SNIPPETS Fifteen

The key’s smaller than most of the others on the bunch, but you can pick it out easily because it is always slick with fresh blood. Some magic keeps it that way, never dripping, never drying, never rubbing off onto the other keys or onto your fingers. Not until you choose that one, put it in the lock, open the door.

I know she’s looked at it. They all do. Perfectly reasonable, a bit of curiosity. It’s only to be expected when something so mysterious is forbidden to you. And there’s always a chance everything’s going to work out this time – if all she does is look.

SNIPPETS Miller

The miller’s wife lifts her skirt hem to her knees and pounds up the stairs. She throws open the bedroom door and the sour smell of yesterday’s drink hits her as her husband shifts and moans in the big bed. He groans louder and pulls the covers over his head as she unhooks the shutter and pushes it back so that a shaft of bright midday sunshine falls over him.

She perches gently beside the hump under the covers and lays a hand on him. She can hardly contain her excitement, but if this great smelly lump of a husband of hers has achieved what she thinks he’s achieved, it’s only reasonable to be gentle with him.

SNIPPETS Invitation

“For goodness’ sake!” her stepmother muttered. “We really don’t have time for this. Go on, girls, the carriage is waiting. I’ll just be a moment.”

The girl hesitated before setting her foot on the next step down, watching her sisters disappear, smirking.

“I’m waiting for an explanation,” her stepmother said.

The girl took two more steps down, cautiously because suddenly the too-big shoes seemed far more of a problem than they had when she had put them on in her room.

SNIPPETS Beanstalk

From his bedroom window the plant had looked shiny in the early morning sun, but close to it was only the smooth, glossy dark, green leaves that shone. The stalk was paler, rougher, almost the texture of the big chestnut tree at the far side of the meadow that he used to climb to hide from his mother.

SNIPPETS Wolf

So I’m on my way through the forest, setting each paw down very gently as I walk because, even if I’m not hungry, it’s such fun to see the way everyone stands stock-still and stares when I appear from nowhere, just before they scarper. Honestly, do they think I’d let them actually see me if I wanted to eat them? They have no idea of the skill it takes to be a successful predator.

SNIPPETS Gingerbread

“It can’t be. It’s impossible.”

But his little sister dropped his hand and reached out towards the rich brown fence topped with a neat line of pearly white…

“Wait!” He snatched her hand away before she could touch. He held her cold fingers tight in his and squatted down to her level. “I know you’re hungry. But I just want look round first, to make sure it’s safe. OK?” She nodded and he stood and led her around the building, talking more to himself now than to her. “I mean, the thing is, why would anyone build an actual house out of gingerbread, here, in the middle of the forest? How is it even possible? What happens when it rains?”

SNIPPETS Rocket

Obviously I did not actually intend to end up with a baby. I’m perfectly happy on my own, thank you very much, and if that man had never come into my vegetable garden and started stealing my rocket none of this would ever have happened.

The Bones of the Story

You know I’ve been writing some fiction lately. I don’t talk about it all that much, well I do, but only to a few people, because mostly it’s in my head and taking it out and showing it off isn’t going to help, and then there’s all the questions, you know, ‘so how much have you written?’ ‘when is it going to be published?’ all that. If I tell you, I tell you. If I don't, don't ask. Just take it from me, I’m writing. 

The thing is though, it’s making it very hard for me to read. It’s as if, as I read, I’m seeing the bones beneath everything all the time. I don’t mean that I’m noticing the mistakes, although I am of course, you can never turn off your editor’s eye. I mean I keep seeing the technical bits, like how the paragraphs are broken up and what punctuation the author’s using and how a character gets from A to B when nothing important is happening. These parts are necessary, of course they are, but I'm noticing them because I'm thinking about them all the time, trying to work out how to do these things myself, how to make these parts, the bones, invisible. I want to find out how to make sure the story takes the most direct path from the author’s brain to the reader’s, so that the the flow of the words creates a flow of story in the reader’s mind exactly as though the reader were watching a film, or maybe even thinking the story up for himself. Of course, there’s plenty of literature that wants you to take notice of its structure and its language, but that’s not what I’m talking about. I’m talking about the stuff that you gobble down for the pure joy of story. 

So what I’m wondering is this: is it possible, once you’ve started reading in this way, with a writer’s eye, to turn it off, to stop noticing how many times in a conversation the writer says ‘said X’ or ‘said Y’ to make sure you keep up, or how he or she slips in physical details about a character rather than giving you a straight description, or when the point of view changes and how? It’s useful for me to read this way right now, but I hope it won’t last because it definitely gets in the way of the story. And that’s the point, isn’t it? The bones should be invisible.

Rant

Prepare yourself. I'm in the mood to rant, or moan... or possibly just whine. I'm feeling sorry for myself, so if you're not prepared to sympathise, stop reading now.

The thing is, I can't settle to reading anything much. My brain just seems to skate across the surface. I take in the words, I know what's going on, sometimes I even appreciate the way something's written, but I'm not engaged with the story and I'm not rushing back to the book as soon as I have a moment.

It's probably the 'as soon as I have a moment' that's the problem. Just now I have too much to do and too much to think about. Every bit of my time seems to scheduled for something and when I'm doing one thing I'm planning something else. The only reason I'm finding time to so this is because I'm forced to be idle at this precise moment because I'm waiting for a customer. I would read now, if I could, but I have to keep alert for the moment someone comes through the door, so I wouldn't be able to lose myself thoroughly in a book.

I have read a couple of things in the past month, but neither of them required any degree of focus from me, one being chicklit and the other a novel for teenagers.

This has been going on a while. I though my challenge of last year to read only authors who were new to me would hep, but if anything it made it worse. The only book I can think of in the past six months that has grabbed me and satisfied me is Emma Donoghue's Room. No, that's not true The Crimson Petal and the White was fabulous, but since I read it just after watching the TV series I think the effect was dulled.

I crave that feeling of surrendering myself to the story, blocking out the world around, complete focus on the words. But I'm too distracted, and even when I'm idle, the cup of coffee time, and the last thing at night time, the distraction follows me and I find myself doing the crossword or looking at catalogues. It's as though because I have so many different things to think about most of the time, my brain won't stop juggling the thoughts instead of smothering all the irrelevancies and letting the book take over.

What's the answer? Probably it's just to wait until I have less to think about. At least I can still read. When I first had Elspeth, I was absolutely unable to read for about three months. I suppose I must have felt I had to pay attention to her fully all the time. Plus, of course, I was waking up several times in the night , which wasn't helping the state of my mind. One day, I picked up The Horse Whisperer and read it just about as quickly as it is possible to read, crowding great chunks intomy brain like that really hot cup of tea when you're exhausted and cold. What a relief! It was all going to be OK. I could still read. True, the The Horse Whisperer is hardly Dickens or Dostoyevsky, not even Angela Carter or Ian McEwan, but it was a whole wonderful, absorbing book.

Occasionally, I doubt my capacity to become engaged in this way any more. I watch the children, lost in a book within moments of picking it up and I think 'I was like that. Why can't I do it now?' Jut imagine if I could never engage with a book again. Probably all I need is a holiday. Or four or five fewer jobs.