Julie - Stream of Consciousness

I’m a bit stuck at the moment.  I have a beginning and an end, but there are a lot of loose threads in the middle which I cant tie up without lots of coincidences.  I know Thomas Hardy got away with it but I don’t know if modern readers are as tolerant.  I think the idea of cherry picking scenes and writing like that interests me, but I need to get the structure sorted out like Gary suggested, with sections and bullet points like Sandra said is also a good idea.  I’m a bit fed up with the main characters name as well.  This is more difficult than I thought, I’m glad I learnt to touch type, its like having a typing test but getting away with p

Please note: no class next week

Hi all - First of all, because it's half term next week, there won't be a class. The next class will be the 9th of June.

 

This week's assignment is to do an exercise to defeat writer's block called 'freewriting'. All that you need to do is to take exactly two minutes to write about something - it could be about how your novel is going or it could be a stream of consciousness in the head of one of your characters. Take some time to prepare for it mentally, and then, when the second hand reaches the twelve, go for it.

 

What I want you to aim for though is to write as much as possible in two minutes. A prize will be awarded to the writer who manages the most (obviously this is all done on the honour system). You can write it by hand and then transcribe it onto the blog, but don't cheat - no editing allowed afterwards.

 

So just write - how you feel about your novel, something about the characters, whatever comes into your head: It might end up something like this:

I've got three characters so far and only one of them seems to have come alive perhaps I need to make the others more important but then they're boring so do i really need them maybe I should introduce someone else an antagonist maybe is that how you spell it no matter I mean something more interesting - a new scene? what about the one I've got at the moment in the Forest of Arden, that's really working for me...

OK - below is a precis of what we covered last time:

 

 

Defeat writer’s block

It may be that no amount of time or space, no amount of research, no knowledge of one’s subject, plot outline or theme, no help from teachers or self-help guides, and no reading of other novels makes any difference: you simply can’t write.

This is writer’s block, and it may have many causes. One of the most common is psychological. It often affects beginners. Beginning writers often feel that whatever they write isn’t good enough. They feel inadequate. The fact is though that nearly all writers feel inadequate. Philip Roth said: ‘What you develop is… patience with your own crap, really.’ Writers, even those with several novels behind them, often feel doubtful that they can produce another one, and even wonder vaguely how they wrote the others. 

But the trick, as Roth implies, is just to write: write whatever comes into your head, no matter how ‘crap’. After a while there will be something there to build on. Eventually something will lead you off in an exciting direction. Writing is the exercise of a muscle that gets more supple the more it is used.

Bearing this in mind – that writing begets writing – another method of defeating writer’s block is to write something that isn’t your novel. Try, for example, alternating non-fiction and fiction writing. Or, if you don’t have any non-fiction projects to hand, try writing a diary, or a blog, or a letter to a friend. These may well suggest something that will have you running back to the novel.

Another method for defeating writer’s block is to do something entirely unrelated. You can play a sport, or do some gardening, or do anything physical. This allows the conscious mind to rest and the subconscious to take over. When you return to your desk you may find that the problems you were experiencing seem less intractable.

Or, if you’re already some way through your novel and it has a stalled feel to it, try changing some fundamental aspect of it. Change your main character’s name, for example, or their sex, or their location.

Or try writing your book non-chronologically. If you’re stuck at a particular place, zip forwards to the next scene that really interests you. In fact, there’s no need to write those intervening scenes if they’re not interesting. Just leave them out. What was it Elmore Leonard said? ‘Leave out that parts that readers tend to skip.’

See you on the 9th,

Gary

Real Life to Fiction - Hilary

Real Life to Fiction event.

My parents separated  when I was 12 in 1963(very unusual in those days), and I remember the panic and surprise I felt at the time when I was told.

Novel re-work

Ellen kneeled quietly on the dark blue sofa, her small six year old fingers fiddling impatiently with the moquette fabric. 

“ I don’t understand why he’s not here yet” she whispered to Grace, her key worker whose head had popped round the door.

The sofa sat in the bay window giving Ellen a clear view up and down the road. She had been kneeling with her back to the room, waiting for her Father’s bright yellow Hillman with the black roof to appear.

“ Ellen, sweetheart, come here. It’s no good waiting – he’s not coming today, or any other day soon.” grace was fiddling around in her skirt pocket looking for a cigarette.

Ellen turned to look at Grace. Her face exhibited a look of absolute dismay. “ What? “ she said

“ Why not? He always comes to see me on Fridays. He always brings me a new book!”

“ Well he ain’t coming this week sweetie. Your Dad’s been sent down! He’s been a naughty man and he’s paying for it now.” She breathed in the smoke deeply before blowing it towards Ellen.

Ellen could feel a strange fluttering in her stomach. Her Dad’s visits were the only thing that she had to look forward to in this awful place. Since her Mum had been taken away she had felt so completely abandoned. Then at last, her Father had managed to track her down through Social Services to Maidshulme Children’s Home.

Those first visits had been so beautiful. He had brought photographs of the days when they were all together. She had received, for the first time in her short life, presents addressed ‘To my wonderful daughter’. Each week, at the end of the timed visits, she would look lovingly at her father and succumb being swept up in his strong arms to enjoy the hugs and kisses before he left again.

The fluttering had turned to a worse feeling of rising panic. She felt sick. She turned and ran out of the room, up the stairs and into the small cupboard where she always hid when she felt sad or vulnerable. It was about 6 feet square, more like a small room. The walls were bright blue.

Ellen locked the door behind her and as her eyes filled with tears, she looked up at the ceiling. It was amateurishly painted dark blue with white splodges fashioned with the end of the paintbrush, to look like stars in an inky sky. She wanted, she so wanted to be up there with them.

Note: My father wasn’t in prison and I wasn’t brought up in a children’s home either! Happy home life, but a very upsetting time when I was 12 which is why I remember it vividlyJ

Julie - From Real Life to Fiction

Real life:  I was upset when Elvis Presley died (and we had a ginger cat called Paddington!).

Novel:  August 1977

When Cassie arrived home she heard ‘Separate Ways’ blaring out on the record player.  She wandered into the kitchen, expecting to see Helen making some sort of effort to prepare a meal, but instead the kitchen was empty except for Paddington, who was sitting on the working top licking the milk left in one of the morning cereal bowls.  Picking him up and stoking his silky ginger fur, Cassie strolled into the lounge.  Helen was sprawled on the settee, surrounded by piles of screwed up pink toilet paper.  Her eyes were red and she was sobbing uncontrollably.  Cassie dropped Paddington, who mewed and rushed back into the kitchen with his tail up and fur ruffled.

‘Mum, whatever is it?’ asked Cassie, kneeling by the settee and picking up one of Helen’s lifeless hands.  Cassie hadn’t seen her like this for years, not even when Granddad had died.  Helen looked up, as if from a trance.

‘Elvis is dead,’ she sobbed.

‘Oh Mum, is that all?’  Cassie put her arms round Helen and hugged her.  Helen shook her head but Cassie, who had spotted an unfamiliar bottle of pills on the coffee table, didn’t notice.  ‘I’ll make us a cup of tea,’ she said as she stood up and, shaking, she picked the bottle up and went out.

Sandra: Real Life and Fiction

On  Thursday 20th June 2002 I helped with the delivery of my first grandchild Annie.

"Our hearts have met,
 Our hands have touched
 And Nanny loves you very much" xx

====

I was tired. I had just sat down with a cup of tea and kicked off my brown brogue shoes when someone knocked at the door.  Sighing, I heaved myself out of my chair and walked in stockinged feet to the front door. I opened it to find May Baker standing there looking anxiously at me.
'I am sorry to intrude Janet but its our Doreen. I think she's getting near her time'.
Smiling at May I invited her to come in whilst I got my bag together.  I liked May she was a kind woman
who would help anyone. God knows how she ended up with a daughter like her Doreen.
Doreen who had dismissed my advice to stop smoking and cut out the drinking as scare mongering. I wondered how Doreen would cope with labour and giving birth, certainly not quietly if she were true to form!
'How often is she getting contractions?' I asked as I struggled to put my swollen feet back into my shoes.
'About every fifteen minutes.' May replied.
'Right, best get our skates on then May'. I squeezed May's hand. 'Lets go and get this grandchild of yours safely into the world'.  Mays face lit up and she smiled happily as we walked down the path together.

It was a hot, humid day. The purple angry sky promised a storm. I always make a point of noting the weather when attending a birth. Babies born when its raining have trouble sleeping.  Babies born when its windy suffer from colic something terrible. Babies born on sunny days have sunny natures and those born on cloudy days are by nature quiet and reserved.  Trust Doreen to have her baby in the middle of a thunderstorm!

Doreen was standing by the door when we arrived. Her hands wrapped around her swollen belly. 'Thank God you are here', she cried before another contraction took hold causing her to grip the door frame till her fingers turned white.  Together, May and I manoeuvred Doreen back into the house and slowly up to the bedroom. Halfway up the stairs Doreen's waters broke. She screamed 'Oh my God I have pissed myself'.
May laughed. 'It's only your waters Doreen, nothing to worry about'.
With Doreen safely ensconsed on the bed I set out my bag and instructed May to boil up the kettle and saucepans of water. Taking my trumpet out of my bag and warming it in my hand I hold it against Doreen's stomach. Listening for the babies heartbeat and any signs of foetal distress. I can hear a faint beat but guess the baby is further down the birth canal than I thought. Moving the trumpet down I am rewarded by a strong resounding thump, thump.
I examine Doreen and can see she is fully dilated.  Infact I can feel the babies head. 'Right Doreen when you get the next contraction you must push as hard as you can'.  Quickly I lay out the towels that May had put out and call May to bring the water upstairs.  Doreen whimpered then screamed. I screamed back 'Push, push I can see the head, One more big push'. May held her daughters hand and Doreen swore and pushed and screamed and I supported the babies head and turned the shoulder ready for the next contraction.
The cry of a mother as her child passes the final distance through the birth canal into the bright new world is unique. A cry from the soul, animal like and yet beautiful. I have assisted at many births but each time it is special. Each time I cry.
'You have a little girl'. Doreen. She is beautiful'.
'Poor little sod' Doreen cries as I rub the baby vigorously with a towel waiting for that first cry.
With a gasp and wildly clenched fists baby Sarah Baker exclaims indignantly and loudly as lightning flashes
and thunder grumbles overhead.

Peter--Adapt Real Life

Sentence:    John and Tim went paddling in their kayaks around the headland.

Following Nochoska the bear’s swirling white body as he swam through the clear waters, Niquishun and Ned in their kayaks found themselves paddling along the coast past Cliffords Cape.  The sky above was a piercing blue and in the distance the snow-covered mountains appeared like a frozen tsunami   At their foot, the weathered glaciers lay pale green, the whole scene brilliant reflected in the still waters.

As they rounded the edge of the Cape, Niquishun, who was some distance ahead, suddenly gave out a violent cry.  Ned frantically accelerated and, as he glided alongside his friend and gazed across Howlett’s Bay, his jaw dropped and he gasped.   Stationed two miles away, the largest rig he had ever seen in his life.   “Gawd,” he cried and looked across at his companion in utter astonishment.

Nochoska hadn’t stopped but continued to swim towards the monstrosity.  Overcoming their shock, the two men followed almost in a state of awe.  As their kayaks drew closer, just 30 metres or so away, they felt so small and insignificant.  For as Ned and Niquishun stared upwards, the rig towered l5 storeys or so above them, like some kind of mechanical mega-dinosaur.  It was bristling with cranes, derricks, cabins, offices and  gangways, chains and helipads, all topped off with radar.  Ned’s heart sank.  How could they possibly defeat such a monster?

Adapt real life: Assignment for the week

Hi - below is a quick precis of what we covered last time. This week's assignment is 1) to take a real life experience and express it in one sentence, and 2) in a paragraph or two, re-work it and slot it into your novel, using your characters (much as we did in class).

 

Adapt real life

Can you just slot real life into fiction? I would say yes – but with modifications.

There are essential differences between what happens in life and what happens in books. You only have to look at what novels are for. They are there to entertain us, whereas real life is not often very entertaining. They create meaning, whereas real life often seems meaningless. They provide escape, but what are we trying to escape from? Real life, naturally.

Dramatic events such as car crashes and mafia hits may have happened in real life, but may still be weak in novelistic terms.

Here are some ways to adapt real life:

• Change the point of view. Make your real-life event happen to any of various characters in your novel and see how they respond. Remember, you should always have an eye on how the real-life event illuminates your character or contributes to the plot.
• Use any ‘found’ dialogue, but bear in mind that real dialogue is often circuitous, pointless, repetitive, and full of false starts and hesitations. Adapt it so that it illuminates character or moves the plot forward. If there’s no dialogue in your real story, include some.
• Make sure you look for the emotional angle. The books you have enjoyed the most almost certainly moved you in some way to wonder, terror, amusement, pity, excitement, etc. Aim to reproduce the same effects.
• Make your real-life story suspenseful by withholding details.
• Include conflicts between characters as a cause or result of the real-life event. In the car crash referred to above, for example, make the driver of the car the adulterous lover of the passenger. Invest events with significance.

In most cases, a novelist’s job is not to transcribe a ‘slice of life’ onto the page, unworked and unchanged. There is almost always the potential for improvement. Why else would people ‘embellish’ stories when they tell them? Don’t force yourself to keep to ‘what really happened’ out of loyalty to real life. A novel is not a biography or a newspaper article. It is a different beast, and satisfies different desires.

 

See you on Thursday,

Gary

Tony: Rushton 3rd and 1st person narratives

[set in 1955 - the Rushtons are staying at the house of Jolyon, Rushton's brother-in-law]

3rd person

Jolyon’s voice simpered on in the adjoining room.  Pamela was asleep upstairs.  Rushton lowered himself into a capacious armchair.  He sat back and sipped a glass of water.  The aspirin were beginning to work.  His headache was beginning to ease.  A sense of expansive relaxation was suggesting itself to him.  He looked around the lounge for some outlet for his thoughts.

Jolyon’s record-player sat there beside him: large, squat and glossy.  Rushton glanced at the record on the turntable – Chopin...

He pressed the switch indicated, and the needle dropped abruptly onto the record – a loud thump came from the speakers.  Lifting the nearby record cover to his eyes, he made out, in faded print, the very first item that would be played – but the music was already beginning, and he needed no prompting...

The Barcarolle!  That first, wistful, resigned declaration of the piano, as if announcing that here, if you cared to listen, the final response to all the questionings of the heart could be found – here you might find an answer to the unfulfilled hopes, the unresolved yearnings of the past...

He had last heard this music whilst waiting for the results of an examination to be posted up in the vast hall of a London medical college.  The midsummer day had been sweltering, and, through the open window, the sound of a piano had filtered into that echoing place, delicious as trickling water.  It seemed to announce that here, just now, the moment had come to enjoy the fruits of one’s labours.

Yes, he had passed the exam.  He had walked out through the swinging college doors, and hoped to hear that music again.  But no – like a bird it had flown, and he had to be content with the humid, fly-ridden heat of the wide London street.

How long ago that day now seemed!  He had taken a walking holiday in France with a student friend, but had become ill with pneumonia on his return, and had spent some time in a hospital on the South Downs.  Then, as if opening another book of the years, he had met Pamela...

The secret message of the music seemed almost clear – if he could only listen to it closely enough, he would know what it was that he had wanted all those years ago.  He could almost smell the polished floor of the college hall, almost hear the echoing steps of the students around him and their boisterous voices, and see the dust filtering through the sunbeams that shone through the open door of the Dean’s office.

He had walked through those swing doors a dozen years ago, and that music had evaded him, until now.  And still, as he sat here, he could only try to sift through the answers which those years had given to all his hopes and endeavours.

The door from Jolyon's hall opened, and Pamela, yawning, came in, as if in search of something.  She was surprised to see Rushton sitting there alone.

“Why are you here?” she asked.  “I thought you were coming upstairs to bed.”

“My head was bad.  I thought I would rest.”

“Not much chance of that here...  What a noise!”

“It’s Chopin – I’ll turn it off.”  The Barcarolle was over – a sturdy, indeed almost strident, Polonaise had begun.  Rushton leaned over and switched off the record-player, knocking his glass of water onto the carpet in the process.

“Oh dear...”  He sat back with a sigh.

“Have I disturbed you?”  Pamela pursed her lips and turned to go.  Her gait was deliberate (for she was expecting their first child) and her footsteps heavy.

Rushton rose from his chair.  “Where do all our dreams go?”

“Sorry, dear?”

“I was just reminiscing...  I’ll just get a cloth, and then be right up.”  He walked towards the kitchen door, fingering his chin slowly.

1st Person (ie Rushton himself!)

To recall the past!  It is only rarely in my experience that an unexpected memory returns.  I remember one occasion, when we were staying at Jolyon’s, a few weeks before Stephen was born.  I’d had a bad headache most of the day.  Jolyon, to give him credit, didn’t expect too much of me – in fact he spent most of the time lecturing the others about his new movie camera.

Pamela was tired – she had gone to bed early.  By luck I had some aspirin with me, and by the time I was thinking of retiring to bed myself, the headache was beginning to ease.

Jolyon was still talking next door – his capacity for discourse never ceased to amaze me.  I sat down next to his record-player cabinet – a sumptuous affair with polished wooden panelling.  There was a record on the turntable, and leaning over I could make out the name of the composer – Chopin.  I pressed a button, and the needle went down – loudly, needless to say.  The record cover was nearby, and I lifted it up - but the music was already beginning, and I needed no prompting...

The Barcarolle!  For some reason, I had not heard this piece for many years, yet for a long time it had held a special significance for me.  Chopin was a favourite in my student days, and on a day when I was waiting for some exam results in the college hall, I had heard – of all things – the Barcarolle being played on a piano somewhere beyond the college windows, filtering in from the world outside.

I suppose that there are often times when there is the temptation to look for, and find, some message which will confirm you in your own thoughts and inclinations.  I was at a point in life when it seemed necessary to make use of all the work I had done, to find in the world beyond the college walls something which would make my life seem worthwhile.

Such idealism!  In the event, I went abroad to France with Leonard, who was taking a walking holiday in the Auvergne.  It was pleasant enough, but my health was fragile, and on my return to England I soon found myself in hospital, being treated for pneumonia.

So much for exploration!  I had more than enough time as a convalescent to consider my future – what future?  A career in medicine seemed obvious enough, but would it be enough to satisfy the longings which, for some reason, I still associated with that piece by Chopin?  This had become a sort of talisman to me, which I kept in a hidden corner of my memory.

Once out of hospital, I returned to a world which seemed less likely to offer any easy answers to whatever hopes I had.  In the midst of this uncertainty I was invited, one evening, to a college dance – a casual enough offer, yet it was there that I met Pamela.  So the journey of exploration, which I had been intent upon before, became, instead, a shared journey with her – a commitment to something which we might create, together.

My musings, as I sat in Jolyon's lounge, were cut short by Pamela's arrival.  How well she embodied the here and now!  She came in, looking tired, and was not a little concerned to find me apparently enjoying life without her.  It was time to go...

ten novels - and the feelings they evoked

Top Ten Novels

In no particular order

Before I go –– Urgency, moving, sadness at a life cut short, uplifting

The Prime of Miss Jean Brody -  , -  recaptured youth, uplifting, pride in being a woman

The Girl who played with Fire –  second in the Stig Larsson millennium trilogy.. – drawn to finish it, carried along with the suspense, sad when I reached the final page, curiously stilted ending

One hundred Girls Tales – (This was the book which really started me reading seriously. I was eight years old and it was one of a number of book prizes that my mother had won at school – in 1928 - 1930 when she was 13-15 years old.) one story – Davey, a story of a girl who desperately wanted to work alongside her brother and father in the mines – and a fateful day when there is an accident in the mine……..

 Feelings – wanting to read it over and over again, great excitement, realisation that girls can and do things that were thought of only as ‘mens tasks’ – this stayed with me my whole life – maybe that’s why I am an Equality officer?

Snow Falling on Cedars – moved, excited, finally a feeling of extreme optimism for life

The Other Hand – fear, disgust at the immorality and hypocrisy of governments here and abroad, reflection.

Birdsong – very moved, utter compassion for the characters, drawn into their storylines

City of Joy – complete dismay at the way some human beings must live, turning to utter pride in the indomitable spirit of those who peopled this novel, thought provoking, life changing

The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet -  initially confused, eventually embraced by it. Exciting and stimulating, thoughtful

Ten novels and the feelings they evoked, by Gary

1. A Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy Toole – amusement, pathos, impatience, empathy, uneasiness
2. A Clockwork Orange by Anthony Burgess – excitement, disgust, indignation, horror, fear
3. Augustus Carp Esq by Henry Bashforth – amusement, contempt, exhilaration, surprise
4. Enemies by Isaac Bashevis Singer – sadness, longing, delight, suspenseful apprehension
5. Sabbath’s Theater by Philip Roth – amusement, grief, admiration, suspense
6. The Pork Butcher by David Hughes – sadness, longing, fascination, yearning for the past, compassion
7. Slaughterhouse 5 by Kurt Vonnegut – amazement, wonder, amusement, hilarity, horror
8. Crash by JG Ballard – disgust, uneasiness, wonder, amazement, fascination
9. A Passage to India by EM Forster – sense of immersion, suspense, curiosity, anger, awe, relief
10. Dead Souls by Nikolai Gogol – excitement, depression, admiration, elation

Julie - 2 Adjectives, 2 Adverbs

As Cassie stood in the deserted reception area and signed out, she noticed the door to the office was ajar.  Through the gap, she could see the yellow folder lying on the desk.  On an impulse, she crept round the end of the reception desk, pushed open the office door, and tip-toed in.  She leafed through the contents of the folder.  It contained copies of bills, a bundle of medical notes, and a carbon copy of a letter from the home to Charles Fletcher, thanking him for his most recent cheque.  Cassie gasped.  Charles was paying for Gerald to stay here!  A thought hit her like a freight train:  Gerald’s comment about his son could have referred not to David, as she had thought at the time, but to Charles.  As she considered this option, she was startled by the ringing of the phone on the desk.  She froze, staring at it without understanding.  The ringing seemed to become more insistent, forcing Cassie to act.  She threw the file back onto the desk and made for the door.  Then she heard the click of heels as the Receptionist walked swiftly towards the office to answer the phone.  Looking desperately round the room, Cassie dismissed the idea of hiding under the desk and darted, instead, behind the door.  Her heart seemed to be thumping on the outside of her chest.  The click of the footsteps stopped as the Receptionist crossed the carpet between the doorway and the desk, picked up the phone and announced ‘Twilight Years Nursing Home’.

Names - Margaret

a nail bar
Dexie’s Delightful Digits
or Fabulous Fingers
or Fliss’s Flirty Fingers
a yacht 
Twist & Turn
or Rock and Roll

a mid-american town  
Hucksville,
Starville, 
Little Midton

a graphic novel
Sketchit Woman,
or Fixitman

a Chihuahua
Nano pooch or Yap-yap

a forger
Count R Feit (and his sister Connie Mann)
Arthur Frank Aurger aka Art F Aurger

a set of quadruplets
Thora, Dora, Laura and Norah Quattro
Holly, Molly, Dolly and Polly Forth
Gail, Rainé,  Hailey Blizzard and their brother Sonny

a new religion Arkism - A new religion for those that believe the world will be swamped by a tsunami due to global warming. They aspire to living on mountains and building boats.

a provincial newspaper
Cheddar Gorge Echo,
Wookey Weekly,
Tuesday Street Weekly.

a chocolate bar
Scrummy,
or Seventh Heaven,

Tony: Rushton title discussion

[Edward – Rushton’s younger son.  Bamburgh Castle – on the coast of Northumberland]

The hospital ward was getting crowded.  The clock ticked its way past four o’clock.  Rushton watched Pamela and Edward from his bed as they squeezed their way out past incoming visitors.  Before she was through the exit door, Pamela turned, and looked again towards him.

What was in her look?  Uncertainty?  Concern?  Breathlessness overcame Rushton again, and he fingered the oxygen mask, as he lay back.  He examined, as so often, the ceiling above him.

He had seen that look of hers before, and the slight smile of enquiry which accompanied it.  He remembered the seashore and the wide morning sky, years before, walking under the ramparts of Bamburgh Castle, one July.  Edward was walking ahead, as usual, immersed in some reverie of his.  And he, Rushton, had been immersed, in a quaint thought which had struck him.  The strong wind was battering at their coats, flapping their sleeves.  Pamela had turned around, and waited for him.

“What is it?  Are you worried?”

“No!”  He had laughed softly.  “I was just thinking of what you were saying last night.  Supposing he did write about us,” (and he motioned his hand towards Edward’s distant, striding figure).  “What would he call the book?”

“Unlike you, to bother about such things,” she had answered.

It had been unlike him.  Lying today on this bed, it was as if he walked again on that wide shore, wondering where life would take him – him and all of them.  Edward had graduated that day – he had walked, with his absurdly long hair, up the steps to receive his degree.  And he, Rushton?  What had he been doing, and where was he going?

The questioning of that far-off year was with him again.  Every once in a while, life caught you full in the face, as it were, and asked you to stake your claim upon it.  You walked out of the common round of days, and found yourself on a sweeping shore of sand, the waves racing away, the distant Farne Islands crisp on the horizon, the clouds far out over the glimmering bay.

“Edward had thought of ‘The friendly years’”, Pamela had said.  “It sounds a bit odd to me.”

Was that title still worth thinking of, twenty years on?  Needless to say, Edward had never written the book.  Rushton was tired of romantic notions of far journeys and destinations.  He would rather have things concrete, graspable, measureable.  Besides, lying here on this bed, nothing seemed distant, as he watched a nurse opposite checking the blood pressure of a patient.  His life was shrunk down now to a jostling ward where peoples’ names were written out by marker pens on a white board – Mark Lane, John Rushton, Sarah Bennett.  A frightening familiarity held people together here, as they waited for the doctors to pronounce judgement.

Had the years been so friendly?  He supposed they had.  Pamela, her hair blown back in the wind, had walked along that shoreline twenty years before.  He had answered her then,

“We’ll have to see how friendly they are ...”

She had taken his hand and they had walked together, as Edward, almost lost in the bright morning sunshine, had turned towards them questioningly.  The sands stretched far ahead, riddled with streams and pools from the outgoing tide.  Those twenty years, friendly or otherwise, had run their course now.  Yet still she had turned her head towards him in the hospital today - to see where he was, to see how he was doing, to wonder if she had better stay.

He would rest here now.  Pamela and Edward would return this evening.  He would lie here and wait.  It was all he could do.  But the years would wait with him.

Assignment: Hilary - Two adjectives and two adverbs

Ellen was angry. The tickets for the Paris trip remained on the table. As she gazed at them, she felt a warm rush of tears welling up. The ticket envelope taunted her mercilessly, the red cover promising something now out of reach. She picked up the envelope and tore it to pieces, before gently placing them back on the table and walking out of the room.

Tony: Rushton "senses" narrative

[set in 1949 – Pamela and Rushton are engaged - Rushton has offered to buy Pamela a dress as a sort of engagement present - not the wedding dress(!)]

It was a late May afternoon in North London.  The rain was easing now – Rushton drew in his umbrella – Pamela stooped to adjust one of her shoes which had caught on a shiny wet paving stone.  The last cool drops of rain insinuated themselves under Rushton’s collar – he brushed them away wearily...

“It’s up this little lane, isn’t it?” he asked.

“Yes – at the top there...”  Pamela was gazing at a man who passed by wearing striped red and blue trousers and carrying a sumptuous black leather briefcase under one arm.

“What a strange idea!” she mused, following the man with her eyes, as he drew a sparkling blue handkerchief from his pocket, and flapped it open.

“All things are possible, dear,” Rushton brooded.  “What colour did you say this dress was?”

“It’s pink – a sort of gentle pink – I think you’ll like it.”

At last the windows of the little boutique came into view, with the name, “Vivienne’s”, embossed above the door in dainty script.  A silent tableau of radiant figures was displayed behind the window – a young man in resplendent blue blazer with silver buttons, hand in hand with a young, petite girl, whose thoughtful eyes gazed out beneath a fetching wide-brimmed hat.

The door opened as they approached, and a living girl, also petite, smiled at them.

“Hallo, Vivienne!  This is my fiancé, John,” Pamela announced with rosy red cheeks, as she turned to Rushton and almost whispered, “This is Vivienne, darling.”

Rushton, feeling himself under scrutiny, albeit affectionate, smiled congenially as they entered.

“I’ve been invited to see the dress, seeing as I'm the...er, benefactor,” he explained, though he knew, in any case, that he was expected here.  Pamela had already disappeared through a little blue door to the rear of the shop.

“It’s a little unusual,” Vivienne confided.

“So I gather.” Rushton breathed in the scent of cotton, and other, indefinable fragrances.  He stood there, transplanted, as it were, from the terrestrial world outside, at liberty now to gaze at a wistful assortment of feminine things.  Indeed he seemed to have been assumed, bodily, into the temple of femininity itself: head-scarves, floral scarves, shawls, wraps, and an array of hats in delicate pastel shades.  Where was he to begin?

“Here it is!”  Pamela had changed into the new dress and returned.  She was standing in a small alcove opposite them, next to a tall oval mirror.

So there it was!  Rushton found himself suddenly gulping, swallowing for no apparent reason.  His eyes moistened - he blinked rapidly.

There was no doubt that it was her dress.  Coloured gentle pink, as she had said, it was slightly above ankle length, falling in simple folds about her neck and arms, and drawn in slenderly at the waist.

She was telling him, he felt, something about herself with this dress, and something about her feelings for the forthcoming marriage – adventurous yet reflective; beautiful, yet also homely in its measured appeal.

And she was to marry him!  This was what had caught him, unawares.  There was a sweetness in her which outraced all irony, a gentle intent which had surprised him here – here where she was free to be herself.  The colours and the fabrics surrounded her, like hopes and expectations – and somewhere, in all these hints and suggestions, he could sense, by its unique effect upon him, the mystery of love...

Sandra: Adjective/Adverb paragraph

Doreen was making a great show of tidying the lingerie display whilst in reality doing nothing at all.  A fact that had not escaped the eagle eye of her supervisor Mrs Farmer.
'Doreen.' She said sharply, 'If you have nothing better to do you can sort out the new delivery from Contessa'.  Doreen scowled and then replied with a forced smile, 'Of course Mrs Farmer'.
Doreen had been working at Braydons Ladies Fashions for two whole months. It was the longest time she had managed to hold down a job but she was rapidly tiring of the novelty. In the hot and  cramped stockroom Doreen looked at the pile of boxes waiting to be unpacked, checked and sorted with a sinking heart.  She looked at her watch,  "Two hours till her lunchbreak".  She decided to start on the special orders and picking up her scissors cut the strings from the biggest box.  She checked the order number against the special orders book. "Olivia Manson-Green".  What a name she thought and conjured up in her mind what a lady with such a posh title might have ordered.  The white tissue  paper around the package was opened out to reveal a dress.
Doreen had never seen a dress so beautiful.  A delicate shade of cornflower blue made with the softest shimmering silk, cut quite plainly but with a hand embroidered bodice. She could not resist holding the dress up against her.  Mrs Farmer was busy on the sales floor with a customer, Doreen rushed into a changing cubicle.  "There can be no harm in it." She thought as she pulled off her navy skirt and white blouse with great haste.  Soon her work uniform was replaced by the soft silk of the dress. It fitted her as if it had been made for her the colour enhancing her own blue eyes.  Doreen flicked her hair and pouted her lips in the mirror, stifling a giggle. She glanced down at the price tag and any dreams she had of owning such a dress vanished in the wind as she realized she was wearing six month's wages.
'Doreen, customer.'  Mrs Farmer's voice rang out across the shop.
"Oh Shit" Doreen thought as she struggled with the zip. "Any second now, the old battleaxe will be in here after me".  It was no use the zip was stuck, she would just have to try and squirm her way out of the dress.
Wriggling furiously and sucking her stomach in Doreen managed to get the dress over her hips only to hear the straining fabric rip as she caught the heel of her shoe in the hem.  Off balance she stumbled and half fell out of the changing room into the waiting arms of Mrs Farmer.


====
    

Peter--Passive, Active use of Adverbs

Passive/Active
The boy dug the flower bed with a spade.
The flower bed was dug by the boy with a spade.

Surprising Use of Adverbs
He laughed hideously.
She complimented him piteously.

Sentence Combination

As he laughed hideously, the flowerbed was dug by the boy with his spade and his mother praised him piteously.

Top Ten Novels - Julie

1.         The Time Traveler’s Wife – Audrey Niffenegger

(He time-travels, they both write about their meetings at various times in the past/future)

            Mentally challenged and exhausted, physically upset – I did actually cry!

2.         The French Lieutenant’s Woman – John Fowles

            (An enigmatic woman fascinates a 19^th century gentleman)

            Entertained but ultimately cheated by an inconclusive ending

3.         The Wasp Factory – Iain Banks

            (A youth living an isolated existence develops bizarre rituals)

            Shocked, frequently amused and surprised by an ending I hadn’t seen coming

4.         Far from the Madding Crowd – Thomas Hardy

            (A woman considers three suitors)

Like several of Hardy’s other novels, this elicits feelings of frustration (at the plot), pity for the characters and admiration of their tenacity – all that walking!

5.         Let’s Go Play at the Adams’ – Mendal W Johnson

            (A group of children kidnap their babysitter)

            Shocked and sickened – it must be 20 years since I read this, and the feeling           remains

6.         The Hobbit – J R R Tolkien

            (A quest through a fantasy land)

            A sense of wonder and total immersion in Biblo’s world

7.         Carrie – Stephen King

            (A girl uses her telekinetic powers to exact revenge)

            Horror with some empathy for the young girl and her circumstances          

8.                  The Hitch-Hikers Guide to the Galaxy – Douglas Adams

(A human escapes from earth before it is demolished and its original purpose is revealed)

            Entertained and humoured

9.         Angels & Demons – Dan Brown

            (Clues lead the hero on a race against time through Rome)        

            Thrilled, admiration at the research and a desire to visit Rome!

10.       Winnie the Pooh/The House at Pooh Corner – A A Milne

            (The adventures of a ‘bear of very little brain’ and his friends)

            Comforted and amused

PS  I read a book in the late 80s about a couple escaping from the Champagne region of France during the Second World War – I think his family owned a vineyard.  I cannot remember who wrote it or what it was called.  If anyone has heard of it, please put me out of my misery, as I would love to read it again!

Sue: ten books

Middlemarch, George Eliot
Absorbed, deeply moved, caught up in suspense re how characters would resolve societal expectations, the judgements of others and their personal feelings/romances.

Mayor of Casterbridge, Thomas Hardy
Compassion, pity, sadness...and foreboding tempered by exasperation re plot (too many unhappy/fateful coincidences).

Candide, Voltaire:A satire, taking the premise of "all is for the best in the best of all possible worlds”
Amusement, increasing horror and frustration ..left me disturbed, thoughtful, philosophically challenged.

Gormenghast Trilogy, Mervin Peake (Titus Groan, Gormenghast, Titus Alone)
Dazzled, delighted, amused (especially with the inventiveness and allegory), awed, engaged, enchanted.. kept in suspense re how Titus’s life story would play out and disappointed to be left at the end of the trilogy with many unanswered questions.

Terry Pratchett, any
Tickled by the humour, satire and spoofs, impressed with his background knowledge, delighted by the word play, warmed by feelings of familiarity and recognition when re-entering Pratchett’s Discworld.

Neuromancer, William Gibson: Labelled as the Father of cyberpunk fiction
Troubled, excited, fascinated, awed and engrossed – challenged to think about potential of technology, whilst enjoying the suspense, romance and thrills of the plot; disappointed to be tilted back into the real world when I’d finished… left me with high anticipation of the next book in the series.

The Portrait of a Lady, Henry James
Pity for Isobel’s life and times, dismay re the decisions she makes; totally stricken by her final choice and the romantically unhappy ending.

Post Office, Charles Bukowski: Low life loser’s account of working in a menial post office job – with appalling but enlightening accounts of being a cog in a wheel in his job and of his seedy life and times outside work.
 
Outrage, pity and amusement .. felt uncomfortable with and troubled by the degree of empathy I felt for such an awful/disgusting character.

Tom’s Midnight Garden, Philippa Pearce
Captivated, deeply touched - simultaneously heartened, sad and satisfied by the denouement.

If on a Winter’s night a traveller, Italo Calvino: Hard to describe to those not familiar.. 'You' are the main character - the Reader of Calvino’s story. However, the full text for Calvino's novel is not available. The reader is as frustrated as Calvino, who then gives us the beginning of another novel, then another, and another...each story compelling, each one breaking off. Chapters alternate between 'you' the reader searching for the missing ends of the books, and the beginnings of the books themselves. Themes include the nature of reality and the subjectivity of truth.

Exasperated, fascinated, intellectually challenged, and finally relieved that there was some sort of possible resolution of the plot.

Peter--Top Ten Books

‘MAIGRET’S   FIRST   CASE’ by George Simenon.

 I enjoy the smell and atmosphere, when Maigret, nursing a Pernod, is on surveillance in a small café.

‘LIFE   AND   FATE’ by Vasily Grossman.

The fear and boredom and horror generated by war; one passage was so excruciatingly sad I could hardly bring myself to read it.

‘MY UNCLE SILAS’ by H.E.  Bates

I loved the earthiness of the portraits of Uncle Silas in his cottage and his jolly, devil-may-care attitude to living.

‘THE   ARABIAN   NIGHTS’

The colour and mystery of these fabulous tales created a lifelong fascination with the East.   (Especially those editions illustrated by Edmund Dulac).

‘OLD   GORIOT’ by Honoré Balzac

Pity and sorrow are aroused by this tale of an over-indulgent father brought to ruin by his selfish daughters.

 

‘A   PATTERN   OF   ISLANDS’ by Sir Arthur Grimble.

These tales of high adventure in the South Seas are a rich mix of courage and comedy and spirits (both kinds).

‘ALONE   IN   BERLIN’ by Hans Fallada

This poignant tale elicits compassion and loathing and horror at the harrowing battle of ordinary decent folk against the armies of officious, vicious bullies unleashed in Nazi Germany.

‘MY MOTHER’S   HOUSE’  by Colette

I was seduced by the charm and warmth as Colette recaptures her childhood and the affectionate portrait of her mother, the garden and pets.

‘KIDNAPPED’ by Robert Louis Stevenson

The ups and downs of friendship set in the beautiful Scottish landscape amongst the tough, terse people who inhabit it, is always a pleasure to read.

‘DAVID COPPERFIELD’ by Charles Dickens.

The rich cast of colourful characters induces compassion, sadness, contempt and humour and is never dull.

      

10 novelists continued

The Handmaid's Tale (Margaret Attwood):

Absolute horror, fear, understanding, enlightenment

Captain Corelli's Mandolin (Louis de Bernier):

Cultural journey, romantic, desperately sad

Coming Home (Rosamund Pilcher):

Satisfying old-style romance, family saga

1984 (Orwell):

Truly terrifying, horrific journey into possibilities

Birdsong (Sebastian Faulkes):

Horrific journey into this country's past, emotional journey with characters

The Other Boleyn Girl (Phillipa Gregory):

Convincing history, tinged with romance

Ferney (James Long)

History, with past lives theme, dealing with who we might be

One Day:

Personal relationships in 80s society, with memorable cultural backdrop,

Ferney (James Long)

+ Jane Eyre and Crime and Punishment from a previous blog...

Jacqueline (What an almost impossible job - I just wanted to say 'loved it' for every novel....)

10 novelists homework

Jane Eyre (Charlotte Bronte)

First romantic awakening (loved Old Rochester...) but with a lot of admiration for integrity of characters.

Crime and Punishment (Dostoevsky)

Wonder, amazement, horror.

Sandra: Ten favourite books.

Feed My Dear Dogs - Emma Richler

Family rules, values and humour.

Made me feel enriched and grateful
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Five People You Meet In Heaven - Mitch Albom.

Story of the death of an old man and the five people who influenced him most. Some known, some not known to him.

This book was addictive. Very thought provoking and challenging. I felt inspired by it.
_______________________________

Jude the Obscure - Thomas Hardy

Heartwrenching story of a simple man with two loves.

Made me cry. Great sadness and despair.

----------------------------------------

The Killing Floor - Lee Child

A brutal thriller.

This made me recoil and shudder at the violence, but  I was also very attracted to the main character by
his strength and power.

------------------------------------------

Stern Men - Elizabeth Gilbert

Story of the lobster wars off the coast of Maine.

I have ralatives in Maine so the book had an added interest in that it was set  in a place that I know.
It made me feel nostalgic and evoked many happy memories.

--------------------------------------------

Tuesdays with Maurie - Mitch Albom

The tale of the relationship between a terminally ill college professor and an ex-student who visits him each Tuesday.

Having spent many 'Tuesday Afternoons' in a similar situation recently I realised that like the protaganist what started off as a sort of resentful obligation changed with time into something very precious and important to me.
So I think revelation would be what this book gave me.
----------------------------------------

The Firemasters  Mistress - Christie Dickason

A historical romance. Based on the life of Guy Fawkes and his long suffering mistress.

I felt the passion,lust and desire of this book.  I  smelt the gunpowder and felt the sweat and dreamt of being carried away by Guy Fawkes for many weeks after!!! 

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So He Takes The Dog - Jonathan Buckley

Detective story with a difference

Suspense , impatience, anticipation and excitement.

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Eleni - Nicolas Gage

Not sure if this book qualifies really as it is a Biography. I loved it though so it gets in my top ten.

The book was full of love and humour. I felt angry at the injustice of Eleni's death and also a deep longing for cold retsina and olives. Yiamis..

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The Trumpet - Jackie Kay

A very sensitively and beautifully written story of a transgender relationship.  This is my number one at this moment in time.

The book made me realize I am far too judgmental and have prejudices I was not even aware of. It made me feel an insensitive oaf.  This book is the last kiss from a lover you know you will not see again. Exquisite.