In My Wildest Dreams: Adventures in Children's Fiction

The remedy for rejection.

I am in that happy place - 20% into the first draft of a new book, which in this case translates to about thirteen thousand words - telling a tale to myself, finding out who inhabits it already and who else is to be met along the way. This is just as well, because of the ten agents to whom I have sent The Tall Story of Tiberius Small, seven have said no, albeit one was a near miss. I have three left in the mix, before I have to start thinking about buying a monochrome laser printer and sending out submissions on paper to the diminishing number of agents who still accept such things. An inkjet just won't cut it as far as printing text is concerned. I look forward to the time when all agents accept electronic submissions only.

Writing is the only remedy for rejection. Self-publishing doesn't quite do the trick. It is an aspirin; not quite as good as meditation as a way of clearing the head. And that's what writing is, when it is going well: a meditative state. It's only when the self-editing begins, that stresses come into play as you wrestle with the nuts and bolts of the construction that is creaking and wobbling and tilting in front of you.

So life is good. The story, the discovery of it and the writing remains the thing.

More threads than fingers.

I have been busy. On 3 October, I started writing a new book (That's three now in various stages.) I've been feeding my 1000 words a day habit and am 10,000 words from finishing this first draft.

As I knew I would eventually, I have stumbled this morning and only managed 300 words, which is why I guess I have turned to this blog again. I have spent the last six weeks or so (at least  for 3 hours a day) seeing the world through the eyes of my ten year old self. I have managed to amuse myself, so I hope my book might entertain others. A 10 year old is a 12 year old is an 8 year old is a 10 year old. I don't really believe one generation of children is much different from another when you scratch the surface.

Now with just 10,000 words to go (Ten days - that is the way I measure things, like small children counting 'sleeps') I have to pull all the threads together and leave no loose ends, except maybe one or two that  I can pick up in another book.

My hands are full. My fingers are busy. Can't afford to drop anything now :)                

A Sparrowhawk ate my homework...

... and other excuses. It sometimes doesn't take much to disrupt the writing. The appearance of the Sparrowhawk on the garden bird feeders did just that and my compulsion to video it (See it here). Then of course I had to tell my friends about it and Tweet about it, followed by a celebration coffee in Kitsch (My coffee shop of the moment.)

Fortunately, I had produced a significant amount of writing yesterday, as well as making some important decisions re: the structure of The Key to Finlac. A day off then is excusable.

This though is the stuff of writing stories. It is the accumulation of small things, the looking and the excitement of it and the desire to tell people about it in a way that is fresh and conveys the wonder of it all...