Watching with a Writer's Ear?

... shouldn’t that be ‘a writer’s eye’? Well yes and no.

Last night I decided it was my turn to do the weekly ironing, especially as honey-bunch had turned his ankle on Friday night as we charged up Chapel Carn Brea, the most westerly point in Britain, chasing a sunset; a story for another day.

Back to the ironing. I set myself up in front of the tele, I have to listen or watch something while ironing or I think I’m wasting time! We decided to catch up on Downton Abbey, we had taped episode two. So with one eye on the period drama, the other on hubby’s work shirts, and both ears tuned to the dialogue, I found myself hanging on every individual voice, choice of word, inflection, pause, cough, breath, it was all cramming my mind as I whizzed over the tea-towels and his T-shirts.

Mind you, (I keep saying that for some reason), ever since I started this intense study of the varied world of writing, my senses have definitely raised their sensitivity. It hasn’t spoilt my enjoyment of reading or writing, on the contrary, it just gets more exciting and challenging with the added hope that one day someone might consider my work worthy of reading – and even publishing.

In between watching the interaction of the characters, so wonderfully portrayed by the choice actors in their authentic and glorious costumes, I cannot help but wonder what Julian Fellowes must be thinking as he watches his creation coming to life on screen. I know of course he is already very successful and acclaimed and must have had that feeling hundreds of times, but surely that first moment must never go away as your words are visualised and you see the fruits of your hard labour. I’m more than happy doing the hard labour but wait my turn and live in hope for the fruits.

In the meantime I shall carry on watching and listening, taking note of how every word contributes to a powerful piece of drama, and I shall continue to dream, remembering Dad’s words, that ‘hard work will always pay off’.

Tonight I will no doubt watch the third episode but I’ve no ironing left to do, maybe I’ll darn his socks instead ... ha ha.

Thanks for calling by,
PP

Still thinking - while driving.

I wish my commute to work was just 10 seconds up the stairs to my writing room, but alas, like so many thousands of writers out there, I have to go by car. It takes an hour and a half to travel the 50 mile round trip because they are Cornish roads; those who’ve visited will understand.

As I said on Sunday, because I have to fit my writing around full-time work (not to mention domestic things - here is my opportunity to praise my hubby; the best in the land, he does the lion’s share), when I cannot physically sit down at my laptop, or even scribble in the notepad joined to my hip, I need to optimise my time in other ways and do something useful.

Speaking for myself, I must spend as much time thinking, planning and pondering as I do actually putting words on paper. So on my journey into work and on my way home, I use the time to consider what I have prepared the night before and how I’m going to take it forward later.

I enjoy nothing more than being lost in my thoughts. Soothing instrumental classics creating a conducive ambience while I work out a scene or plot, and smiling to myself when I have that giddy feeling as a particular word pops into my head. The word becomes a seed, becomes a sentence.

You must think I’m boring or even selfish, and you could be right, but ultimately my goal is to write a piece that will give someone pleasure, evoke an emotion be it sad or funny. Words join our world together, with words we communicate, whether written down or spoken, and they have to begin somewhere before they can go anywhere and everywhere.

I hope some of mine make you smile and feel.

My motto is: Never put off until tomorrow, what you can write today.

Thanks for visiting.
PP

PS: Just for those concerned about me possibly not concentrating on the road ahead – my eyes are on my driving and my hands on the wheel – only my brain is switching gears!

Thinking time - walking.

Hello again,

Like many writers, I have to keep going to the day job, so I have to optimise every bit of down-time to prepare and influence what I really enjoy doing – writing. When I get home from work I need to adjust my thoughts and transfer the workings of my brain from crunching numbers all day to a raft of words which need putting together to form something worth reading.

My strategy for this transformation is two-fold: the first is to exchange the smart office clothes for casual and comfortable, the second, and most important, is to take our Tibetan Terrier for his walk up the lane, if we are not going to the beach.

I say ‘up’ because it is a subtle climb, but once at the top the panoramic views are worth every huff and puff! The tidy fields eventually meet the marshes and dunes, and unless there is a sea mist I can see a strip of the Atlantic Ocean; I need this daily fix of space, fresh air and beauty to remind me of why I shall return to our cottage to start work again; I love it.

Max is getting on now, and I’m not far behind him, so we don’t power-walk but move at a respectable pace, stopping frequently as is Max’s wont, to poke his nose around, smelling and searching for who knows what.

This half hour together rejuvenates both of us. During this time my mind gradually forgets the day that has gone before, and starts to switch into creative mode as I think about the current piece I’m working on; invariably I will come back with an idea or two, or a clearer view on what I am writing.

This is in the main due to the inspiration all around. For instance last night when we walked up the hill, I looked into the various fields on either side of the lane. Baby rabbits scooted across one field when they heard Max coming, and in others gorgeous calves grazed with their mothers, horses munched and sea-gulls flew over.

Then, while Max was concentrating on his bodily functions and I was poised with poo-bag, I looked across to the small field beyond the stream, he was watching me, bold as brass, Mr Fox. We stared at each other in disbelief, he kept staring until Max moved and then he was gone; if only I’d had my camera.

On the way back down the hill I absorbed the beauty in the still-colourful cottage gardens, and the change in the trees and hedgerows as Autumn quickly comes. The light is fading earlier and the wonderful, unmistakeable smell of crisp English air fills my lungs; not available in sunny Cyprus. It’s so good to be home and back to the crazy timetable of life.

Thanks for visiting.
PP