The Bitter Truth

Okay, so you have half of your latest epic novella written, spell-checked and neatly printed out and stacked into a readily waiting plastic folder with the rest of its predecessor chapters, all eagerly waiting for the day that the last chapter is added to the collection - so you can smile happily, make a dozen copies and chuck off to the nearest big time publishers, right?

Only in a perfect world.

Finishing the first draft is only the sure beginning to the journey of getting your epic adventure out there into the world. Strap on your harness and pull out your Indiana Jones hat, because it'll be a bumpy ride, full of pitfalls, self esteem slumps and the overwhelming desire to give up and find another job/hobby.

Writing for pleasure or profession both commands a certain amount of dedication, blood, sweat and tears. You are pouring every ounce of creativity into your project, you are feeding the flames and forging something new, shiny and beautiful. You are a writer, ultimately a literary warrior. If you want it, you fight hard for that first book to hit the shelves, you battle for that first book signing, the first person to ask you about your inspirations, ect.

We all have dreams - to do what we want most, we edit and edit and edit. Done editing? Comb back through the entire book for a second and third and maybe even forth go. Print out copies and distribute out to friends and family to get their opinions and reflections on the characters/plot/feel of the entire thing. Scour the bookshops for anything remotely similar that you may want to distance yourself from. (A prime example of this would be vampires!).

The bitter naked truth lies here: Draft, Edit, Comb, Edit, Opinions, Edit and finally then perhaps ready to be flooded out to publish.

Good luck, we all need it.

Beware your language!

All writers are guilty of it at some stage and I am no exception. Its a universal faux pas that we have all experienced and in cases, a bloody hard habit to climb out of the depths of. But also is inevitable to pick up at one point or another.

Yes boys and girls, I am referring to language. Did anyone else just have a flashback to their English lessons?

With the way we are all connected via the internet and all other mass media channels, we can access content and entertainment from all corners of the globe. I tend to immerse myself in the sunny world of the US a lot of the time, ranging from watching my menagerie of Friends to Desperate Housewives to House. And then of course I have shelves filled with American authors from Julie Krantz to Dan Brown.
Lately, I have recieved a few reviews on my latest project and the one that seems to crop up most; are the amount of Americanisms I've adopted sub-consciously.

Not that im saying Americanisms aren't cool. No, I love half of my weird and wonderful sayings that some people just don't 'get' - family included. But as someone who wants to be recognised at a British author, it's a little frustrating to write and then read over my workings to find that I had written 'gotten' as opposed to 'become'.

I think I can safely say that I've learned something from this experience though.

First Look: Beneath the Door - CHAPTER EXTRACT.

“I’m dreaming aren’t I?”

The blonde girl momentarily looked up from the freshly made daisy chain between her slender white fingers.

“What makes you think that?” She smiled sweetly, lips as rosy as her cheeks.

“The sheer fact I’m dreaming about someone I hardly know. Someone I met in the storeroom

of a mental institution. What does that say about me?” I could have smacked myself.

Rebecca’s ice cold eyes danced with amusement. She continued her daisy chain, humming under her breath as her fingers expertly tied each small flower to another.

“Don’t blame me. This is your dream.”

“Do me a favour and get out then.” I spat and moodily began to tear handfuls of lush green grass from the field we were sat in. A cool breeze swept over the cliff tops from the cerulean sea somewhere down below and carried the sound of seagulls and crickets singing, whilst the sun beat down comfortably from ahead.

To the left, was the big white door that I had long since given up trying to open. Rebecca finished her flowery new accessory and hung it proudly around her pale neck, surrounded by waves of her luxurious blonde curls.

I scowled at my strands of flat auburn hair and bitter-down nails.

“You need to relax.” Rebecca sighed. Even her sighs sounded musical.

“Sure, no problem. Attempted murder victim, psychologically damaged and socially handicapped. But I’ll stand over there and recite ‘knock-knock’ jokes, shall I?”

Rebecca rolled her eyes. “Mature. No - I mean you need to stop thinking and start living."

“I haven’t killed anyone yet. I think that’s a job well done if you ask me.” Who was she to start trying to be my personal life coach? I already had one annoyingly-enthusiastic blonde in my life. I didn’t want to start collecting them.

“Don’t you see? You’re so wrapped up in the injustice of what has happened, that you aren’t even bothering to live!”

“I am living!” I snarled. “Don’t dare try and tell me how I feel.” I was thoroughly tired and wound up. Rebecca barely battered an eyelid at my extremely crap mood and laid back on her hands, stretching and wiggling her naked toes in the long grass.

“I was just making an observation.” She sang quietly.

“Well, don’t. Keep it to yourself. Get out of my dream.” I rolled over onto my other side and viciously tore more grass from the field, balling it together in my hands. Silence gratefully filled the space and I stupidly thought for a second, that she actually listened to me.

Golden hair invaded my face, my eyes. She was stood above me, ice blue eyes gleaming under the thick curtain of her hair. She pierced me with those eyes and stripped me bare to my very core. I was both utterly bewildered and terrified at once.

“If you want things to change.. You change.” She whispered. “This concerns more than just yourself now.” Rebecca grabbed my arms with cold prying vice-like fingers and prodded me towards the door. For a fleeting moment, I thought she was going to kill me.

Her blue eyes softened, she smiled ruefully. “I’m not your enemy.”

“You aren’t a friend, either.”

Pink lips curled upwards. “I’m not a friend.”

Comments, opinions, feedback? Leave them in the comments below and thank you for reading!

- Holly