I have a draft of a novel. A rough draft. A very rough draft that needs more work. And I am reminded of a paragraph in Virginia Woolf’s A Room of One’s Own:
‘Thought – to call it by a prouder name than it deserved – had let its line down into the stream. It swayed, minute after minute, hither and thither among the reflections and the weeds, letting the water lift it and sink it until – you know the little tug – the sudden conglomeration of an idea at the end of one’s line: and then the cautious hauling of it in, and the careful laying of it out? Alas, laid on the grass how small, how insignificant this thought of mine looked;’
That’s just how I feel about this draft. So word by word, line by line, I need to look at this small draft, hauled out of the stream after six weeks. I will weigh it and examine it, maybe throw some of it back, but I think it may prove to be a worthwhile catch.
Submissions to agents are such a leap of faith, that I’m sure I’m not the only writer to take a crumb of comfort from a rejection, particularly when it includes the words ‘enjoyed reading the pages you sent’ and ‘there’s much to admire about your writing’. Of course, those encouraging words are followed with ‘but’, so the Corfu novel hasn’t yet found a home, but I live in hope that it will find its place in the sun.
But sometimes a writer takes inspiration from what others have written, like this letter sent by my great uncle to his young wife on May 19th 1940, shortly before the Battle of Dunkirk. I have transcribed a cache of letters written by this young couple in the early years of the war and have never been able to read this particular letter aloud without feeling a lump in my throat.’Tiny’ died in a training exercise two years later, so I never knew him, but I am grateful to him and many others for their courage at that time.So now, with a film coming to our screens, I’d like to share this one short but very poignant testimony to those brave men.
My own darling Nora,
I find it difficult to write this but I know you will understand if it sounds sentimental.
Nora dearest, this may be the last letter you will receive from me. The whole B.E.F. is withdrawing and the H.L.I. have been detailed to cover the withdrawal, in the words of the order “To the last bullet and the last man”.
I find that I am not so courageous after all, in fact at this moment I am trying hard to keep a lump from my throat and a smile on my face.
We have been bombed and machine gunned for the past two days but at the moment it is quiet.
My darling I love you so terribly and that’s what makes it so hard.
Please don’t think I’ve given up darling, I’m not dead yet and something may turn up.
Sweetheart, if the worst happens, think of me sometimes and know that I loved you more than anything in the world and that I am thinking of you to the last.
So I am going to sit down quietly for a while and think of all the little things we used to do, the room at Euston and our flat at Highbury – and that marvellous 10 days leave.
I have 9 men with me, and they are working hard to strengthen the post, so now, my sweetheart and most wonderful wife, good night and good luck,
P.S. I love you.
P.P.S. If, by the time you get this, you have received no official news – don’t worry.
It’s early days in the life of this novel, but there are already four drafts and four working documents from its beginnings. No new words have been written for a while, but I’ve summarised each chapter on an index card and added a page number to record its place in the manuscript. This process has helped me identify gaps in the narrative and lack of progression, so a few cards have moved around. But I’m now tempted to shuffle the whole pack of cards and deal a new hand. Or maybe I’d better try Patience.
I realised recently that there are three of us in this marriage, as somebody once said. No, not a physical entity, but a character, who comes to bed with me and wakes up with me. I’m finding myself thinking of her all the time and as I begin to fall asleep, she talks to me. Last night she said, “The matches are next to the silver-capped scent bottle”. If I’d had my notebook on the bedside cupboard I’d have switched on the light and noted it there and then, but I shut my eyes tight and remembered her words this morning. I’ve thanked her for that little detail and I’ve added it to that scene. She’ll probably talk to me again tonight.
A Writer Writes
No, it’s not quite what Hemingway actually said, but the sentiment is there. If you are a writer, you have to keep writing. But how?
Last week I posted the conclusion to The Way We Lied. If you want to read the early chapters, they are available in the archives, starting in October 2015. And now, while I await reactions to a recently completed novel, set in Corfu, exploring the consequences of deception and the island’s hidden wartime history, I’m going to post about writing habits, good and bad.
Of course, while keeping fingers crossed for the Corfu novel, I’ve not been able to resist starting another project. I’ve got 52,000 plus words so far, but whether they are all the right words I have yet to decide. Today I only managed to add 150 words, which is not much of an achievement considering I worked for three hours. But, after reading through the work in progress, then deciding to weed the garden in the sunshine, my writing brain continued to work and now I have a clearer idea of what to write next.
So, today’s rule for writing is: sometimes you have to take a break and weed the garden. Who knows what idea will pop up as you wrestle with the ground elder.
The hospice was peaceful the following evening. My mother was lying in her bed, supported by soft pillows. Her favourite piece of music, that sacred composition by Thomas Tallis, was playing again; the repetitive chanting encircled her in a choral spiral that was slowly lifting her to heaven.
She turned her head a little as I entered, her thin hair and bruised hollow cheeks the most obvious signs of her diminished body. She was no longer the bold, strong mother of my youth; she was a little broken bird. I could do nothing to help her now. I could only try to give her the gift of a peaceful, untroubled death and the reassurance that I loved her for being a devoted mother. I could only give her one more lie to preserve all the lies.
And then I told her that I had been. I told her what I had found. And I told her that none of it could be read. She closed her eyes for a moment as if she was relieved, then she looked at me and laughed, the tiniest rustling tissue of a laugh that shook her shoulders as if she had just heard the funniest joke in her whole life.
“All that is past is forgiven,” she whispered through her laughter. “I have never put my hope in any other but you.”
Then she closed her eyes for the very last time.