Raring to Write: Collaborating with others to get your writing out ...

Raring to Write: Collaborating with others to get your writing out ...: I've joined forces with a young artist in an exhibition of text and image. I wrote several short stories around the theme of characters we m...

Collaborating with others to get your writing out there.

I've joined forces with a young artist in an exhibition of text and image. I wrote several short stories around the theme of characters we meet on everyday journeys. Dundee-based, Kyla Tomlinson (kylatomlinson.blogspot.com), has produced a number of humorous character-based illustrations to accompany the stories. From these images, we've also produced a range of prints. gift cards and postcards to exhibit in 'Candid Cameos', part of the Perthshire Open Studios programme (perthsireopenstudios.com). This opens on Saturday, 3rd September at Ardblair House, Burnhead Road, Blairgowrie.

No idea how this will go but going to enjoy the experience whatever the outcome! Who knows who might be reading/viewing our work . . .

Pruning the words

Are there any others out there who find editing their own writing as difficult as I do? The problem is I just love language - the shape, the sound, the size, the taste of it. And that tends to mean I overuse it. So what to do? Sometimes, it  helps to let others read the manuscript and make editing suggestions but only if they're brutally honest ones. At the end of the day, I think it's a question of maturity: like people, and with perseverance, writing progresses from the juvenile to the mature. One begins to lose some of the awkward self consciousness that characterises youth and grows into a more critical adulthood marked by a dispassionate eye and a ruthless economy of style. Well, that's the hope, anyway. In the meantime, please share your editing experiences.

Why must pace always be fast moving?

It would appear that currently there's no longer any room for the less than fast paced novel. Every top ten book list seems to be filled exclusively with fast paced titles, usually thrillers. So where does that leave reflective writing with its slower pace and greater emphasis on the inner lives of characters rather than on action per se? And what does it say about today's readers who seem to have an insatiable appetite for breathless plots that twist and turn at breakneck speed?

Raring to Write: How to beat writer's block?

Raring to Write: How to beat writer's block?: "For the past few days, despite the urgent need to finish a short story, I've struggled with writer's block. I just can't seem to motivate my..."

How to beat writer's block?

For the past few days, despite the urgent need to finish a short story, I've struggled with writer's block. I just can't seem to motivate myself to get on with it. I know where the story is going but, having written a sentence or two, the words just dry up. Desperately seeking suggestions!

First person narrator

Struggle with finding the right tone for first person narrative but keep trying to get it right. This is the beginning of a short story I've just finished. I'd be interested to hear any comments re whether it sounds convincing or not. Open to all suggestions for improvement!

                     Ladies Who Lunch      
                    © Christine Findlay


It’s the middle of the night, - well, maybe not quite but it feels like it.  Cold, dark and raining - that fine Scots drizzle that manages to penetrate even the most ample flesh and seep into the bones.
    So, what in God’s name am I doing here? Okay I know I was invited, if you can call Grace’s late night summons an ‘invitation’.
    “Olivia’s called off, I’m afraid. Nigel’s made her a better offer. Need you to make up the numbers, Jane. Megabus leaves Broxden at 8. See you then.” And she hung up.
    Verity and Grace (anyone less gracious I’ve yet to meet) are huddled in the cramped bus shelter when I arrive, damp and breathless.
    Grace, not a hair out of place, greets me with a royal hand movement - not quite a wave, more a wavelet.
    “Sorry, no room,” she mouths with relish, indicating the crush.
    I smile forgivingly and curse myself for having left my umbrella sheltering the kitchen table.
    Five minutes later, the Edinburgh Megabus emerges from the gloom, her sunshine yellow logo lighting up the grey November morning.
    I dive into my handbag, searching for that passport to exotic travel - the bus pass. Oh, joy of joys - don’t say I’ve managed to forget that as well. I look up ready to signal the ‘bad’ news to my two companions, only to discover they’ve sailed past me and into the warmth. Verity beckons me to hurry. I mime frantic searching, then overwhelmed by guilt pangs, pull my hand out brandishing the card. Grace winces at this public display. She regards advertising our age as a mortal sin.
    “Morning, Jane. Organisational problems?” she quips.
    “Er . . . sorry about that,” I stammer, collapsing into an aisle seat whose leg room seems designed to accommodate the vertically challenged.
    “Very comfortable,” enthuses Verity, patting her chair. “Roomy too.”
    I make a mental note of the position of their seats for the return journey.
    Verity’s looking particularly prim this morning. Her face is thin at the best of times but today it seems pincered as if she’s been sooking extra strong peppermints. The hairstyle doesn’t help, of course - short, sharp and steely grey
    The bus pulls out and we’re off. Three ‘mature’  - connotations of ripening Brie - Perth ladies hitting the capital for a spot of retail therapy and a bijou dining experience. I let out an audible sigh and draw looks from ‘Powerful’ and ‘Prim’. How am I going to get through the day?