Pear © Jean Scheijen

After another fluffy day in knitland (ie the knitting magazine who have been paying me to write features about sheep, wool and spinning wheels), I log onto my yahoo account to discover an email from the agent who recently made some suggestions about my novel and agreed to read the revised manuscript.

Heart pounding, I scan their response, and feel a buzz of excitement as I take in the words “certainly much improved” and “the change to the ending make it a far better novel.”

Hurrah! But then I read on and reach the sinister word: “However.”

Surely this isn’t the time for a “however”! Surely this is the perfect moment for a sentence along the lines of: “we love your novel, your writing and you, and would like nothing better than helping you to find the publishing deal of your dreams.”

Well, they do say some rather heart-warming things, but rather spoil the effect by preceding the compliments with “in spite of”, as in: “in spite of all the good things about it, the quality of your writing, dialogue and character, it still lacks what I can best describe as a core.”

Not so hurrah. What do they mean by a core? And what do I need to do to gain one? Or is one already there in the manuscript, being deviously hidden by some erroneous character, plot line or flowery description?

I’m reluctant to give up on this novel entirely, but the agent’s closing paragraph gives me new hope in another directions, assuring me that “this is no to this particular novel and not to your writing.”

Suddenly, all is forgiven, and I have the urge to polish up another long-neglected novel and send it their way post haste.

The only problem is, I’m not completely positive it has a “core.”

Ps Searching for pictures of cores on stock.xchng has given me a serious craving for fruit. Note to self: don’t attempt to illustrate any blog entries with pics of chocolates…

ⓒ stock.xchng

After about a year of having an achy right foot, I finally went and saw my doctor about it just before Christmas, which resulted in a referral to a physiotherapist for treatment for a condition called Morton’s neuroma.

I’m not the NHS’ biggest fan by any means, but right now I’m rather impressed. On Monday I caught the bus to the appropriate clinic, then saw a physio who examined every aspect of both of my feet, ankles and calves, concurred with my GP’s diagnosis for my left foot, diagnosed a second condition, called a Metatarsalgia, in my left food, and deduced that it was due to my habit of over-pronating when I walk. As I learned when subbing for that triathlon magazine a few weeks back, that means I troll my feet when I walk.

He then injected the nerve sporting the Morton’s neuroma with some sort of steroid, and advised me to buy some anti-pronating orthopedic insoles to gradually correct my gait.

The final instruction as I left was to rest my foot and not walk too much for the next two weeks. That’s all very well, but what does too much mean? I cheerily strolled into town to buy the insoles and back home again (about an hour’s round trip) without problem, then the following day walked to the office of the publishing house where I’m currently freelancing, and home again (a 40-minute round trip).

There’s also the fact that I live in a two story maisonette, which means that I spend much of my time at home trekking up and down steep flights of stairs.

Last night I discovered exactly what “too much” means, and that I have exceeded it, with a foot that ached so badly I couldn’t sleep.

Ideally I should now be plonked on the sofa swaddled in a duvet, with a cup of tea and the TV remote within easy reach, but I need to earn an income and one of the downsides of being a freelancer is a lack of sick pay.

Instead I have come to the conclusion that I’ll just avoid any unnecessary walks, which means that once I’ve struggled home from the office tonight, my beloved with have to wait on me hand and, more importantly, foot.

It’s a hard life, but I suppose I could get used to it.

© stock.xchng

I have a friend who firmly believes that there’s no such thing as writer’s block – just a lack of discipline.

Most of the time I would agree, but for the last few days I’ve been stuck for inspiration, which has made me wonder if my friend’s viewpoint is a little harsh.

I’ve lost momentum. Rather than coasting along as I usually do, pulling stories and ideas out of thin air, I’m having to really work at it.

Maybe it’s the time of year, or the aftermath of bereavement, or the fact that last week I finished two features and finally completed the revision of my novel and sent it to the agent who’d requested it, removing the sense of urgency that’s been hanging over me since the beginning of the year.

Whatever the reason, writing just isn’t as straightforward as usual.

But then, perhaps that isn’t a bad thing. When the words virtually write themselves it can become easy to become complacent. What I really want to do is to launch myself into a new project – dive headlong into another novel or bright shining short story. But the ideas that rise to the surface of my mind don’t seem to bloom and flourish. Instead they drift back out of sight.

Sometimes I think writing is less about creating than capturing. The ideas are like colourful, slippery fish that I have to catch sight of, lure and trap. Or perhaps, rather than catching the idea, I have to let it catch me.

I need an idea to gnaw at me until I’m almost eaten alive. I need something to fascinate me to the point that I’m driven to explore it and draw something from it other than the facts, to fill in the gaps and create a whole new version of reality.

© Ula Kapala

The first full working week of 2009 showed me that one of the key skills of being a freelance writer is flexibility.

I’d planned to spend the week working on the revision of my novel, and interviewing people for two separate features I’m writing; one about the film industry in the southwest of England and one about inspirational women.

I’d managed to schedule the appointments so I had one or two arranged for every day, making for my perfect week – the opportunity to meet lots of interesting people and still have plenty of time for getting words on the page.

Then, on Monday, I received an email from one of my friends who works on a knitting magazine in Bath. Her editor and production assistant were both off sick and she wanted to know if I was free to come in and do a couple of days of writing and subbing.

Well, yes! I rearranged most of the interviews for Thursday and Friday. On Tuesday morning I trotted off merrily to Temple Meads station, and discovered that the earlier train to Weymouth had been delayed and was still standing at Platform 1. Hurrah!

The train was packed, every seat taken and people standing in the aisles. After a few minutes, a guard hopped on board and asked curiously: “What are you all doing on here? This train’s been cancelled!”

Oh no! It seems that the station was having a few communications problems. I legged it over to Platform 15, where another train was sitting, filled with people going to London via Bath. With just two minutes to spare, I slid aboard, found a seat, and waited. And waited…

Then the driver made an announcement – there were signal problems between Bristol and Bath and all traffic was being held up. Eventually we chugged out of Temple Meads, then came to a halt just outside the station, where we sat for 15 minutes.

All the way to my destination we stopped, started, trundled along, and eventually arrived at Bath Spa an hour after our departure. To put this in perspective, this is a train journey that usually lasts only 12 minutes.

I diffused my annoyance over fluffy features about yarns and knitting patterns, but really it made me realise that working from home is no bad thing. At least the commute from my bedroom to the living room isn’t likely to suffer delays.

That is, unless I get lured into the kitchen by leftover Christmas goodies, and that’s only a stop-off for essential writing fuel, surely.

On the Sunday between Christmas and New Year, my Uncle Mark died.

It wasn’t unexpected. He was in his seventies and had been unwell for several years, but it was still a shock to lose him.

I visited him in September, and as his home in California was a ten-hour plane ride away, I knew I was unlikely to see him again. But I remember thinking how much more there was to talk about, how many more tales and recollections I wanted to hear him tell.

They’re lost now: his memories, his version of events, his own particular view of the world. I’m sad that I didn’t have a chance to learn more from Mark, but I know I should be glad for what I did learn.

If it wasn’t for my visits with Mark, I wouldn’t know about the time my grandmother saved his life from a German bomber during a walk home from school. I might never have discovered that one of my ancestors was advisor to Lawrence of Arabia, another to a king of Egypt.

I would never have heard about colonial life in Bombay in the 1960s, just as, if it wasn’t for my grandmother I would never have learnt about life in Cairo in the 1920s.

So much is lost when a person dies, and it made me realise how much I want to set down and save. In a way, it rather inspired, and this year I plan to be prolific; to write more, pitch more and submit more than ever before.

I’m doing okay so far, having finished the text for a picture book (about a rat), a short story (about a hare) and mid-way through the revision of a novel (about an elective mute). I think this is the continuation of a beautiful friendship between me and my laptop.