The Bachelor Sparrow

About three weeks ago I noticed a cock sparrow singing loudly from the second from top branch of the dead elder tree, that sprouts spectrally from the heart of a flower laden lilac bush.  I wondered why it was singing - perhaps it was a warning, had it spotted the cat, Bernard, tracking the erratic paths of imaginary frogs through the flower bed?  I knew a blackbird's warning cry, but this song didn't sound like a warning.  It was robust, repetitive but unremarkable.   After a while, the bird flew away.

The next time I was in the garden, there was a cock sparrow, clinging to the elder tree, ringing out a message.  I mentioned it to my husband, he said "how can you be sure it's the same one?"   I felt sure it was, it had the same MO as crime writers say.   As if alarmed by our scrutiny, it launched itself in a bowl shaped flightpath onto our neighbour's roof, where it began its song again, now within earshot of the sparrow nest under her dormer window.  Was it a joyful father sparrow, announcing the good news to all and sundry, and taking a break from the work of nest building and feeding..

After a few days I decided that this must be a courtship song, destined to draw a mate.  And then my heart sank. It was already May, the birds had coupled up weeks ago, nests had been built, eggs laid.  This lone sparrow was persisting in trying to attract a female, but honestly, what were his chances?  Perhaps if Bernard caught some hapless foraging cock sparrow, there might be a female in want of a mate.  This spare bird would be the answer to a matron's prayers, if he could be encouraged to feed her orphaned chicks, and forego his own immediate right to father a brood until this batch were fledged.  Did that happen?  Do sparrows make good step-fathers?

Three weeks later, the sparrow still sits in the elder tree and sings, then shifts to a nearby roof and sings again.  Occasionally I hear his song from the top of the apple tree.  Sometimes I fancy I hear a faint answering twitter, but it's probably another bird, a blue tit, touring the aphid patches on the honeysuckle for a good feed.

Why doesn't he leave and try another garden?  There are no spare females here, but I know there are sparrows at the end of the road, within easy flying distance.   Perhaps he does, perhaps he sings out his brand message in many trees in this rectangle of back gardens.  Perhaps he will never find a female.  Of course he doesn't know that.  It can't occur to him that all the females locally are mated and nested and brooding.  And if he could know that, what would he do about it?  Now at least he is fulfilling his biological destiny, to sing for a mate.

This creature has moved me, I am praying for him.  I am praying that he will, against all the odds, find a mate and pass on his persistent, determined genes, to breed a race of resolute young sparrows who are able to stand up to what fate holds for them.   But I fear for him.  How long do sparrows live?  Will he survive the winter?  I am terrified to think that he will freeze or starve over the winter and not be able to know the triumph of successful mating.  To die alone, on some bare twig, or perhaps in the shelter of the camellia or one of the other evergreens, this seems a desperate fate to me.  Surely he will survive to next spring, when his mature and masculine trills will thrill susceptible female sparrows from all the local gardens.  He will mate with a youthful, healthy female and bring forth a brood of unsurpassable beauty and strength.

When I first thought about this sparrow, I was thinking about his loneliness, and projecting human emotions onto him.  While I was writing this, I realised that his desperate attempts to sing out and attract attention moved me because they were similar to my own attempts to sing out and attract attention for my book.  I do not want to die before it finds a home, I want it to go out and flourish in the world, although I would prefer not to have to go through another winter before that happens.
  

Two book blurbs, both alike in dignity?

I have just read an article on how to write book blurbs.   I had one in place for The Malice of Fairies, this one:

Deirdre is a rationalist and a sceptic, but a visit to West Cork and a romantic encounter with the mysteriously irresistible Connor begin to challenge her long-held belief system. The whole structure of her life begins to totter when her young daughter Elsie disappears, abducted by the sióga, a powerful clan hidebound by thousands of years of tradition. There’s nothing fey about these fairies and Elsie’s abduction catalyses the clan’s disenchantment with Aurelia, their ageing chieftain. Aurelia’s sons, Connor and the ambitious, sexually-conflicted Gawen, are rivals to succeed her, threatening further dissension within the sióga. Elsie is in danger of becoming collateral damage, while Deirdre risks losing not just her precious daughter, but everything that really matters to her. 

After reading the article, I wrote a new one: 

Deirdre’s lost in the woods when she meets the irresistible Connor. A sceptical academic, Deirdre falls for this uncannily charming man, and is drawn back to Ireland to visit him, taking her nine year old daughter Elsie.  With Elsie’s sudden disappearance, Deirdre receives a series of devastating blows which steadily force her to see the world differently, until finally, Connor’s mother, the manipulative Aurelia, offers her a terrifying bargain.

Aurelia’s people, the sióga, are bound by centuries of tradition which Connor and his sexually-ambiguous brother Gawen, are both longing to change.  Rivals to succeed Aurelia, their struggle for dominance seems remote from Deirdre’s familiar, professional world, but everything she loves depends on its outcome.

Which do you think works best?   Comments below please - or on the FB page The Malice of Fairies,

Tara Moore "Fade to Dead"

This is my friend Tara's latest novel, published by Urbane Publications, and available from all good online stores and crime festivals.   Just as Trotskyites in the 1970s were urged to "make the turn to industry" (i.e. go and become agitators in the workplace, rather than intellectualise in universities), writers are being incessantly urged to write crime. Tara has had a long career writing commercial women's novels, with a hint of the dark in the last ones, until her agent urged her to turn to crime.  As I don't read much crime (or much of anything  at the moment) it would be a long slog to become a crime writer, and the results would not be as satisfying as this is. I particularly liked the main character, DI Jess Wildacre, although apparently some reviewers do not.  I found it funny in places, and very grim in others.  You feel all the frustrations that the police team feel with this serial killer and it seems impossible to see how they can find any evidence.  It's a relief when they do.  I didn't see the twist coming either.  What more can I say?  Read it yourselves.

The Point of Blogging

I started this blog about 5? years ago, because I was told by other writers that we all had to have a blog, a calling card, something to impress the industry with our "platform".  I don't know if anyone else gets a chance to see the stats on this blog, but if this was my only "platform" it would be a pretty wobbly and isolated one.

The intention of this blog was to provide an insight into the process of working, for anyone who might be interested.   Occasionally I put up a sample of the work.  These samples always have far more readership than anything else on here, quite reasonably, since they are properly written chapters, and not just me whinging on about how hard things are.

The blog falls between any number of stools - I could do something with it, like become a mega reviewer, or I could indulge in a bit of literary gossip, to attract more customers.  But this is not about the numbers, it's more of an aide memoire for me, how I felt, how I responded, what I did.  It's not personal, anyone can read it really.  I don't think I've been rude to anyone; a bit cheeky about agents maybe, but when you've had the rejection letters I've had, you can't help that.  

I continue to do it not to gratify the loyal readership (sorry) but because I am interested in the process and progress of the works, the ideas I've had, the ideas I've discarded, and so on.   However, I will try and write more about other writers I know and what they are doing.  This is called backscratching (and ruder things), but is essential to "get on".

Avanti!

I was rather shocked today to realise that it was about 6 months since I'd done any serious writing.   Of course I have been involved in the editing and re-writing of The Malice of Fairies and I have written considerable chunks of The Devil's Chapel, The Dog-Walkers Book Club etc. but despite applying my bottom firmly to my chair and typing so much that I seem to have RSI or something in my elbow, no new work is forthcoming.  What I mean by serious writing is what I do when I'm writing a book, 2-3,000 words a day, and a smart answer for anyone who is foolish enough to interrupt me (cups of tea and coffee delivered silently are acceptable).  Everything in the last few months seems to be a bit scattergun.

This is due partly to the slow progress of TMoF - although if agents were getting back and asking for changes and so on, I wouldn't have much time for other writing.  It is also due to an underlying "is there any point?" feeling.  Yes, I would enjoy writing them, but I am not so sybaritic that I can simply lounge in the pleasure of writing for its own sake.  It needs to earn me some money.

At present, I have gone beyond sorrow, into a place of incredulity.  However, yesterday I discoverd a US website called Query Tracker, which lists about 1400 agents, so clearly I have barely scratched the surface.  The trouble is dealing with each individually crafted submission, as well as my paltry attempts at a social media presence.    I feel happy because I'm getting on top of it, but at the same time, the unplanted summer plants, the ironing, the state of the spare room, dealing with our listings on the AirBnB website, the redecoration of Ned's room etc. all are neglected as I sit here, close cousin to Mrs Filth-Packet, in my dressing gown, awaiting the CALL!


The other projects I have begun, or am continuing, include: screenplay treatment of TMoF, because everyone says it would be a great filum entirely, a sarcastic but helpful book about approaching agents, working title "Other Agents May Feel Differently", the Beastly Betty idea, a thorough overhaul of The Romantic Feminist since apparently there is still interest in the 70's.  But I am not working consistently on one thing.  I cannot tell if this is good.  I like to focus on one thing, but maybe it's more "creative" to diversify one's interests.  Maybe I should just go with the flow and do a bit here, and a bit there.   I am reading more, and doing odd bits of research for The Devil's Chapel.  In fact I've just had an idea for another element of it...I haven't "lost it".   This is just a different phase.  Maybe it's a better one, multi-tasking could be more stimulating.  Now, what am I giving the guests for dinner tomorrow night....?

Self-pitying tosh

I think the following can be put into this category.  As I rightly recognised in the last post, I have too many projects to think clearly, and I think the reason I have so many projects is because my brain is trying to protect me from the feelings of utter misery and despair about my future as a writer, while at the same time preventing me from getting on with anything..

Now, unlike some people who want to be writers, I can write well, I have a reasonable amount of insight into the human condition, and the persistence to get it down on paper .  I have written 4 novels in the last 6 years and chunks of other stuff, including the ill-fated Ransome series Pah!   I have done all the things they say you have to do, I have even paid for editorial advice and editing, I have had rave rejections for my first two novels, yet I cannot get any interest in The Malice of Fairies.. I am getting nothing but the standard brush offs...no rave rejections, no requests for full reads.   I know this is the second phase, post editing etc. and perhaps I should treat it as a the real beginning.  Perhaps I should be more patient, but I cannot help becoming very discouraged.

I have been grown up about this for a long time, I have been realistic, I have been sensible.  But I really thought this was the novel that would make agents catch fire...All the efforts I have made to promote it (well, as many as I felt I could get away with without everyone getting sickened by it).  If all feels pretty futile.

But then again, 10, mostly N. American, agents, have still got it.  There's hope. And there are plenty more to apply to.  I suppose one has these phases of discouragement from time to time.   But let me run through my fears - that my work is too same-old, same-old to be a cutting edge literary novel, that my writing is better than my story-telling, that my work is too "clever" to be widely commercial,  that I have no sense of popular taste, that my age is against me (not that that gets written on submissions.) but that I am somehow beyond the culture.


Some of this misery is clearly connected with my over inflated excitement/expectation about the novel - but everyone has enjoyed it, praised it (all 4 of them) and since 2 of the readers are professional writers/editors then one does tend to take it more seriously. Perhaps if I had had lower expectations for it, I wouldn't feel so awful now.  But a part of me felt that if I wasn't utterly wholehearted about it, neither would anyone else be. so I have to carry on brightly cheery and perky about it. Nevertheless, I am feeling unlucky.  I don't really know if I believe in luck, I certainly haven't had an enormous amount of it lately. I ought to have more faith really, and just think that for everything there is a season, and this is just not my season yet. The fact is, everyone says, if you have talent and work hard you will succeed... humph, the people who haven't succeeded are curiously silent on the fact. Reluctantly, I have come to believe in astrology - although it's not foolproof, and some of the astrologers interpret things in a weird way.   Take the Mars retrograde... a lot of people say everything will slow down, low energy etc. nothing much will happen, or alternatively there's this:


Perhaps there's something in it, the decline in competition and forward urge may give one the chance to re-charge one's batteries, and rest up a bit, and deal with oneself, rather than worrying about the "competition".  Which in my case is the other million wannabe novelists who are putting their work into the agents. People always say writers aren't in competition with each other - but I think that's bunk.   The fact is, all these other wanabees are clogging up the agents intrays and preventing them from spending more time on MY submissions.  And there are only so many people getting published each year, only so many slots at the publishers.  So, yes, inevitably there is a sense of competition.    But we can all take a back seat, and preen ourselves into a state of glossy awesomeness..

Another factor in my discontent is probably my impatiience, I want something to happen NOW.  Because it's feels like it's around for a long time.   If I were prepared to take a long term view - that the book will be published, just not yet...it might be easier.

"On submission"

There is a terrible emptiness that comes over me once a novel has been completed and has gone out to be submitted.  An emptiness somewhat exacerbated by the fact that people are not hammering on my door and demanding full reads.  

My brain is over-compensating by giving me three different ideas for a novel simultaneously.   Firstly there's Beastly Betty the reworking of Balzac's Cousin Bette, I bashed out a thousand words of that, I was setting it in the 1950's, so there was the same sort of post-war reverence for the war leader - it is set in London of course.   Then I realised I needed to be really thoroughly immersed in the book for it to come easily...
The second idea - which I have done a fair bit of work on is The Dog-Walkers' Book Club - a story of life in a seaside town with gaslighting and stalking and deceit and secrets.    Finally, inspired by my visit to Barfrestone, I began writing a short story, which expanded towards a radio play, which I now think might make a novel.  The novel would be a 3-stranded work - linking Queen Bertha of Kent with some nasty medieval masons who are still worshiping the old gods in the 12th Century (not unfeasible) and some modern antiquarians who are trying to understand why this church is so EVIL.

As a result of these ideas, and the need to re-write The Ash Grove  and perhaps get a screenplay for TMOF, my brain is far too busy to actually write.   Oh, and of course, I have nearly completed Other Agents May Feel Differently a short guide to submission and rejections.