech is taking place, and they turn into sticky treacle.

The problem is that as a reader, the setting just isn’t important to me. My hero and heroine could be in the snow, the desert or by the sea. I don’t care. I get lost in the dialogue and the action. Where it’s taking place is very much secondary to me. In fact (and yes, my head is now hanging so low it’s touching the floor) when I read I tend to skim over descriptive text.

So you see the wonderful descriptions below? Umm, yes, I would have skipped over these and onto the dialogue.

‘In the late summer of that year we lived in a house in a village that looked across the river and the plain to the mountains. In the bed of the river there were pebbles and boulders, dry and white in the sun, and the water was clear and swiftly moving and blue in the channels. Troops went by the house and down the road and the dust they raised powdered the leaves of the trees. The trunks of the trees too were dusty and the leaves fell early that year and we saw the troops marching along the road and the dust rising and leaves, stirred by the breeze, falling and the soldiers marching and afterward the road bare and white except for the leaves.’ Farewell to Arms. Ernest Hemingway

‘They came in by train from Victoria every five minutes, rocked down Queen’s Road standing on the tops of the little local trams, stepped off in bewildered multitudes into fresh and glittering air: the new silver paint sparkled on the piers, the cream houses ran away into the west like a pale Victorian water-colour; a race in miniature motors, a band playing, flower gardens in bloom below the front, an aeroplane advertising something for the health in pale vanishing clouds across the sky.’ Brighton Rock. Graham Greene.

‘The studio was filled with the rich odour of roses, and when the light summer wind stirred amidst the trees of the garden, there came through the open door the heavy scent of the lilac, or the more delicate perfume of the pink-flowering thorn.’ The Picture of Dorian Gray. Oscar Wilde

BUT I KNOW I’M ODD!! There’s a reason why these writers have gone down in history as literary geniuses. Clearly, to most readers, powerful descriptions are important. They help to place them right in the middle of the scene or action.

So I’m going back to Search for Truth now and I’ll endeavor to add some detail. It won’t be Wilde or Hemingway, but it will be better than it was. Promise.

What I learnt this week: the next book

I have recently signed a contract with my publisher (Choc Lit) for what will be my third book with them, my fourth altogether. It wasn’t the heart thump excitement of the first contract, but it was a long way from routine. I’m not sure when, if ever, I’ll feel like a ‘proper’ writer. Is it on the tenth? The twentieth? Never? 

So what of this next book, for which I’m eagerly awaiting the first round of edits? It’s a departure from my others…no, no, I’ve not gone into science fiction or crime. It’s still very much a romance, but this time I deliberately chose the setting. The first three books (and others I’ve worked on since) all began with the characters. It was they who determined what they did and how they met, hence ultimately deciding where the book was based. But his next book came from my desire to write about something I knew. The pharmaceutical industry. I’d loved researching law (Too Charming) and refugee champs (Do Opposites Attract) but there was always the worry that I hadn’t worked in either, so I didn’t really know what I was talking about. Nothing new there I can hear some of you mutter.

‘The Pharma Book’ is how I first referred to it. In those early days it wasn’t a romance or even a story. Just a book set in the industry I’d worked in for over twenty years. Here are some capsules, which are only a fraction of what that industry is about, but  do help break up the monotony of all this text…

The trouble was, because I wasn’t starting from characters I’d lovingly developed, but from a setting I knew, I struggled to get the book off the ground. It was only when I took myself out of it – stopped thinking of the places I’d worked in, and the people I’d worked with – that my imagination cranked into action and the book took off in my head.

So for readers of this blog who I’ve been fortunate to work with – relax. There will be nobody you can identify in this book. The joy of being a fiction writer is making things up. I don’t want a hero based on someone I know (oops, if my husband is reading this, of course they’re all based on you, sweetie). I want something more. I want a fantasy. The same goes for my heroine, and the others who feature in the book. There’s no fun for me in writing about real life, when the stuff in my head is so much more interesting.

I don’t have timelines for Search for the Truth yet (I hope that sounds better than The Pharma book, though Choc Lit may decide to improve it further). Fingers crossed it will be out in the next couple of months, but watch this space for dates and the cover reveal.

I may not be a ‘proper’ writer, but I am a very chuffed one