I’m at a point in between writings, finishing off one project but not totally sure about what to do next, other than continue writing, playing the piano, and taking photographs. Like the one below:
In an earlier post, I outlined some of the methods I use for backing up. Since then, I’ve stumbled upon a new problem – Word documents not always working with OpenOffice.org.
I’ve added a couple of extras to my backing up routine:
- Copy and pasting the material, sending it as an email
- Converting the document into PDF and sending as an email attachment
I’ve also signed up for free online storage at IDrive. IDrive functions like an external drive on the computer and enables users to back up entire folders
This morning, I finished the rewrite of my second novel, a psychological thriller set in the Lancashire countryside in the north of England. I plan to work on another writing project in the meantime.
Secrets, a psychological thriller set in Lancashire, UK.
The following takes place during the build up to the first major dramatic peak, about a week before the central character has to confront a person from his past. After spending sixteen years in London, central character Alan is finding it hard to adjust to life in the north of England.
Ticton. Second time back. The familiar sites. Disused mill, shut down two-storey factory with large chimney set back from the road, parade of shops, rows of damp-looking terraced houses, waterworks further on, sky grey and dull. I catch a glimpse of Sheila Oscott by an upstairs window in her yellow cardigan, looking weary as she stares down on the empty cobbled street. Would I really want to return permanently to a place like this after enjoying more than sixteen years in London?
A blast of damp air hits me in the face when I get out of the car and I nearly step into a puddle. The place is like a desert, barren and bare.
Weather descriptions can create problems in novel writing, apparently. Too many, and the reader may lose interest. None, and the reader may find the scene setting lacking.
Then there’s the Pathetic Fallacy. In some cases, the tone of the weather hints at what is to come.
Here’s a description of a storm taken from my second novel, a psychological thriller. In this scene, the main character is driving his eight-year-old son home from school.
We barely talk on the way back. Jazz FM plays on the car radio, my favourite station. Those dissonances calming my mood, calming my mind. The journey, though, is rough, and the steadily darkening sky warn of a prairies-like storm Rain falls down my windscreen, making it difficult to see.
The rain sweeps across the surrounding grass verges in a downpour, splattering on the road ahead. At Rupton village, lightning streaks across the horizon, capturing a frozen shot of The Factory in the valley below: brown, muddy-red brickwork with turret-like windows and a tall chimney to side. Thunder, then more lightning and another glimpse of The Factory with the metal fencing surrounding the car park and the cooling towers and pylon grid further on. Austere. More thunder and lightning. Torrents of rain and gusts of wind. Snapping branches and soaked leaves strewn along pavements. The steep winding road to the bottom of the valley glazed from the rain, tiny streams of waters trickle down the hill to join the river at the other side.
‘Wow,’ Robert says.
He nods, but doesn’t smile.