That Eureka Moment

Tags

overwriting, writer's block

I’ve been getting along quite well with the current book recently and have been congratulating myself on being over the middle and racing towards the end when it all becomes much easier.  I had a scene where I knew what was going to happen, what plot points I had to drop in, I could see the place it was going to happen in and there’s nothing delicately emotional in it so it wasn’t going to take hours of searching for exactly the right nuance.  In other words it should have been a doddle.

Instead, it’s been like wading uphill through treacle.

My writing sessions have been going like this: go to office, switch on the computer, select music.  Sit in front of the computer and read what was written yesterday.  Decide music isn’t right so change it.  Remember something earlier in book needs altering so scroll back and do it before it’s forgotten.  Ignore notebook on desk which is there for editing notes.  Stare at screen and add a sentence to scene.  I delete the sentence.  Decide Elgar is getting on my nerves and wonder if Bryan Ferry will help the creative process.  Correct a  paragraph up the page.  Wonder if playing a quick game of Sudoku won’t unleash creative energy.  Stare at books in book shelf and wonder if they warrant re-reading.  Look at watch and see there’s only half an hour before starting to make dinner so must get cracking.  A few sentences eventually appear on the screen.  Read them and am not impressed.  Decide that anything is better than nothing.  Press save and switch off computer…

Or maybe I needed this;

As seen here

Standard advice is that if you’re stuck you should move on to the next scene and come back to the troublesome one later.   Unfortunately I can’t write out of sequence.  I need to get my scenes down in order and be reasonably happy with them before I can move on, which isn’t to say I reckon that they’re perfect, far from it, but the tone must feel right.  Then I’m perfectly happy to move on, knowing I’ll come back and tinker with them later.

This has been going on for about ten days and I couldn’t work out what was wrong until this morning.  I was in bed, in that half awake, half dreaming state where you get your very best and most creative ideas – the same one where your brilliant ideas have usually vanished before your feet have even hit the floor – and the answer came to me.  And I remembered it.

I’ve been overwriting – massively.  I loathe wodges of detail, so it’s hardly surprising that when I fell into the trap of doing the same thing I was boring myself into paralysis.

Of course my blinding revelation is of no interest to anyone but me.  But this has happened to me before, and I haven’t learnt from experience.  I’m hoping that by writing it down and publishing it this little axiom will stick in my head: just because you know everything about your characters and their surroundings doesn’t mean your readers want to.

Now to go and delete most of what I’ve written in the last ten days…

Bringing the grapes in.

Tags

grape harvest, grape picking, Loupiac, Sauternes, Vendange

The vendange – the grape harvest – started in earnest around here about a week ago.  A lot of it is done by machine now but there’s enough hand picking still done, especially over the other side of the river in the Sauternais, for people to get  misty eyed about how old traditions still continue.  Tour buses come out from Bordeaux to drive slowly around in the hopes of catching a group of photogenic pickers sufficiently close to the road for them to stop so passengers can have a photo opportunity.

Just what the tourists orderd

I admit that I get a buzz when I see the first signs of the vendange, the rightness of bringing in the harvest is engrained deep, but my feelings when I see the rows of pickers with their baskets isn’t, ‘Oh how romantic to see the happy vendangers,’ but, ‘You poor sods.’  I’ve been there, done that – and never again.

There’s a saying around that to be a true Bordelais you have to get your hands red – meaning stained with grape juice from the vendange.  But I think that what most people mean by ‘doing the vendange’ is a morning or so of light picking, not the real thing which is hard labour. In spades.

Picking grapes for red and dry white wines is murder on the back because the pickers are bent over all the time. It’s a different pain when you’re picking for sweet whites like Sauternes and Loupiac; there the vendangeurs have to squat and snip out only the ripest grapes a pair of scissors.  It’s hell on your inner thigh muscles, by lunchtime on the first day nearly everyone is walking like cowboys.  Many are also sporting bright blue plasters because it’s extremely easy to take off part of your finger at the same times as the grapes.

Sauternes with added protein, anyone?

The remaining grapes are left to ripen more for a few days, then you come back and take out a few more (and lose a bit more blood).  On average each row is gone over three times.  Chateau d’Yquem, the undisputed top de la top of Sauternes châteaux, has its pickers go back a minimum of seven times which is one of the many reasons it’s so expensive.  But good.  Very, very good.

I picked for one of the largest and best Sauternes châteaux, over 90 hectares (about 220 acres) of premier cru grapes and I walked every hectare, again and again for nearly six weeks.  The picking team was huge, about 90, which is probably why the management treated us like an unruly rabble and stationed their permanent workers, dressed in green boiler suits, at the end of each row of vines to stand there with their arms folded and glare at us like prison guards.  And to dole out blue plasters, before telling to get back into line and pick.

There were periodic attempts on the part of the guards to stop us chatting and concentrate on the job, but they were realistic enough to know that it’s impossible to silence a Frenchman or woman for long, anyway the real experts could simultaneously smoke, talk and pick at speed.  There was a clause in our contracts which forbade the use of all illegal substances – some hope.  It wasn’t only the students who moved around in a cloud of sweet smelling smoke, so did the mothers of a couple of my daughters’ school friends.

Management forgot to put anything in the contract about no sex on the job.  The local doctor’s daughter who no doubt showered regularly but seemed to be imbued with a vague grubbiness that excited the male vendangeurs was rumoured to have nipped two rows down for a quickie with an environmental activist (he was later sacked when he was found peacefully asleep while everyone picked around him).

The less said about the lunches we were given as part of our pay the better.  Just put it this way, one of the vendangeurs bought his dog with him, a Labrador, and even that refused to eat the meat we were given on the second day.  His owner looked at me and said, ‘I hope you are not judging French cooking by these meals…’  And contrary to popular stories we didn’t get offered wine with every meal either.  We didn’t get offered wine at all until the last day when we had an appero to celebrate.

So when all the pickers were asked to come back to a vendangeurs lunch a week later we weren’t expecting much.  Instead of the barn we usually ate in we were seated in a proper tent with silver, seven courses and about seven different wines.  I can’t list what we ate because I can’t remember – the meal started at midday and we left the table at five.  It was really something, even the prison guards got friendly with a bottle or two inside them, and made me look back on vendanging with something akin to affection.

And a good time was had by all

I’m still never doing it again.

Medieval Day at Château du Cros – reprise.

Tags

journées du patrimoine, Medieval Market, Medieval Swordfighting

Some people might remember that my daughter organised a medieval day in June at the vieux Château du Cros where she’s chef de project in charge of the restoration. There was going to be a medieval market in a clearing in an oak wood next to the château, carriage rides, tours around the château, entertainments from the group of medieval swordfighters she belongs to, and she’d had enough feedback to indicate that it was going to go pretty well.

The evening before it started to rain.  And rained.  They had to cancel.  All credit to Diana, my daughter, who picked herself up from acute disappointment, said, ‘Right, we’ll reschedule for les journées du patrimoine,’ and got on with it.

It was by no means going to be a guarenteed success.  The weather isn’t reliable in September (or June, for that matter), medieval days are a summertime affair, most of the orignal stallholders couldn’t do the new date so she had to look for a new lot who had interesting, different things that people like to look at and buy.

Diana got up at 6 on Saturday – the first day of the journées medival to start setting up… and it was raining.  It had stopped by 6.30 so she decided she wouldn’t kill herself after all.  I went along that afternoon and everyone was cautiously pleased.  The weather was perfect, 24°, the oak wood is a lovely setting for a market, there was a really good range of stalls, everyone was in costume and looked great,  and her sword fighting troupe was doing a brilliant job of entertaining people, showing children how to do archery, holding up the man who was giving carriage rides through the vines, fighting each other and parading around in costume.  The next day when there were too many people about for it to be safe to roar through a crowd waving large swords they stormed the castle which was much enjoyed by everyone there.

Visitors starting to arrive…

The fight for the caleche…
Photo by Olivier Serre

I had a feeling on Sunday afternoon that it was going well, there was a buzz to the ambiance and everyone, visitors and stallholders, looked happy – something you don’t always see in France.  When Diana got back after packing up I asked her how they’d done.  A grin spread from ear to ear.  ‘It was awesome.’

Two redheads, daughter on left.

They’d had over 900 people, the most they’d ever had before was 350, they made a profit after all the expenses had been paid so that’s another small bit of restoration for the château paid for and she was told by several of the stallholders that they’d never enjoyed a medieval day so much.  Everyone wants to come back again.

Yes, I’m one proud mother – my girl did really well.  She’d be the first to admit though it was a group effort, the members of the Association (some of whom are not young, to put it mildly) chipped in handing out leaflets and manning stalls, the owner of the horse and carriage donated all the receipts to château, her friends helped make signs and went round putting them up, helped out during both days, organised the parking, and her group of medieval swordfighters performed for fun and good food (they are French after all).

Payment in kind…

Le Mans – more than a car race.

Tags

Angel Musicians, Le Mans

I made a flying visit to see my daughter in Le Mans this weekend for her birthday.  All I really knew about Le Mans was the 24 hour car race – which my elder brother competed in, his car broke down both times – and that rillettes come from there.  At least I presume as they’re called Rillettes du Mans, they do.

The main part of the city is nothing exceptional, it looks quite prosperous, but when the tramway was put in the urban planners also got to work in the way they seem to be so keen on these days, clearing squares, taking out fountains and trees and making huge minimalist open spaces.  They’re OK in the summer when the restaurants have all their tables out (providing you don’t mind the lack of shade) but can be horribly lifeless in the winter.

Up on the hill though, there’s an absolute gem, it’s La Cité Plantagenet, the medieval city of Le Mans.  There are towns in the Gironde, Bazas and St Macaire for instance, which have parts that are like going back 500 years in a time warp,  but medieval Le Mans is an entire town. And one that is seemingly practically unchanged from the days when half-timbered houses was the latest in architectural fashion:

The cobbled streets didn’t suit everyone, we saw a bride gamely staggering along holding her train up and trying to keep her balance in enormously high heels.  When we met her again about 10 minutes later she was carrying her shoes.

There are little alleyways to explore with some sometimes surprising things waving at you from the windows;

Lots of the street lights have their shades painted with fantastical creatures;I think it must be something to do with a light show performed through the Cité during the summer and in December which sounds wonderful.  I’m already thinking of reasons why I need to visit my daughter then.  Some of the street lights also have projectors attached which shine images of dragons and beasties on walls and the cobbles..  It makes taking a post prandial walk after dinner great fun as you turn each corner to find something new.

For me, the highlight of Le Mans is the cathedral.  It’s enormous and has wonderful stained glass, the Ascension window which dates from the late 11th century/early 12th  is one of the oldest stained glass windows still in its original setting and is curiously modern in some ways.  It also has the Virgin’s Chapel and the musician angels which is one of the most enchanting chapels I’ve ever seen.

The vaulted roof of the chapel is decorated with a celestial concert of 47 musician angels, it’s thought they were painted by Jean de Bruges and I’d defy anyone not to be charmed by them.

I apologise for the quality of the pictures, my little compact did its best but it has problems with maximum zoom, I hope they give some idea of how wonderful the angels are.

Never Too Late

Tags

Andrea Camilleri, Mary Wesley, Patricia Angadi

Amongst all the doom and gloom written about your chances of ever getting a book published, one of the “truisms” that is stated over and over again is that if you’re a little past school leaving age you’re going to find it twice as difficult.  As well as being a superb writer you’ve got to be young, fit, gorgeous and generally make it really easy for the publicist to get your photo in the papers – unless of course you’re a celeb when it doesn’t matter what you look like as things will still be easy for the publicist, and your writing skills don’t matter as someone else will have written the book for you.

Us – ahem – older ones are advised to stock up on support stockings and denture fixative and yes, dear, enjoy your writing, it’s very good for you dear, helps with that nasty Alzheimer’s, but do it for your own pleasure but don’t expect to get it published because frankly dear, you’re waaay past it and just don’t have your finger on the pulse any longer.  What do you mean you’d be writing for people like yourself who read lots and lots?  There are young writers doing that.

Of course there are exceptions to the rule – Mary Wesley being a glittering example. She’s actually an exception to two rules; the one that says you can’t make it when you’re old as she wrote seven best-selling novels between the ages of 70 and 79. and the one that states if you’ve been published once and weren’t a big success you’ve pretty well had it – she  published two children’s novels when she was in her fifties which didn’t do much.  Joyce Windsor wrote a charming novel called After The Unicorn when she was 70 but frankly neither of these ladies can hold a candle to Patricia Angadi for general vim, get up and go.

Patricia Angadi was a middle class girl, an unsuccesful debutant and artist who  fell in love with an Indian, she married him in 1943 against her family’s wishes (some of her friends never spoke to her again), had four children, set up the Asian Music Centre with her husband, introduced Ravi Shankar to the Beatles and finding herself short of money, aged 54, trained as a teacher. Patricia painting George Harrison and Patti Boyd’s portrait.

When she was in her sixties her husband went back to India, Patricia refused to follow him, started dating, turned her house into a commune and threw outrageous parties.  She then retired,  and with time on her hands ,started writing.  The Governess was published when she was 70 and another six followed.

Andrea Camilleri, the creator of the wonderful Inspector Montalbano, is another late bloomer and exception to lots of rules.  To be polite he’s no pin-up – and he published two novels in his early fifties which weren’t successes, then when he was 69 he wrote a best seller.  The first of the Inspector Montalbano books followed two years later, he published the 19th this year.  He’s 87 and is still working as a TV and theatre director.

As someone who felt on her 20th birthday that she was already past it – hell, my teenage years were over and I hadn’t done any of those glamorous things that you saw college students doing in Coca Cola ads – I find all of this enormously encouraging and inspiring too.  Fortunately I’m not in need of support stockings or denture fixative yet but I have to be realistic and admit that I’m middle-aged and which probably puts me at even more of a disadvantage – there’s a story in “Septuagenarian’s big break-through” none in “Middle-aged woman publishes book” – but that still doesn’t mean I can’t make it.

Perhaps I should dye my hair grey though…

 

Peace.

My youngest daughter left for Le Mans this morning, her job starts on Monday, and my OH went with her to help the move into her new flat.  Middle daughter is occupied all weekend with publicising the events she’s arranging for les journées du patrimoine at Chateau du Cros and I’m alone until tomorrow evening when I pick up my OH from the station in Bordeaux.  Apart from three cats and two dogs of course…

That’s nearly 36 hours.  I love my family, I love having them around and I’m going to miss the youngest daughter hugely, we do masses of things together, enjoy the same sorts of films and present a united front when the OH demands to know why we’re “watching that rubbish” (Mad Men, Doctor Who…).  She also bullies me gently to keep on with writing and refuses to allow me to sink into gloom.  But that’s still 36 hours where things stay where I put them, when I don’t have to make meals for any one else (dogs and cats excepted of course), don’t have to consider what anyone else likes eating and can live on sandwiches if I feel like it, and can have lunch, if I want to, sometime in the afternoon.

I’ll be more than happy to see the OH tomorrow evening, but in the meantime I’ve got nearly 36 hours of only thinking of me (and three cats and two dogs).

Oh, what bliss!