The Head of Idleness by Maureen Lynas

Two things came together yesterday.

I saw a documentary on the brain. It showed that writers are at their most creative when the part of the brain that deals with future scenarios, the what if area, is activated with the part that thinks about people, the who’s there area. Brain scans have shown that these two areas light up and work together when we’re idle.

Brilliant news! No more housework – I’m a creative! I must be idle! It's the rule. But no. They didn’t mean physically idle they meant mentally idle. Ah! Maybe I need to develop a Head of Idleness if I am ever to become a literary genius.

Then... I had a message from a publisher – love your story, Prince Bob the frog is so gorgeous, if you could just change the end, that would be great. So I did. I changed the end. Then I got another message from the publisher that said – still love your story, Prince Bob the frog is still gorgeous but, if you could just change the end (again), that would be great.

Aargh! I sat at my computer and came up with one bad idea after another. Prince Bob kisses the pumpkin. Prince Bob kisses the enormous turnip. He even tries an ornamental cabbage. Then I realised, what I needed here was a bit of creativity. I needed to access my Head of Idleness.

So I washed up. And let my head go.

Prince Bob dove bravely into the water as Princess Cissy screeched from the island of pan lid. ‘Save me, Bob, save me! Look out! Look out for the ladle!’

‘No ladle can stop me,’ said Bob, ‘I have a fork!’ Prince Bob brandished the fork and yelled (as I turned the tap on) ‘Get behind the waterfall. I’ll distract the ladle. Whatever happens, I shall find you!’

'But Bob! The bubbles! Oh my God! The bubbles!'

'Glug.'

Hm, maybe not. So I cleaned the windows.

This is not me. Honest.

Princess Cissy pressed her nose against the glass. ‘Will we ever be together? Will I ever kiss that froggy mouth? Will I ever make a man of you?’

‘Yes, by croaky, you will,’ cried the frog prince, opening the window and puckering up.

They smooch. But, this is no happy ever after. Prince Bob turns into a man but he’s blond and podgy and Princess Cissy prefers her men dark and mysterious. He loves slippers but she's into killer heels. He's a Horlicks man but she's a flaming sambuca of a woman. Prince Bob sinks into depression and gets fatter and fatter until he explodes.

Bit better, I thought. So, I hoovered.

Photoblip

The wind blew fast and the wind blew strong.

‘The twister, Prince Bob, the twister! It’s heading our way! Save me, save me!’ Princess Cissy swoons, faints, and falls, inches from the apple cellar that could give them both shelter.

The tiny frog prince sits on her head watching the twister spiral this way and that over the flat barren landscape. He shakes his head and sighs before jumping into the cellar saying, 'I shall leave you to your fate my love because basically, you're a bit of a twit.' He pulls the lid shut with his tongue.

Not there yet. But there’s still the pile of ironing. 

Where do you do your ironing?

Princess Tallulah slammed her fist down on the breakfast table. Prince Bob hid behind a beautifully ironed napkin origami-ed into the shape of a rose, complete with thorns.

‘I can see you,’ cackled Tallulah. ‘How marvellously delicious. A frog. I eat squashed frogs for breakfast. Did you know?’ She licked her lips.

Prince Bob gulped. ‘I just want a quick kiss and I’ll be on my way,’ he said, rather hoping he could stay on the outside of Tallulah’s lips, and not see the inside.

Tallulah thumped the table again. ‘I pound them flat and toast them like … toast.’

Gulp, went the frogprince again. ‘Just one kiss. Tiny really.’

‘And then,' Tallulah grabbed Prince Bob by his neck and squeezed, 'I dip them in my steaming hot coffee and … I … bite … off … their … heads.’

‘I’m a toad,’ squeaked the frog. 'Did you know?'

Oo! I do like that one. But there’s still time to pull up the winter weeds and rake the grass.

Prince Bob hid behind the delphiniums. His heart beat faster than a hummingbird and, unfortunately for him, his chest began to vibrate emitting a high-pitched whine.  

‘What’s that,’ whispered Princess Tallulah, her knees creaking as she knelt down. ‘Is that the sound of fear, I hear? Is that the sound of terror beating against a tiny frog prince’s ribcage?’

‘Yes,’ cried Princess Cissy, whacking Tallulah on the back of the head with the spade. ‘And this is the sound of death,’ she said. (I stabbed the spade into the earth to remove a stubborn dandelion)

Princess Cissy held up Tallulla’s head, the blood dripping over the daffodils in the early spring sun. ‘Come out, come out, wherever you are, my little princey wincey,’ she sang. ‘I’m ready for my kiss, my love.’

Hurrah! I have something to work on now. So it’s back to the computer with the self-satisfied smirk of a domestic goddess and literary genius. 

The Book of Never Letting Go

by Addy Farmer

So here it is. Finished. For some weird reason, I'm almost ashamed to admit that the manuscript for my 12 plus novel has been 9 years in the making and began taking shape soon after my youngest was born. However, before you decide that I must have been carving it out a word at a time, I would point out that, no, I hadn't been working on it the whole time.

I would have exploded after three years give or take.

I did manage to write other stuff and even get stuff published but the kernal of this particular story always stayed with me. So, in the interests of my sanity I thought I'd take you on a condensed journey and maybe follow it as it trundles on its way to publication and massive acclaim or... not.

At the beginning I got a great crit In Public from an editor from Penguin.
  

Who cares! I've learned to enjoy giving and receiving crit!

Then in the middle I had an exciting squeal-worthy thumbs up from Chicken House...

...before it was turned down.

I still hung on in there because I loved it and a little while later I found Cornerstones. I've been working with the wonderful Kathyrn Robinson for about two years now. Again, NOT all the time because she does have other things to do apparently. The ms had been back and forth three times before the time came to send it out for what felt like a final letting go.

Sometimes it's easier to travel in hope than to arrive

 
Tricky.  Doubt crept in accompanied by worry and yet more doubt. It wouldn't be good enough - all my love and all that support and all that work, just wouldn't be enough. I didn't want to let this story go without a struggle. It was easier to keep it and look at it again and again and again because writing, 'The End' felt a bit too final. There was always time for just one last look...

The basics - is that story arc working? The End. Well, I like the way it starts, nice and punchy with that big 'T'. It's firm, it's manly and it stomps into the beginning. The 'h', I'm not so sure about. It's wibbles about after that strong beginning and then there's the disaster of the repititious 'e'. Then it ginds to a massive halt until... oh my Lord where did that capital 'E' come from? E! All my rising tension gone! Then jumping down to that teeny rubbish, 'n' that's meant to herald the climax which it doesn't by the way. Then the 'd' which I like.

So perhaps something like this...

Tenehd


Okay, maybe one more teensy look. Yep, thought so, it's too boring now, it's predictable. That ending, there's no real twist. If I just do this...

Tenedh

Is that beginning right for the end now? There's no reflection of my unpredictable ending now in the beginning. So maybe if I just do this...

tenedh

Oh but now it's all the same! I've flattened everything. I'll just...

tenedh

It's too long...

ten

too short...

tenedhnedet

too boring...

tenedhnedet

Waaaa. Calm down.
Do I love this story? Do I love my characters? Is it the best I can possibly make it? Yes. It's in the hands of someone I trust and now I will wait (and do other stuff).  

The End.