It reminded me of watching films in Singapore, where whole scenes were cut out for censorship reasons, regardless of how it affected the plot. We saw Jodie Foster in ‘The Accused’, for instance, and the rape scene was cut. One minute she’s dancing to a juke-box in a café with some boys looking on and the next she’s hysterical and Kelly McGillis is encouraging her to take them to court.For looking???


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I have never been one of life's more patient souls. A supermarket queue of more than three people can get me tapping my feet and sighing with exaggerated despair. I hardly ever buy off the internet, as I find the thought of having to wait three days (and I think I'm being generous to Royal Mail there) for a package to land on my doormat frustrating in the extreme. I often have to fight the temptation to finish slow-talking people's sentences for them, regardless of whether or not I know what they are actually going to say. As a child, I was once heard to utter the dreaded "Are we there yet?" before I had even got into the car. So what does all this prove, aside from the fact that my family and friends must be pretty patient themselves to put up with me? Well, the damning truth is that despite being a writer, I really don't have the temperament for it…. because writing, you see, is All About The Waiting.

Take the "simple" act of writing a book in the first place. Admittedly the only person you're waiting on to finish the damn book is yourself, but by God, I sometimes feel like shouting at my own fingers as they hover hesitantly over the keys, fluttering feebly with pent-up phrases. Come on! Just type a word – anything! And then repeat that 80,000 times… Writing a novel is playing the long game, and for someone who can't even get through the Easy Level Sudoku without losing interest, that's a challenge in itself. When I wrote my last novel, the whole thing was as clear as day in my head from about 10,000 words onwards. I could almost read it word for word in places – and yet I still had to write it all down. Surely there should be some kind of thought-reading machine that can do that for you by now? Yes, I get impatient with science and technology too.

.....

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One of the members of my writing group brought in a clipping from the Telegraph, which said that parents weren't reading traditional Fairy Tales to their children because they're too scary or not PC. I'll not moan, but I do wonder whether it's the mums who think these stories (which have, let's face it, been around for a long, long, time) are scary. And some of them are. But being scared isn't a bad thing to learn/come to terms with. Neither is learning that stories are stories, that when the book's closed the story's over (except the occasional one which keeps you up all night!) and that, usually, the nasty people get what they deserve. Anyway, enough of that. I'm sure you can all make your own minds up. And, of course, what's read to someone's child is their business. As long as something's being read to them then I'm happy. Not that it's my business.

Anyway. This led to another member telling us a true story. I thought it was funny enough to share. So here it is.

Someone was reading a group of young children The Three Little Pigs. This was a new story to one of the boys, clearly

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I am signing up for a promotion drive with Lollypop which bodes well for the future, I received my first EVER royalty cheque which was a massive achievement and I have already had a letter published (in Mslexia) this year! Plus I am feverishly researching and note-scribbling for the new novel (and I will tell you more about that soon, as well). My plan is to keep the momentum going and make this the Year of Me. I am recommending that everyone I know does the same!


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When I stood on the threshold of a new year twelve months ago, there were two sets of personal ticker tape uncoiling from me in opposite directions. One of them was written in indelible ink and attached at the other end to an anchor, way out of sight and in the past; the other was fresh and blank and streamed freely and unfettered into the future.


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Mr Whicher should keep his suspicions to himself to avoid being vilified by the forelock-tugging journalists of the time.


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It's my turn now to step back to the other side of the microphone, as it were, to host wonderful writer, blogger (on two blogs), fellow Salt author and friend, Elizabeth Baines, author of the stunning short story collection, Balancing on the Edge of the World, on this blog on March 18th, the final stop on her virtual tour, which kicks off today at Barbara's Bleeuugh!. It is well worth the visit, as Barbara has whipped up a Roman feast for the occasion, inspiring Elizabeth to tell us about her writing process, as well as what it is like to eat stuffed dormice (only virtually!)

Here is a bit more about Elizabeth:

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Time, in writing a novel, has two aspects. Obviously there's the time the story takes place in, both the 'real' time of a scene with full(-ish) dialogue and action, and the gaps which the narrative either skims through ("winter passed eventually, and with the spring came...") or jumps altogether. But there's also the time it takes to read the thing. How often the middle of a book seems to drag; but is that the writing, or the events, or our attention? One reason I prefer to read the novels I do reports on in a long, single sitting, is that I get a much better sense of the actual proportions of the parts to the whole. If, perforce, I have to read it in two or more chunks because I can't find a long, whole day this side of Easter and the report's due next week, my sense of how long it is since the Y scene may be quite distorted. When I'm working on the report I'll find my note saying "Too long between X and Y - tension drops" and look at the MS, reading again across that gap, and find that it's not too long at all.

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Anyone who has tried to fit writing around full-time parenting of pre-schoolers will know that feeling of craving 'just five more minutes' to finish a sentence, or to seal the deal on a new plot twist you've been mind-coddling while grilling the fish fingers. It's all very well to suggest that writing comes post-bedtime, but after a full-on day of tidying up tiny bits of Lego, changing nappies, making nutritious meals for fuss-pots, explaining Evolution in terms a four-year-old can grasp, shouting "Don't do that to your brother!" thirty-three times...etcetera, it's not uncommon to find that The Muse has put on its pyjamas and turned in as well...

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