Novel Ramblings, personal, writing

Novel Ramblings

I haven’t talked about my novels in progress on here as I’m quite self conscious when it comes to discussing my work.

So far, I have 7 novels which I have started. Two, I haven’t touched for a few years or more, three I have dabbled with in the past year, but there’s two that I have done the most work to. One is purely fantasy with a hint of dystopia and so far I have done over 10,000 words. My other novel, which I started for my Major Project at uni, has nearly 25,000 on it and is probably the most ambitious novel I will ever try to do. It’s a mixture of Greek mythology, fantasy and dystopia. When ever I have felt down, I remind myself that being a Writer is a positive thing and this novel in the one that always comes to mind and makes me carry on.

Keeping motivated on my novels has been a challenge. I wouldn’t say that having a multiple choice of which novel to do has been a hindrance as such, in fact I like having a list to work on. It’s more about the effort of not letting the motivation and the expectation of what a Writer should do get you down.

I feel like I’m failing as a Writer sometimes. Last year, I lost all love for writing, after graduating, and didn’t write for about 10 months. And then at the start of the year, I looked back on my novel and, out of nowhere, I wrote 10,000 words in the space of three weeks after nearly a year of writers block. And, on my other novel I manged to change the plot add add another point of view for what was suppose to be a background character and add 7,000 words in a month for it. It’s literally all or nothing with me.

Writing and editing is a weird process. I’ve had a break from novel writing for a few months, to focus on poetry and flash fiction, and to reflect on my novels. I’ve got a good idea of where things are going, and I know what tweaks I need to do to cement my worlds.

But the one thing that’s the most challenging, more than anything else, is trying to find a name for the world’s I’ve created – which, arguably, I’d say is more time consuming than picking the right titles for my novels!

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creative writing, Fiction, flash fiction, original piece, writing

My Child Became a Voodoo Doll

I gave birth to a daughter covered in freckles. She used to get more food down herself than in her stomach. I was never able to remove the stains from her clothes. Maybe, I should have dressed her in black instead of white.
          As a child she’d grab as many felt tip pens her tiny hands could hold, and draw a rainbow of dot to dots along her flesh, and fill in her plain nails on her hands and toes.
          I was always repeating, “Don’t cover yourself in ink!”
          Then she grew older. She stopped colouring her skin and started splattering the colours on to her hair. Too many colours circled her face, so bright and mismatched. Why did she choose to paint orange next to green? And yellow next to pink? It didn’t make sense.
          I told her, “Tidy up your appearance and wash your hair! You look idiotic.”
         Time passed and I noticed my child was reversing her white and black clothes into string. After too many trips down the steps, too many traps around objects and too many tangles in locks, I bought my daughter a needle.
        “Fix the holes in your clothes and get rid of the spare strings. You should treat the clothes I buy you better!”
          My child worked hard for days but the enormous yarn, and the ceiling of destroyed clothes kept her in her room for weeks. I couldn’t recall the last time I heard her voice, so I unknotted the door open and crept in.
           “Where are you?” I left the door open.
           All around me were messy piles of unrepairable clothes, strings of scribbles along the floor. My child slumped in her bed, using the needle I bought to stitch fraying strings, of different sizes, colours, and of dot to dots through her skin. No black and white were in sight.
            I cried as I realised my daughter resembled a Voodoo Doll. Why would she turn herself into one? I couldn’t guess which freckles were the start or the end of a sew. She stared towards the door. I searched for vitality but I could only see my reflection on the surface of her black, marbled eyes.