Writing is a dog’s life, but the only life worth living.

Gustave Flaubert

Helloooooo, how are you all getting on?

To
supplement my lovely writers group, I enrolled in a writing class at
Glasgow Uni, taught by Alan McMunnigall. It’s great. Every Tuesday, I go along and
we critique a couple of student pieces and focus on various techniques
used in writing. The one I’m particularly interested in is “close
narration”, which is what I use in my novel. Alan
recommended this book to us:

There
are two chapters on Gustave Flaubert, whom Wood thinks novelists
should thank for modern narrative the way poets should thank spring! To this end, I downloaded Madame Bovary (free on the Kindle, by the
way), and found it a thoroughly enjoyable read.

My
novel rewrite is sitting at 67,260 words. I’m perilously close to
where I want to be (compared to where I was, at least. I’m under no
illusion as to how much work still needs to be done). I’m keen to
impose what I’ve learned in class, but also hesitant in case it ends
up reading like a cluster of creative writing exercises. As long as I
let my characters continue to do the talking, I’m hopeful it will read well.

Meanwhile,
I’ve been gladly, irrationally distracting myself with short stories,
writing class and even my food blog, in some kind of Bampot drill in avoidance. I’m currently reading “A Disaffection”, by James
Kelman and this passage sums me up to a T:

‘But
there was little to trust in reason. Fuck that for a racket. A method
of approaching the thing, perhaps, was to say he had been
subconsciously avoiding all thought on the subject because of a
growing awareness that it could prove momentous, all too fucking
momentous.’

In
other words, I’m shiting myself about what to do with it once it’s
all done, dusted and wrapped up in a bow, ready to be subject to
other people’s scrutiny. I’m not one to take the nip at a critique, I
promise you I’m not. But this… this piece on its third rewrite has been the work of many a
weekend, lunch break, spare hour and post-work library trip for over
a year. I’m filled with the crippling self-doubt and paranoia you’d
expect any author to have at this stage.

On a lighter note, I’ve
been obsessed with the New Yorker Fiction podcast series of late. Have you heard it? An
author reads the work of another author and they discuss the work
with the New Yorker fiction editor, Deborah Treisman. I thoroughly
recommend the following podcasts: 

You. Are. Welcome.

So what’s new with you? Give me all your gossip.

Take care

Catherine x