In Nothing Remotely Trivial I was thinking about how moving the subject and setting of a novel away from the readers' world - in time, or space - can help to make sure the reader isn't snared by the familiar stuff of here-and-now and so held on the surface of the story. But it came up in the comments that language is another way of doing the same thing.

It can be words, as well as time or space, that make the familiar stuff unfamiliar, new, slightly different or slightly off-kilter, or strip off a layer to show me the depths. The words don't have to be weird or minimal or all-but-incomprehensible, though they may be, and if any of those mean it's also horribly, self-consciously clever, then I'm certainly not interested. It may simply be that each word is so exactly right that everything in the novel appears as things do on a day when the rain-cleared air, or the mood, or the company you're in, strips away the usual smog and shows everything afresh, extra-vivid, not transformed so much as more itself. Language that works like that give the ideas a texture I want to run my mental fingers over, makes the voices sound in my imagination as clearly as a radio play, makes my body-sense imagine the press or distance of theirs;

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I treated myself to a writing magazine yesterday on my day in the city, waiting for my new glasses for driving – preparing for my new wee car. So, I settled down to read some of the mag and was horrified by a ghost story in it; a competition winner that would never have got near the final five if I’d been the judge. It wasn’t seriously bad and most of the flaws, well the ones that bothered me, were in the first five paras; I had to do a double-take almost immediately and found myself talking out loud in disbelief:


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A lovely lazy lie-in today, hurrah. And I have not done anything too strenuous. Not that I ever do, really. But I thought I ought to say it. After all, I need to conserve my energy for the existential horrors of the week ahead, AKA Freshers' Week or The Week Of Hell. As I have termed it on the kitchen calendar.

Lord H also wins Husband of the Week competition (as always, naturally ...) by rustling up a cooked breakfast, consisting of scrambled eggs, ham, mushrooms and tomato (for me - he hates tomato) on toast, that was at least a zillion times better than my poor attempts of last week. It was seriously scrummy and if I hadn't married him already, then I definitely would now. Ah, I've always known who the real chef in the household was ...


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Lord H and I have spent a wonderful day up in London visiting The British Museum and enjoying the wonderful and sparky Hadrian exhibition. Definitely worth a visit if you're in the area, but do book a ticket. However, both Lord H and I are now worried about our ear lobes - as we have the same diagonal mark on them that Hadrian had, which is apparently a sign of heart disease. Oh goody, another medical worry - just what we need, eh!... Anyway, I'm actually halfway through the exhibition book, as Lord H kindly bought it for me a couple of weeks ago, but I also bought the gift-book small version while I was there. Finished that on the train. I do love Hadrian. As you can tell. What an interesting chap and of course so wonderful Greek in his ideas. In oh so many ways ...


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I’m always behind the times, out of the loop, with no idea what’s going on… that’s probably why I write historical fiction, because if stuff has happened in the past, then I just about stand a chance of keeping up with it.

Contemporary fiction is too mind-boggling – I mean, all that research!


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Most writers start secretly. Then it evolves from a habit to a hobby and a few people know, then you take it seriously, learn your trade, learn (usually painfully) something about how the industry works, and more people know, and eventually - maybe, just maybe - the world knows. And one day you wake up and realise that this is what you do, and such is the nature of our society that is has therefore become what you are. My brain's gone a bit demob-happy, what with it being Friday and all, and the end of a funny mixed-bag of a week at that. But I realise that Being a Writer - perhaps even Being an Author, which is a different thing - is now the fabric of things. It's part of the texture of just about everything that happens:


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Had a great time on the golf course today - amazing to see the summer at last. Mind you, I went out fully equipped in jumper, woolly hat, gloves and coat, and spent most of the time gradually stripping off. To a reasonable level, of course ... Not that there was anyone to see if I had gone rather more insane than usual as the course was virtually bare. Ho ho. All very odd anyway, but Marian and I appreciated being almost the only ones there. And I soooooo nearly got a birdie on the 9th. Honestly. I was only this much away from the hole. See? Still, I had to make do with a par. Oh how sad. I shall have to trade off the memory though as, what with Marian now being on a long holiday, we won't be able to play again for ages. Sigh ...


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I've just lifted this from my email box because I think it's an important point.

Hi irene,

We are all basically selfish. I know, I know, you are generous to a fault, but think of how you browse websites. You want to be entertained, informed, and so on. It's all about our needs, wants, interests and desires. Common sense? Why then, knowing this, do so many bloggers make their blogs all about THEM?
=======================
What's in it for ME?
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Have spent some of today attempting to get more to grip with Hallsfoot's Battle. Much to my relief, I've finally finished the scene with Johan's battle preparations that was giving me so much trauma. Thank the Lord. I think part of the problem for me is that the battle training scenes bring in a fresh supply of new characters as they can't all just be faceless Gathandrians - I have to give some of them a personality and a voice, otherwise the whole scene is dead in the water before it even sets sail. And to me, too many characters can be overwhelming - much as in my own life, I find it sooooo hard to deal with more than four or five people at once. Most of my novels have a very narrow stage with only a few people able to stand on it - that's how I work best and where I'm happiest. Even in The Gifting (of which more later), the character numbers aren't huge as most of that novel is a journey from one place to the other. Now in the second of the trilogy (trilogy - God help me!), they're staying in one place - and, worse, of necessity the novel is set in two countries - so the character numbers have to mount. Doubly. Help! All this makes me feel rather out of control and is giving me the heeby-jeebies, which is thus causing me to view Hallsfoot as a great, unwieldy solid mass of stone tumbling down on me from a great height. And I'm unable to jump out of the way. Lordy, what an exciting hobby writing is, eh ... Still, at least it's a chance to learn new ways of writing. Ho ho. Anyway, I'm now scraping in at 38,000 words and I've put some titles for additional scenes in the few blank pages ahead of where I'm at, so there's hope, Carruthers, hope. Possibly ...


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Lord H was hugely pleased today at the discovery that three cups of tea a day is good for you, as advised on the BBC news site. I suggested it would be a good idea to up our intake then as we hardly drink tea at all. Ah, innocent wife! Lord H casually replied that he drank loads of tea at work anyway, so it wasn’t a problem. I think he was about to go on with some other remark but I was staring at him with such stunned surprise that he was forced into silence. In all the years I’ve known him, and in fifteen years of marriage, I’ve never realised he drank tea at any other time than on holiday. Aha, the truth is coming out now - obviously I just don’t understand him, you know …


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