So You Want to Write a Novel

How not to go about writing a novel.

The Ghost (unfinished)

Faces appear, always familiar, but I never know them. I always think I do. I think I'm in a parallel universe dipping in and out of each side. Never belonging to either world.
I sit on the outside, always watching. Always listening. But I'm never involved.
A lady stops me and asks me the time. I want to start a conversation, but I don't. I want to talk to people, but I don't. I'm not good at small talk. I prefer to be deep, but not many people like that, particularly if you don't know them.

I like the insane. I'd be happy working in a mental hospital where people hear voices and see things no one else sees. Perhaps they're from a parallel universe too. Who can tell?
Perhaps the insane are perfectly normal and everyone else isn't. Cats stare at things that are not there, and dogs bark at things we cannot hear. Are they mad too?

I am a ghost, who watches the world go by and people walk right through. I observe people's daily lives, but never get involved. I see the middle-aged woman across the road walking her dog every morning. She has a little Jack Russell, who trots along on his tiny legs as fast as he can to keep up with his owners amble.
I watch the man two doors down go out with his wife who wears sunglasses during the winter and long clothes in the summer.
A harassed mother pushes a pram up the road with a little boy trailing behind. She looks exhausted at half past eight in the morning.

I sit in my group that I go to three times a week and listen to the haunting stories of its members. Some of them make you want to cry for the lives they've lost. But others make you want to scream at them.
I'm not telling people my story although they say it will help. Help me move on and the voices may disappear. But I worry what will happen then. The voices keep me company. They're from my parallel world. They tell me what to do when I can't make decisions. I don't think I can live with the silence.

The woman with the scarf is talking about the disaster she's having with her son in law. I'm trying to work out what the disaster is, but I can only tell that he has bought a whole load of logs for the open fire they didn't need. He's inside her head she says. She wishes he and her daughter would find somewhere else to live and leave her alone. She says she doesn't need looking after.

A man with the jittery knee is contemplating suicide again. I want to get out. I feel suffocated with the depression and paranoia around me. I don't want to help them get better. They don't even want to get better.
The idea is the people who are coming to the end of their year's therapy will help the lost souls who have just arrived. But there's no obvious difference between them.

I have been here for three months and still haven't told them anything about me. I clam up and my mouth cannot be prised open. I'm too busy listening to the voices who tell me that they will hate me if I speak.
I listen to the girl who was beaten by her father and then married at sixteen to be beaten by her husband. What kind of life is that? My problems are nothing like the others. I wasn't abused as a child, or as an adult. In some ways, being invisible is far easier. At least if no one can see me, I can't be hurt.

A woman in her forties talks about the anger of not having her own children. She was too wrapped up in looking after her crack-addicted partner and suddenly she realised she'd left it too late. The drug-addict boyfriend is dead.
And all this is supposed to help? I crave the comfort of my empty flat as the counsellors draws the group to a close.

My heart lifts when it's time to go. And I leave unnoticed while the others have their small-talk and goodbyes.
I wonder if I bumped into anyone, would they notice? Would they feel bone, muscle and body against them, or a soft breeze flutter against their arm? Would they look around at the quietness and shiver?

At home I sit at the window and watch the people live their lives in front of me.

© 2010 Melissa Crow. All Rights Reserved.

Flash Fiction: Life of a Mother

This is a piece of Flash Fiction, inspired by the short story  'Beginning, End' by Jessica Soffer. I intend to develop it further, but it wondered what people thought of it as it is.

Life of a Mother.

You were born during the Second World War. You avoided the bombs and waited for news. Your father returned from the war. You wondered who he was. You went to school and left at fourteen. You were your sister's bridesmaid. You trained to be a secretary. You answered calls at the telephone exchange. You listened to people's conversations.

You met my dad at a dance. He tried to touch you. You slapped his face and went home. You forgave him. You got married. Dad wanted to be an accountant. You told him he'd be the best. When he failed an exam, you said he'd pass it the next time.

Then you wanted a family. You lost a baby. You had my sister. You lost another baby. And another. You cried. You moved to a new town. The doctors were helpful. You gave birth to me. You lost another baby. The doctors said it was for the best.

Your fingers started to stiffen and they wouldn't relax. You fell down. A lot. You went to the doctor. You were sent for tests. They said your muscles were slowly wasting away. Your brother said you'd end up in a wheelchair. You said you would not.

Dad drank too much and was out all the time. You told us things would be okay. The doctor said dad should stop drinking. You diluted his wine and told him he could do it. He hasn't had a drink in nearly forty years.

My sister went to college and started a new life. She told you she was moving to London. You wanted her to stay at home. I went to college and started a new life.

Your walk became a slow shuffle. You fell down more. You were scared to go out. You stayed at home. You watched the trees and the birds through the window. You watched children walk by on their way to school. You told us about what the neighbours were doing. You never complained.

We talked on the phone. It was your lifeline to the outside world. Dad woke you up to announce you were going to be a grandmother. You told everyone.

You met your first grandchild. But you could barely see her. You met your second granddaughter and sang nursery rhymes. You watched them learn to walk.

You developed a cough that went to your chest. The doctor came in. You took the medicine. It didn't help. You told dad you loved him. The whole family came around at Easter. You watched your grandchildren play.

The next morning you watched the Easter service on TV and mouthed to the hymns. You talked to my sister and reminisced about my childhood.

You fell asleep. You didn't wake up.

© 2010 Melissa Crow. All rights reserved.

Stillness

This is my first hand-in assignment for my course, submitted last week. It's still being marked, so I will add my mark as a comment at the end.

Stillness

Sinead couldn’t remember when it all started to happen, but she thought it must’ve been a gradual process. Now she couldn’t move, even if she wanted to. She lay in bed staring at the rose around the light-fitting.  The plaster now looked like bearded gargoyles rather than delicate rose petals after decades of being repainted. The gargoyles stared down with contempt for the woman in the bed.

Muffled voices outside the bedroom provided a gentle background hum.  She couldn’t make out the words except for the regular ‘she’, ‘Sinead’ and ‘doctor’.

Am I waiting for a doctor? She wondered. She had become very confused and distant from life.

Am I dying?  She asked herself. Is this what it’s like to die? Will I begin to float up to the ceiling at any moment as my soul leaves my body? She thought people should be around her bed, if she were dying, saying their goodbyes and weeping over her useless body.

Perhaps she wasn’t dying. She probably wasn’t even paralysed. She was perfectly physically able when she first went to bed.

She took to her bed. That’s another phrase Sinead heard often, mainly banded around by her husband on the phone. There was an edge to his voice, he was either scared or annoyed, she couldn’t tell. The thought of annoying people with her condition made her feel sad. It’s not as if she could do anything about it.

She tried again to think back to the time she would consider herself to be a normal human being, who had enough energy to get up, wash, dress herself and take care of the children, take them to school, come home and do the dishes with no effort at all.

Do the dishes! Oh the thought. She felt her rigid body tighten further at the very idea of getting up and going downstairs.

She focussed on the bearded faces on the ceiling. She studied every detail of the cheeks and open mouths. She could almost hear them shouting at her: You disgusting, fat, sick woman!

Then she remembered little by little, going to bed and never wanting to get up again. Part of her tried to move, but there was not enough energy. Her muscles were slowly wasting away, making the fat around her bones spill out across the bed. She couldn’t feel anything.

Her whole body had melted into the bed and had become one with the duvet covers. Ulcers were forming on her buttocks from stagnating so long.

She felt dead, but didn’t think she was. The hushed voices continued outside her bedroom door, while the voices in her head started to jabber loudly. What is wrong with you? You can’t possibly be tired; you’ve been asleep all day. That’s what her husband said to her some time ago. She could hear the frustration pour out of his mouth. She had mumbled something in reply, but the effort to speak was wearing her down.

The children went into the bedroom, confused and frightened. At first, they didn’t think anything of mum being in bed. They’ve also had days where they’ve felt hot and sick and mum had told them to rest in bed and they’ll get better.

Then when mum had been in bed for several days, and dad walked around silently with a furrowed brow, the boys felt their stomachs tighten.

Aunts were called in to help take them to school and cook their dinner. Dad stopped eating with them. Doctors with large leather satchels came in to look at mum.

Nobody told them anything. They were six year old boys, they didn’t need to know. They were simply told mum was ‘tired’ and needed her rest.

Mum hardly looked at them and even when she did, she wasn’t there. Her eyes were blank, as if they’d left her body and went for a walk.

‘Are you getting up today?’ One twin asked. There was no reply from the woman in the bed. ‘Leave her to sleep,’ dad said, gently ushering the boy out of the room by his shoulders.

Sinead’s husband couldn’t understand what was going on either. One day his wife was present and then she went to bed. She couldn’t even speak. Her voice croaked out some inaudible mumble. His wife was gone. Fear had shot through him. He knew she’d been stressed, but doesn’t everyone have their troubles?

Sympathy flapped and fluttered away like dropped litter and a menacing cloud of anger dulled the sky. Why is she doing this? He asked the different medical professionals who came to see her. It’s very strange, they all said. There’s nothing physically wrong with her.

The man bit his nails and pondered. If there was nothing wrong with his beloved wife, why doesn’t she just get up? That’s when the word ‘psychiatrist’ was mentioned. He couldn’t understand. She wasn’t mad; she just wasn’t moving very much. How can a psychiatrist be of any help?

He didn’t want his wife to be carted off to a mental hospital, but on the other hand it might be a great relief not to tiptoe around the house wondering if she was going to get up. It felt like sleeping next to a corpse at night. The closed bedroom door now looked sinister; it reminded him of doors in horror films, behind which monsters and ghosts lurk.

Now he was ready to confront the monster, which used to be his wife, before the doctors take her away and ask prying questions. She just needs to get up! He thrust the door open and rushed over to the limp body in the bed.

Sinead heard the door crash open, but still couldn’t react. She stared up at the gargoyles for an explanation.  It sounded like her husband, but his voice came out high pitched and child-like. It took her a while to understand what he was saying.

Still staring at the light-fitting, her eyes didn’t even blink when she felt her husband pull her arm and wrench her body from under the duvet. He was shouting at her to get up, drops of spit falling from his mouth on to her pale cheeks. The cold air enveloped her in goose bumps as she continued to look up. She could see her husband in the corner of her eye, but didn’t have the energy to turn her head towards him. Her expression was as vacant at it had been for weeks. There was a swirl of movement around her, and muffled shouting, as if someone had turned down the volume.

Then she remembered again as she was tugged on to the floor. She remembered forgetting to wash and get dressed, or was it more like she couldn’t be bothered? When the teacher called to find out why the boys weren’t at school, she realised she’d forgotten to take them. She’d almost forgotten they were there. Her mind had been full of thoughts jostling around her head while her body moved like a sloth.

She felt herself falling on to the floor, but it didn’t hurt and she still didn’t blink. A man swooped in with a waft of crisp late autumn air and fallen leaves, and spoke softly to her husband.

He dragged his lifeless wife off the rancid bed. The yellow stain around her night-dress and bed; its foul odour disgusted him. She fell limply and effortlessly on to the floor, no resistance, she didn’t even look at him. Is she even alive?

The doctor put a comforting hand on his shoulder. ‘Come on, we’ll put her back into bed and wait for the ambulance.’

‘She’s going to hospital?’ he asked the doctor. ‘A....erm...a psychiatric hospital?’

‘Probably, eventually. She’ll need to be assessed first.’

The husband silently covered his face in his hands. Then he let out a howl. He felt helpless and scared. This is a madness he’d never seen before. He’d seen people shouting in the street; he’d seen people forcing others to avoid eye contact. He’d seen people having a ‘breakdown’ at work, all noise and spiky faces, ranting and crying. But not this. He’d never seen people just lose themselves and fall into a dead silence. It was exactly that, he thought, it’s as if she was dead.

The boys played with Lego in the living room, but their hearts weren’t in it. They heard a sudden high-pitched noise from upstairs. They looked at each other. At first they thought it was mum, finally awake, but they realised it was their dad. He’d never sounded like that before, like a wild dog howling. They felt their skin prickle. Then they continued to build a house of yellow and red bricks – a line of each on top of the other.

Yes, she suddenly remembered again. Not long after she stopped going out, she felt such a heavy tiredness pressing down on her that it made her legs buckle. She told the boys she was going for a lie-down and never got up again. She padded over to the toilet now and again, staring straight ahead, but there was no life. Her body barely functioned on auto-pilot while her mind travelled elsewhere.

Sinead felt hands around her, people in green overalls talking softly to her, as if it were happening to someone else. A scratchy blanket was pulled around her shoulders and someone asked her if she could stand up. They held her hands as she wobbled to her feet and shuffled to the door. Her eyes stared ahead and the people in green helped her slowly down the stairs. All the voices merged into one soft purr as if she were just drifting off to sleep. Among them, she heard her sons whimper, or was it her husband? She couldn’t tell.

She was led to a wheelchair and another blanket was placed on her legs. She felt the chilly air rush in through the open front door. The bright light from outside was blinding. She realised she hadn’t seen the outside world for months. She hadn’t even looked out of a window and seen the gentle shake of trees or birds fly off to a warmer climate ready for the winter. Her skin started to prickle into life.

Her mind returned to the day she went to bed. She had woken up in the night to an empty space beside her.  She’d walked on to the landing and heard muted voices from her sons’ room. Her husband was comforting her boys, of course. One of them must’ve woken up. She had gone back to bed.

It happened again two nights later.  The muffled voices began to play on her mind. The odd ‘shush’ here and there, when her feet creaked on to the landing floor. She doesn’t know why she didn’t look in. They were with their daddy, why should she go in? Her son presented her with peculiar drawings which were tossed out with the rubbish. She found them too strange to even look at. How would a six year old boy know to draw things like that? Perhaps she was imagining it. Finally, the word ‘secret’ was also whispered. Her mind tried to work it out, but couldn’t cope and began to shut down. If she stayed perfectly still and played dead, the monster would go away.

However the gargoyles had other ideas for her with their accusing stares. How could a mother ignore what was going on within her own family? She was relieved to be out of that bedroom.

‘She’ll be okay,’ the quiet voice of the doctor whispered in the background. ‘They’ll take good care of her at the hospital.’

Sinead shut her eyes as she sat in the wheelchair ready to be pushed out into the cold air towards the bright sky.

© 2010 Melissa Crow. All rights reserved.

Where Do I Start?

I'm not new to writing, but I'm new to being a serious writer. This is a blog of stories I'm working on and any constructive feedback would be very much welcome.

I've recently started a Certificate in Creative Writing at the University of Kent which will lead on to a diploma and then finally a degree in Creative Writing with English and American Literature.

I'd also love to hear from other writers of all experiences, whether they are published or yet to be published like me.

My main inspirations are Iain Banks, Irvine Welsh, Stephen King, Ali Smith, JD Salinger's The Catcher in the Rye and Allan Warner's Morvern Callar.